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PRESENTED  TO 

TIE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CAMPORNIA, 

BY 
EDMOND    L.    GOOLD. 


^ 
^ 


BB?rT^!CJ'=r3 


\-# 


•r^-^^ 


MISCELLANEOUS 


ESSAYS. 


BY  ^J.^ 


Li 


AECHIBALD  ALISON,  P.  E.  S. 

ArTHOR   OF   "history   OF   EUROPE   DURING   THfi   FRENCH   REVOLUTION 


Ecprintcli  from  tl)c  (gngUsl)  CDrigiuals, 


WITH  THE  AUTHOR'S  CORRECTIONS  FOR  THIS  EDITION 


:NEW    YORK: 
D.    APPLETON   &   CO.,  90,  92   &   94   GRAND   STREET. 

1868. 


PREFACE. 


A  WISH  having  been  expressed  by  the  publishers  of  this  work  to  have  a 
collection  of  my  Miscellaneous  Essays,  published  at  different  times  and  in  different 
periodical  works  in  Great  Britain,  made  for  reprints  in  America,  and  selected 
and  arranged  by  myself,  I  have  willingly  assented  to  so  flattering  a  proposal. 
I  have  endeavoured  in  making  the  selection  to  choose  such  as  discuss  subjects 
possessing,  as  far  as  possible,  a  general  and  durable  interest;  and  to  admi*- 
those  only,  relating  to  matters  of  social  contest  or  national  policy  in  Great 
Britain,  which  are  likely,  from  the  importance  of  the  questions  involved  in 
them,  to  excite  some  interest  as  contemporary  compositions  among  future 
generations  of  men.  And  I  should  be  ungrateful  if,  in  making  my  first  appear- 
ance before  the  American  public,  and  in  a  work  hitherto  published  in  a  col- 
lected form  only  in  this  country,  I  did  not  make  my  warmest  acknowledgments 
for  the  liberal  spirit  in  which  they  have  received  my  writings,  and  the  indul- 
gence they  have  manifested  towards  their  imperfections;  and  express  at  the 
same  time  the  pride  which  I  feel,  as  an  English  author,  at  the  vast  and 
boundless  field  for  British  literary  exertion  which  is  afforded  by  the  extension 
of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic.  If  there  is  any 
wish  I  entertain  more  cordially  than  another,  it  is  that  this  strong  though  unseen 
mental  bond  may  unite  the  British  family  in  every  part  of  the  world,  and 
cause  them  all  to  feel  as  brothers,  even  when  the  time  arrives,  as  arrive  it  will, 
that  they  have  obtained  the  dominion  of  half  the  globe. 

A.  ALISON 

Possel  House,  Glasgow, 
Sept.  1,  1844. 


CONTENTS. 


CHATEAUBRIAND  7 

NAPOLEON     .  .....27 

BOSSUET 42 

POLAND 52 

MADAME    DE    STAEL    .  o 64 

NATIONAL   MONUMENTS 73 

MARSHAL    NEY  ...........  84 

ROBERT    BRUCE 94 

PARIS   IN    1814  ...........  100 

THE    LOUVRE    IN    1814 109 

TYROL 117 

FRANCE    IN    1S33 125 

ITALY 154 

SCOTT,  CAMPBELL,  AND    BYRON .160 

l/ayrmr^rLC     ....       -_        ^^j 

THE    COPYRIGHT   QUESTION 173 

MICHELET'S    FRANCE 184 

MILITARY   TREASON   AND   CmC    SOLDIERS       .  , 195 

ARNOLD'S   ROME 203 

BURABEAU 212 

BULAVER'S  ATHENS  .  . ,  .228 

THE    REIGN   OF    TERROR 241 

THE    FRENCH    REVOLUTION   OF    1830 253 

THE    FALL-OF    TURKEY 266 

THE    SPANISH    REVOLUTION    OF    1820 279 

PARTITION   OF   THE    KINGDOM   OF   THE    NETHERLANDS 239 

EARAMSIN'S   RUSSIA 299 

EFFECTS   OF   THE    FRENCH   REVOLUTION   OF    1830 309 

DESERTION    OF   PORTUGAL 321 

CARLIST   STRUGGLE    IN    SPAIN       .........   325 

WELLINGTON  ....  346 

THE    AFFGHANISTAUN   EXPEDITION 348 

THE    FUTURE  ....  S57 

GUIZOT     .  .  .  .  . .367 

HOMER,   DANTE,    AND   MICHAEL   ANGELO 380 

5 


ALISON'S   ESSAYS. 


CHATEAUBEIAND. 

[Blackwood's  Magaziue,  March,  1832.] 


It  is  one  of  the  worst  effects  of  the  vehe- 
mence of  faction,  which  has  recently  agitated 
the  nation,  that  it  tends  to  withdraw  the  atten- 
tion altogether  from  works  of  permanent  lite- 
rary merit,  and  by  presenting  nothing  to  the 
mind  but  a  constant  succession  of  party  dis- 
cussions, both  to  disqualify  it  for  enjoying  the 
sober  pleasure  of  rational  information,  and 
render  the  great  works  which  are  calculated 
to  delight  and  improve  the  species  known  only 
to  a  limited  class  of  readers.  The  conceit  and 
prejudice  of  a  large  portion  of  the  public,  in- 
crease just  in  proportion  to  the  diminution  of 
their  real  information.  By  incessantly  studying 
journals  where  the  advantage  of  the  spread 
of  knowledge  is  sedulously  inculcated,  they 
imagine  that  they  have  attained  that  know- 
ledge, because  they  have  read  these  journals, 
and  by  constantly  abusing  those  whom  they 
stigmatize  as  offering  the  light  of  truth,  they 
come  to  forget  that  none  oppose  it  so  effectually 
as  those  who  substitute  for  its  steady  ray  the 
lurid  flame  of  democratic  flattery. 

It  is,  therefore,  with  sincere  and  heartfelt  joy, 
that  we  turn  from  the  turbid  and  impassioned 
stream  of  political  discussion,  to  the  pure  foun- 
tains of  literary  genius  ;  from  the  vehemence 
of  party  strife  to  the  calmness  of  philosophic 
investigation  ;  from  works  of  ephemeral  cele- 
brity to  the  productions  of  immortal  genius. 
When  we  consider  the  vast  number  of  these 
which  have  issued  from  the  European  press 
during  the  last  fifteen  years,  and  the  small 
extent  to  which  they  are  as  yet  known  to  the 
British  public,  we  are  struck  with  astonish- 
ment ;  and  confirmed  in  the  opinion,  that  those 
who  are  loudest  in  praise  of  the  spread  of  in- 
formation, are  not  unfrequently  those  who 
possess  least  of  it  for  any  useful  purpose. 

It  has  long  been  a  settled  opinion  in  France, 
that  the  seams  of  English  literature  are  wrought 
out ;  that  while  we  imagine  we  are  advancing, 
we  are  in  fact  only  moving  round  in  a  circle, 
and  that  it  is  in  vain  to  expect  any  thing  new 
on  human  affairs  from  a  writer  imder  the 
English  constitution.  This  they  ascribe  to  the 
want  of  the  boukverscmcnt  of  ideas,  and  the  ex- 
trication of  original  thought,  which  a  revolu- 
tion produces ;  and  they  coolly  calculate  on  the 
catastrophe  which  is  to  overtui-n  the  English 
government,  as  likely  to  open  new  veins  of 
thought  among  its  inhabitants,  and  pour  new 
streams  of  eloquence  into  its  writers. 


Without  acquiescing  in  the  justice  of  this 
observation  in  all  its  parts,  and  strenuously 
asserting  for  the  age  of  Scott  and  Byron  "a 
decided  superiority  over  any  other  in  British 
history  since  the  days  of  Shakspeare  and  Mil- 
ton, at  least  in  poetry  and  romance,  we  must 
admit  that  the  observation,  in  many  depart- 
ments of  literature,  is  but  too  well  founded. 
No  one  will  accuse  us  of  undue  partiality  for 
the  French  Revolution,  a  convulsion  whose 
principles  we  have  so  long  and  so  vigorously 
opposed,  and  whose  horrors  we  have  en- 
deavoured, sedulously,  though  inadequately,  to 
impress  upon  our  readers.  It  is  therefore 
with  a  firm  conviction  of  impartiality,  and  a 
consciousness  of  yielding  only  to  the  tone  of 
truth,  that  we  are  obliged  to  confess,  that 
in  historical  and  political  compositions  the 
French  of  our  age  are  greatly  superior  to  the 
writers  of  this  country.  We  are  not  insensible 
to  the  merits  of  our  modern  English  historians. 
We  fully  appreciate  the  learned  research  of 
Turner,  the  acute  and  valuable  narrative  of 
Lingard,  the  elegant  language  and  antiquarian 
industry  of  Tytler,  the  vigour  and  originality 
of  M'Crie,  and  the  philosophic  wisdom  of 
Mackintosh.  But  still  we  feel  the  justice  of  the 
French  observation,  that  there  is  something 
"  English"  in  all  their  ideas.  Their  thoughts 
seem  formed  on  the  even  tenor  of  political 
events  prior  to  1789:  and  in  reading  their 
works  we  can  hardly  persuade  ourselves  that 
they  have  been  ushered  into  the  world  since 
the  French  Revolution  advanced  a  thousand 
years  the  materials  of  political  investigation. 

Chateaubriand  is  universally  allowed  by 
the  French,  of  all  parties,  to  be  their  first  writer. 
His  merits,  however,  are  but  little  understood 
in  this  country.  He  is  known  as  once  a  minis- 
ter of  Louis  XVIII.,  and  ambassador  of  that 
monarch  in  London,  as  the  writer  of  many 
celebrated  political  pamphlets,  and  the  victim, 
since  the  Revolution  of  1830,  c  f  his  noble  and 
ill-requited  devotion  to  that  unfortunate  family. 
Few  are  aware  that  he  is,  without  one  single 
exception,  the  most  eloquent  writer  of  the  pre- 
sent age ;  that  independent  of  politics,  he  has 
produced  many  M^orks  on  morals,  religion,  and 
history,  destined  for  lasting  endurance;  that 
his  writings  combine  the  strongest  love  of 
rational  freedom,  Avith  the  warmest  inspiration 
of  Christian  devotion  ;  tliat  he  is,  as  it  were, 
the  link  between  the  feudal  and  the  revolu- 

7 


8 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


Ucnary  ages;  retaining  from  the  former  its 
generous  and  elevated  feeling,  and  inhaling 
from  the  latter  its  acute  and  fearless  investi- 
gation. The  last  pilgrim,  with  devout  feelings, 
to  the  holy  sepulchre,  he  was  the  first  supporter 
of  constitutional  freedom  in  France ;  discard- 
ing thus  from  former  times  their  bigoted  fury, 
and  from  modern,  their  infidel  spirit;  blending 
all  that  was  noble  in  the  ardour  of  the  Crusades, 
with  all  that  is  generous  in  the  enthusiasm  of 
freedom. 

It  is  the  glory  of  the  Conservative  Party 
throughout  the  Avorld,  and  by  this  party  we 
mean  all  who  are  desirous  in  every  country  to 
uphold  the  religion,  the  institutions,  and  the 
liberties  of  their  fathers,  that  the  two  greatest 
writers  of  the  age  have  devoted  their  talents 
to  the  support  of  their  principles.  Sir  Walter 
Scott  and  Chateaubriand  are  beyond  all  ques- 
tion, and  by  the  consent  of  both  nations, 
at  the  head  of  the  literature  of  France  and 
England  since  the  Revolution;  and  they  will 
both  leave  names  at  which  the  latest  posterity 
will  feel  proud,  when  the  multitudes  who  have 
sought  to  rival  them  on  the  revolutionary  side 
are  buried  in  the  waves  of  forgotten  time.  It 
is  no  small  triumph  to  the  cause  of  order  in 
these  trying  days,  that  these  mighty  spirits, 
destined  to  instruct  and  bless  mankind  through 
every  succeeding  age,  should  have  proved  so 
true  to  the  principles  of  virtue ;  and  the  patriot 
may  well  rejoice  that  generations  yet  unboi'n, 
while  they  approach  their  immortal  shrines, 
or  share  in  the  enjoyments  derived  from  the 
legacies  they  have  bequeathed  to  mankind, 
will  inhale  only  a  holy  spirit,  and  derive  from 
the  pleasures  of  imagination  nothing  but  ad- 
ditional inducements  to  the  performance  of 
duty. 

Both  these  great  men  are  now  under  an 
eclipse,  too  likely,  in  one  at  least,  to  terminate 
in  earthly  extinction.  The  first  lies  on  the 
bed,  if  not  of  material,  at  least,  it  is  to  be 
feared,  of  intellectual  death ;  and  the  second, 
arrested  by  the  military  despotism  which  he 
so  long  strove  to  avert  from  his  country,  has 
lately  awaited  in  the  solitude  of  a  prison  the  fate 
destined  for  him  by  revolutionary  violence.* 

"  Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage  ; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  an  hermitage." 

It  is  in  such  moments  of  gloom  and  depres- 
sion, when  the  fortune  of  the  world  seems  most 
adverse,  when  the  ties  of  mortality  are  about 
to  be  dissolved,  or  the  career  of  virtue  is  on 
the  point  of  being  terminated,  that  the  immortal 
superiority  of  genius  and  virtue  most  strongly 
appear.  i[n  vain  was  the  Scottish  bard  ex- 
tended on  the  bed  of  sickness,  or  the  French 
patriot  confined  to  the  gloom  of  a  dungeon ; 
their  works  remain  to  perpetuate  their  lasting 
sway  over  the  minds  of  men ;  and  while  their 
mortal  frames  are  sinking  beneath  the  suffer- 
ings of  the  world,  their  immortal  souls  rise  into 
the  region  of  spirits,  to  witness  a  triumph 
more  glorious,  an  ascendency  more  enduring, 

•  Sir  Walter  Scott,  at  this  period,  was  on  his  deathbed, 
>nd  Chateaubriand  imprisoned  by  order  of  Louis  Philippe. 


than  ever  attended  the  arms  of  Csesar  or  Alex* 
ander. 

Though  pursuing  the  same  pure  and  en- 
nobling career ;  though  gifted  with  the  same 
ardent  imagination,  and  steeped  in  the  same 
fountains  of  ancient  lore,  no  two  writers  were 
ever  more  different  than  Chateaubriand  and 
Sir  Walter  Scott.  The  great  characteristic  of 
the  French  author,  is  the  impassioned  and 
enthusiastic  turn  of  his  mind.  Master  of  im- 
mense information,  thoroughly  imbued  at  once 
with  the  learning  of  classical  and  catholic 
times ;  gifted  with  a  retentive  memory,  a  poeti- 
cal fancy,  and  a  painter's  eye,  he  brings  to  bear 
upon  every  subject  the  force  of  erudition,  the 
images  of  poetry,  the  charm  of  varied  scenery, 
and  the  eloquence  of  impassioned  feeling. 
Hence  his  writings  display  a  reach  and  variety 
of  imagery,  a  depth  of  light  and  shadow,  a 
vigour  of  thought,  and  an  extent  of  illustration, 
to  which  there  is  nothing  comparable  in  any 
other  writer,  ancient  or  modern,  with  whom 
we  are  acquainted.  All  that  he  has  seen,  or 
read,  or  heard,  seem  present  to  his  mind,  what- 
ever he  does,  or  wherever  he  is.  He  illustrates 
the  genius  of  Christianity  by  the  beauties  of 
classical  learning,  inhales  the  spirit  of  ancient 
prophecy  on  the  shores  of  the  Jordan,  dreams 
on  the  banks  of  the  Eurotas  of  the  solitude 
and  gloom  of  the  American  forests;  visits  the 
Holy  Sepulchre  with  a  mind  alternately  de- 
voted to  the  devotion  of  a  pilgrim,  the  curiosity 
of  an  antiquary,  and  the  enthusiasm  of  a  crusa- 
der, and  combines,  in  his  romances,  with  the 
tender  feelings  of  chiv^alrous  love,  the  heroisift 
of  Roman  virtue,  and  the  sublimity  of  Chris- 
tian martyrdom.  His  writings  are  less  a 
faithful  portrait  of  any  particular  age  or  coun- 
try, than  an  assemblage  of  all  that  is  grand, 
and  generous,  and  elevated  in  human  nature. 
He  drinks  deep  of  inspiration  at  all  the  foun- 
tains where  it  has  ever  been  poured  forth  to 
mankind,  and  delights  us  less  by  the  accuracy 
of  any  particular  picture,  than  the  traits  of 
genius  which  he  has  combined  from  eveiy 
quarter  where  its  footsteps  have  trod.  His 
style  seems  formed  on  the  lofty  strains  of 
Isaiah,  or  the  beautiful  images  of  the  Book  of 
Job,  more  than  all  the  classical  or  modern 
literature  with  which  his  mind  is  so  amply 
stored.  He  is  admitted  by  all  Frenchmen,  of 
whatever  party,  to  be  the  most  perfect  living 
master  of  their  language,  and  to  have  gained 
for  it  beauties  unknown  to  the  age  of  Bossuel 
and  Fenelon.  Less  polished  in  his  periods, 
less  sonorous  in  his  diction,  less  melodious  in 
his  rhythm,  than  these  illustrious  writers,  he 
is  incomparably  more  varied,  rapid,  and  en- 
ergetic; his  ideas  flow  in  quicker  succession, 
his  words  follow  in  more  striking  antithesis ; 
the  past,  the  present,  and  the  future  rise  up  at 
once  before  us;  and  we  see  how  strongly  the 
stream  of  genius,  instead  of  gliding  doAvn  the 
smooth  current  of  ordinary  life,  has  been  broken 
and  agitated  by  the  cataract  of  revolution. 

With  far  less  classical  learning,  fewer 
images  derived  from  travelling,  inferior  in- 
formation on  many  historical  subjects,  and  a 
mind  of  a  less  impassioned  and  energetic  cast, 
our  own  Sir  Walter  is  far  more  deeply  read  m 
that  book  which  is  ever  the  same — the  human 


CHATEAUBRIAND. 


heart.  This  is  his  unequalled  excellence — 
there  he  stands,  since  the  daj-s  of  Shakspeare, 
without  a  rival.  It  is  to  this  cause  that  his 
astonishing  success  has  been  owing.  We  feel 
in  his  characters  that  it  is  not  romance,  but 
real  life  which  is  represented.  Every  word 
that  is  said,  especially  in  the  Scotch  novels, 
is  nature  itself.  Homer,  Cervantes,  Shakspeare, 
and  Scott,  alone  have  penetrated  to  the  deep 
substratum  of  character,  which,  however  dis- 
guised by  the  varieties  of  climate  and  govern- 
ment, is  at  bottom  everywhere  the  same;  and 
thence  they  have  found  a  responsive  echo  in 
every  human  heart.  Ever}'  man  who  reads 
these  admirable  works,  from  the  North  Cape 
to  Cape  Horn,  feels  that  what  the  characters 
they  contain  are  made  to  say,  is  just  what 
would  have  occurred  to  themselves,  or  what 
they  have  heard  said  by  others  as  long  as  they 
lived.  Nor  is  it  only  in  the  delineation  of 
character,  and  the  knowledge  of  human  p.ature, 
that  the  Scottish  Novelist,  like  his  great  pre- 
decessors, is  but  for  them  without  a  rival. 
Powerful  in  the  pathetic,  admirable  in  dialogue, 
unmatched  in  description,  his  writings  capti- 
vate the  mind  as  much  by  the  varied  excel- 
lencies which  they  exhibit,  as  the  powerful 
interest  which  they  maintain.  He  has  carried 
romance  out  of  the  region  of  imagination  and 
sensibility  into  the  walks  of  actual  hie.  We 
feel  interested  in  his  characters,  not  because 
they  are  ideal  beings  with  whom  we  have  be- 
come acquainted  for  the  first  time  when  we 
began  the  hook,  but  because  they  are  the  very 
persons  we  have  lived  with  from  our  infancy. 
His  descriptions  of  scenery  are  not  luxuriant 
and  glowing  pictures  of  imaginary  beauty,  like 
those  of  Mrs.  Radcliffe,  having  no  resemblance 
to  actual  nature,  but  faithful  and  graphic  por- 
traits of  real  scenes,  drawn  with  the  eye  of  a 
poet,  but  the  fidelity  of  a  consummate  draughts- 
man. He  has  combined  historical  accuracy 
and  romantic  adventure  with  the  interest  of 
tragic  events ;  we  live  with  the  heroes,  and 
princes,  and  paladins  of  former  times,  as  with 
our  own  contemporaries;  and  acquire  from 
the  splendid  colouring  of  his  pencil  such  a 
vivid  conception  of  the  manners  and  pomp  of 
the  feudal  ages,  that  we  confound  them,  in  our 
recollections,  with  the  scenes  which  we  our- 
selves have  witnessed.  The  splendour  of 
their  tournaments,  the  magnificence  of  their 
dres.s,  the  glancing  of  their  arms ;  their  haughty 
manners,  daring  courage,  and  knightly  cour- 
tesy ;  the  shock  of  their  battlesteeds,  the  splin- 
tering of  their  lances,  the  conflagration  of  their 
castles,  are  brought  before  our  eyes  in  such 
vivid  colours,  that  we  are  at  once  transported 
to  the  age  of  Richard  and  Saladin,  of  Bruce 
and  Marmion,  of  Charles  the  Bold  and  Philip 
Augustus.  Disdaining  to  flatter  the  passions, 
or  pander  to  the  ambition  of  the  populace,  he 
Iwis  done  more  than  any  man  alive  to  elevate 
their  character;  to  fill  their  minds  with  the 
noble  sentiments  which  dignify  alike  the  cot- 
tage and  the  palace;  to  exhibit  the  triumph 
of  virtue  in  the  humblest  stations  over  all  that 
the  world  calls  groat;  and  without  ever  in- 
dulging a  sentiment  which  might  turn  thern 
from  the  scenes  of  their  real  usefulness,  bring 
home  to  every  mind  the  "  might  that  slumbers 


in  a  peasant's  arm."  Above  all,  he  has  uni- 
formly, in  all  his  varied  and  extensive  produC' 
tioHs,  shown  himself  true  to  the  cause  of  virtue 
Amidst  all  the  innumerable  combinations  of 
character,  event,  and  dialogue,  which  he  has 
formed,  he  has  ever  proved  faithful  to  the  polar 
star  of  duty;  and  alone,  perhaps,  of  the  great 
romance-writers  of  the  world,  has  not  left  a 
line  which  on  his  death-bed  he  would  wish 
recalled. 

Of  such  men  France  and  England  may  well 
be  proud;  shining,  as  they  already  do,  through 
the  clouds  and  the  passions  of  a  fleeting  ex- 
istence, they  are  destined  soon  to  illuminate 
the  world  with  a  purer  lustre,  and  ascend  to 
that  elevated  station  in  the  higher  heavens 
where  the  fixed  stars  shed  a  splendid  and  im- 
perishable light.  The  writers  whom  party  has 
elevated — the  genius  which  vice  has  seduced, 
are  destined  to  decline  with  the  interests  to 
which  they  were  devoted,  or  the  passions  by 
which  they  were  misled.  The  rise  of  new  poli- 
tical struggles  will  consign  to  oblivion  the 
vast  talent  which  was  engulfed  in  its  conten- 
tion ;  the  accession  of  a  more  virtuous  age 
bury  in  the  dust  the  fancy  which  was  enlisted 
in  the  cause  of  corruption ;  while  these  illus- 
trious men,  whose  writings  have  struck  root 
in  the  inmost  recesses  of  the  human  heart, 
and  been  Avatered  by  the  streams  of  imperish- 
able feeling,  will  for  ever  continue  to  elevate 
and  bless  a  grateful  world. 

To  form  a  just  conception  of  the  importance 
of  Chateaubriand's  Genius  of  Christianit}',  we 
must  recollect  the  period  when  it  was  pub- 
lished, the  character  of  the  works  it  was  in- 
tended to  combat,  and  the  state  of  society  in 
which  it  was  destined  to  appear.  For  half  a 
century  before  it  appeared,  the  whole  genius 
of  France  had  been  incessantly  directed  to 
undermine  the  principles  of  religion.  The 
days  of  Pascal  and  Fenelon,  of  Saurin  and 
Bourdaloue,  of  Bossuct  and  Massillon,  had 
passed  away;  the  splendid  talent  of  the  seven- 
teenth century  was  no  longer  arrayed  in  the 
support  of  virtue — thesnprcmacy  of  the  church 
had  ceased  to  be  exerted  to  thunder  in  the  ear 
of  princes  the  awful  truths  of  judgment  to 
come.  Borne  away  in  the  torrent  of  corrup- 
tion, the  church  itself  had  yielded  to  the  in- 
creasing vices  of  the  age;  its  hierarchy  had 
become  involved  in  the  passions  they  were 
destined  to  combat,  and  tlie  cardinal's  purple 
covered  the  shoulders  of  an  associate  in  the 
midnight  orgies  of  the  Regent  Orleans.  Such 
was  the  audacity  of  vice,  the  recklessness  of 
fashion,  and  the  supineness  of  religion,  that 
Madame  Rnland  tells  us,  what  astonished  her 
in  her  youthful  days  was,  that  the  heaven  it- 
self did  not  open,  to  rain  down  upon  the  guilty 
metropolis,  as  on  the  cities  of  the  .Jordan,  a 
tempest  of  consuming  fire. 

While  such  was  theprofligacy  of  powT  and 
the  audacity  of  crime,  jihilosophic  tali-nt  lent 
its  aid  to  overwhelm  the  remaining  safeguards 
of  religious  belief.  The  middle  and  the  lower 
orders  could  not,  indeed,  participate  in  the 
luxurious  vices  of  their  wealthy  superiors 
but  they  could  woll  be  persuaded  that  the  faith 
which  permitted  such  enormities,  the  religion 
which  was  stained  by  such  crimes,  was  a  sys« 


JO 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


tem  of  hj'pocrisy  and  deceit.  The  passion  for 
innovation,  which  more  than  any  other  feature 
characterized  that  period  in  France,  invaded 
the  precincts  of  religion  as  well  as  the  bul- 
warks of  the  state — the  throne  and  the  altar; 
the  restraints  of  this  world  and  the  next,  as 
is  ever  the  case,  crumbled  together.  For  half 
a  century,  all  the  genius  of  France  had  been 
incessantly  directed  to  overturn  the  sanctity 
of  Christianity;  its  corruptions  w'ere  repre- 
sented as  its  very  essence  ;  its  abuses  part  of 
its  necessary  effects.  Ridicule,  ever  more 
powerful  than  reason  with  a  frivolous  age, 
lent  its  aid  to  overturn  the  defenceless  fabric ; 
and  for  more  than  one  generation,  not  one 
writer  of  note  had  appeared  to  maintain  the 
hopeless  cause.  Voltaire  and  Diderot,  D'Alem- 
bert  and  Raynal,  Laplace  and  Lagrange,  had 
lent  the  weight  of  their  illustrious  names,  or 
the  powers  of  their  versatile  minds,  to  carry 
on  the  war.  The  Encyclopedic  was  a  vast 
battery  of  infidelity  incessantl)^  directed  against 
Christianity;  vAiile  the  crowd  of  licentious 
novelists,  with  which  the  age  abounded — 
Louvet,  Crebillon,  Laclos,  and  a  host  of  others 
— insinuated  the  poison,  mixed  up  with  the 
strongest  allurements  to  the  passions,  and  the 
most  voluptuous  seductions  to  the  senses. 

This  inundation  of  infidelity  was  soon  fol- 
lowed by  sterner  days  ;  to  the  unrestrained  in- 
dulgence of  passion  succeeded  the  unfettered 
march  of  crime.  With  the  destruction  of  all 
the  bonds  which  held  society  together ;  with 
the  removal  of  all  the  restraints  on  vice  or  guilt, 
the  fabric  of  civilization  and  religion  speedily 
was  dissolved.  To  the  licentious  orgies  of  the 
Regent  Orleans  succeeded  the  infernal  furies 
of  the  Revolution  :  from  the  same  Palais  Royal 
from  whence  had  sprung  those  fountains  of 
courtly  corruption,  soon  issued  forth  the  fiery 
streams  of  democracy.  Enveloped  in  this 
burning  torrent,  the  institutions,  the  faith,  the 
nobles,  the  throne,  were  destroyed;  the  worst 
instruments  of  the  supreme  justice,  the  pas- 
sions and  ambition  of  men,  Avere  suffered  to 
work  their  unresisted  way ;  and  in  a  few  years 
the  religion  of  eighteen  hundred  years  was 
abolished,  its  priests  slain  or  exiled,  its  Sab- 
bath abolished,  its  rites  proscribed,  its  faith 
unknown.  Infancy  came  into  the  world  with- 
out a  blessing,  age  left  it  without  a  hope; 
marriage  no  longer  received  a  benediction, 
sickness  Avas  left  without  consolation;  the 
village  bell  ceased  to  call  the  poor  to  their 
weekly  day  of  sanctity  and  repose  ;  the  village 
churchyard  to  witness  the  weeping  train  of 
mourners  attending  their  rude  forefathers  to 
their  last  home.  The  grass  grew  in  the 
churches  of  every  parish  in  France ;  the 
dead  without  a  blessing  were  thrust  into  vast 
charnel-houses  ;  marriage  was  contracted  be- 
fore a  civil  magistrate  ;  and  infancy,  untaught 
to  pronounce  the  name  of  God,  longed  only 
for  the  period  when  the  passions  and  indul- 
gencies  of  life  were  to  commence. 

It  was  in  these  disastrous  days  that  Chateau- 
briand arose,  and  bent  the  force  of  his  lofty 
mind  to  restore  the  fallen  but  imperishable 
Taith  of  his  fathers.  In  early  youth,  he  was  at 
first  carried  away  by  the  fashionable  infidelity 
rf  his  times;  and  in  his  "  Essais  Historiques," 


which  he  published  in  1792,  in  London,  whila 
the  principles  of  virtue  and  natural  religion 
are  unceasingly  maintained,  he  seems  to  have 
doubted  whether  the  Christian  religion  was 
not  crumbling  with  the  institutions  of  society, 
and  speculated  what  faith  was  to  be  established 
on  its  ruins.  But  misfortune,  that  great  cor- 
rector of  the  vices  of  the  world,  soon  changed 
these  faulty  views.  In  the  days  of  exile  and 
adversity,  when,  by  the  waters  of  Babylon,  he 
sat  doAvn  and  wept,  he  reverted  to  the  faith 
and  the  belief  of  his  fathers,  and  inhaled  in 
the  school  of  adversity  those  noble  maxims 
of  devotion  and  duty  which  have  ever  since 
regulated  his  conduct  in  life.  Undaunted, 
though  alone,  he  placed  himself  on  the  ruins 
of  the  Christian  faith;  renewed,  with  Hercu- 
lean strength,  a  contest  Avhich  the  talents  and 
vices  of  half  a  century  had  to  all  appearance 
rendered  hopeless  ;  and,  speaking  to  the  hearts 
of  men,  now  purified  by  sufiering,  and  cleansed 
by  the  agonizing  ordeal  of  revolution,  scattered 
far  and  wide  the  seeds  of  a  rational  and  a 
manly  piety.  Other  writers  have  folloAved  in 
the  same  noble  career:  Salvandy  and  Guizot 
have  traced  the  beneficial  effects  of  religion 
upon  modern  society,  and  drawn  from  the  last 
results  of  revolutionary  experience  just  and 
sublime  conclusions  as  to  the  adaptation  of 
Christianity  to  the  wants  of  humanity;  but  it 
is  the  glory  of  Chateaubriand  alone  to  have 
come  forth  the  foremost  in  the  fight;  to  have 
planted  himself  on  the  breach,  when  it  Avas 
streAved  only  Avith  the  dead  and  the  dying,  and, 
strong  in  the  consciousness  of  gigantic  powers, 
stood  undismayed  against  a  nation  in  arms. 

To  be  successful  in  the  contest,  it  Avas  indis- 
pensable that  the  weapons  of  Avarfare  should 
be  totally  changed.  When  the  ideas  of  men 
Avere  set  adrift  by  reA^oluiionary  changes,  Avhen 
the  authority  of  ages  Avas  set  at  nought,  and 
from  centuries  of  experience  appeals  AA'ere 
made  to  weeks  of  innovation,  itAvas  in  vain  to 
refer  to  -the  great  or  the  Avise  of  former  ages. 
Perceiving  at  once  the  immense  change  which 
had  taken  place  in  the  Avorld  AA-hom  he  ad- 
dressed, Chateaubriand  saAv,  that  he  must  alter 
altogether  the  means  by  which  they  Avere  to 
be  influenced.  Disregarding,  therefore,  entirely 
the  Aveight  of  authorit)%  laying  aside  almost 
every  thing  Avhich  had  been  advanced  in  sup- 
port of  religion  by  its  professed  disciples,  he 
applied  himself  to  accumulate  the  conclusions 
in  its  favour  which  arose  from  its  internal 
beauty;  from  its  beneficent  effect  upon  society; 
from  the  changes  it  had  Avrought  upon  the 
civilization,  the  happiness,  and  destinies  of 
mankind;  from  its  analogy  with  the  sublimest 
tenets  of  natural  religion;  from  its  unceasing 
progress,  its  indefinite  extension,  and  undecay- 
ing  yotith.  He  observed,  that  it  drew  its  sup- 
port from  such  hidden  recesses  of  the  human 
heart,  that  it  flourished  most  in  periods  of  dis- 
aster and  calamity;  derived  strength  from  the 
fountains  of  sufl^ering,  and,  banished  in  all  but 
form  from  the  palaces  of  princes,  spread  its 
roots  far  and  Avide  in  the  cottages  of  the  poor 
From  the  intensity  of  suSering  produced  by 
the  Revolution,  therefore,  he  conceived  the 
hope,  that  the  feelings  of  religion  would  ulti 
mately  resume  their  sAvay :  AA'hen  the  waters 


CHATEAUBRIAND. 


11 


of  bitterness  vreve  let  loose,  the  consolations 
of  devotion  would  again  be  felt  to  be  indispen- 
sable; and  the  spirit  of  the  gospel,  banished 
during  the  sunshine  of  corrupt  prosperity,  re- 
turn to  the  repentant  human  heart  with  the 
tears  and  tlie  storms  of  advcrsit}'. 

Proceeding  on  these  just  and  sublime  prin- 
ciples, this  great  author  availed  himself  of 
ever}' engine  which  fancy,  experience,  or  poe- 
try could  suggest,  to  sway  the  hearts  of  his 
readers.  He  knew  well  that  he  was  address- 
ing an  impassioned  and  volatile  generation, 
upon  whom  reason  would  be  thrown  awa)^  if 
not  enforced  with  eloquence,  and  argument 
lost,  if  not  clothed  in  the  garb  of  fancy.  To 
etfect  his  purpose,  therefore,  of  rc-opening  in 
the  hearts  of  his  readers  the  all  but  extin- 
guished fountains  of  religious  feeling,  he  sum- 
moned to  his  aid  the  whole  aid  which  learn- 
ing, or  travelling,  or  poetry,  or  fancy,  could 
supply;  and  scrupled  not  to  employ  his 
powers  as  a  writer  of  romance,  an  historian, 
a  descriptive  traveller,  and  a  poet,  to  forward 
the  great  work  of  Christian  renovation.  Of 
his  object  in  doing  this,  he  has  himself  given 
the  following  account.* 

"There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  Genius  of 
Christianity  would  have  been  a  work  entirely 
out  of  place  in  the  age  of  Louis  XIV.;  and  the 
critic  who  observed  that  Massillon  would  never 
have  published  such  a  book,  spoke  an  un- 
doubted truth.  Most  certainly  the  author  -would 
never  have  thought  of  writing  such  a  work  if 
there  had  not  existed  a  host  of  poems,  romances, 
and  books  of  all  sorts,  where  Christianity  was 
exposed  to  every  species  of  derision.  But 
since  these  poems,  romances,  and  books  exist, 
and  arc  in  every  one's  hands,  it  becomes  in- 
dispensable to  extricate  religion  from  the  sar- 
casms of  impiety;  when  it  has  been  written 
on  all  sides  that  Christianity  is  '  barbaroust, 
ridicitlous,  the  eternal  enemy  of  the  artfs  and  of 
genius ,'  it  is  necessary  to  prove  that  it  is  neither 
barbarous,  nor  ridiculous,  nor  the  enemy  of 
arts  or  of  genius;  and  that  that  which  is  made 
by  the  pen  of  ridicule  to  appear  diminutive, 
ignoble,  in  bad  taste,  without  either  charms  or 
tenderness,  may  be  made  to  appear  grand, 
noble,  simple,  impressive,  and  divine,  in  tlie 
hands  of  a  man  of  religious  feeling. 

"If  it  is  not  permitted  to  defend  religion  on 
what  may  be  called  its  terrestrial  side,  if  no 
effort  is  to  be  made  to  prevent  ridicule  from 
attaching  to  its  sublime  institutions,  there  will 
always  remain  a  weak  and  undefended  quarter. 
There  all  the  strokes  at  it  will  be  aimed  ;  there 
you  will  be  caught  M'ithout  defence;  from 
thence  you  will  receive  your  death-wound.  Is 
not  that  what  has  already  arrived!  Was  it 
not  by  ridicule  and  pleasantry  that  Voltaire 
succeeded  in  sliakingthe  foundations  of  faith] 
Will  you  attempt  to  answer  by  theological 
arguments,  or  the  forms  of  the  syllogism,  licen- 
tious novels  or  irreligious  epigrams?  Will 
formal  disquisitions  ever  prevent  an  infidel 
generation  from  being  carried  away  by  clever 
verses,  or  deterred  from  the  altar  by  the  fear 
of  ridicule?     Does  not  every  one  know  that  in 

•All  the  passasfis  rited  nrn  Irnnstatod  liy  onrsdvcq. 
There  is  an  Englljli  version,  \vc  believe,  but  we  liavc 
bev«r  seen  it. 


the  French  nation  a  happy  bon-mot,  impiety 
clothed  in  a  felicitous  expression,  a.  fcli.v  culpa- 
produce  a  greater  effect  than  volumes  of 
reasoning  or  metaphysics?  Persuade  young 
men  that  an  honest  man  can  be  a  Christian 
without  being  a  fool;  convince  him  that  lie  is 
in  error  when  he  believes  that  none  but  capu 
chins  and  old  women  believe  in  religion,  and 
your  cause  is  gained ;  it  will  be  time  enough 
to  complete  tiie  victory  to  present  yourself 
armed  with  theological  reasons,  but  what  you 
must  begin  with  is  an  inducement  to  read 
your  book.  What  is  most  needed  is  a  popular 
work  on  religion;  those  who  have  hitherto 
written  on  it  have  too  often  fallen  into  the 
error  of  the  traveller  who  tries  to  get  his  com- 
panion at  one  ascent  to  the  summit  of  a  rugged 
mountain  when  he  can  hardly  crawl  at  its 
foot — you  must  show  him  at  every  step  varied 
and  agreeable  objects;  allow  him  to  stop  to 
gather  the  llowcrs  which  are  scattered  along 
his  path,  and  from  one  resting-place  to  another 
he  will  at  length  gain  the  summit. 

"The  author  has  not  intended  this  work 
merely  for  scholars,  priests,  or  doctors ;  what 
he  wrote  for  was  the  wie«  of  the  world,  and 
what  he  aimed  at  chiefly  were  the  considera- 
tions calculated  to  affect  their  minds.  If  you 
do  not  keep  steadily  in  view  that  principle,  if 
you  forget  for  a  moment  the  class  of  readers 
for  whom  the  Genius  of  Christianity  was  in- 
tended, you  will  understand  nothing  of  this 
work.  It  was  intended  to  be  read  by  the  most 
incredulous  man  of  letters,  the  most  volatile 
youth  of  pleasure,  with  the  same  facility  as 
the  first  turns  over  a  work  of  impiety,  or  the 
second  devours  a  corrupting  novel.  Do  you 
intend  then,  exclaim  the  well-meaning  ad- 
vocates for  Christianity,  to  render  religion  a 
matter  of  fashion?  Would  to  God,  I  reply, 
that  that  divine  religion  was  really  in  fashion, 
in  the  sense  that  what  is  fashionable  indicates 
the  prevailing  opinion  of  the  world!  Individual 
hypocrisy,  indeed,  might  be  increased  by  sucU 
a  change,  but  public  morality  would  unques 
tionably  be  a  gainer.  The  rich  would  no  longer 
make  it  a  point  of  vanity  to  corrupt  the  poor, 
the  master  to  pervert  the  mind  of  his  domestic, 
the  fathers  of  families  to  pour  lessons  of  athe- 
ism into  their  children ;  the  practice  of  piety 
would  lead  to  a  belief  in  its  truths,  and  with 
the  devotion  we  sliould  see  revive  the  manners 
and  the  virtues  of  the  best  ages  of  the  world. 

"Voltaire,  when  he  attacked  Christianity, 
knew  mankind  well  enough  not  to  seek  to 
avail  himself  of  what  is  called  the  opinion  of 
the  world,  and  with  that  view  he  employed  his 
talents  to  bring  impiety  into  fashion.  He  suc- 
ceeded by  rendering  religion  ridiculous  in  the 
eyes  of  a  frivolous  generation.  It  is  this  ridi- 
cule which  the  author  of  the  Genius  of  Chris- 
tianity has,  beyond  every  thing,  sought  to 
eflace;  that  was  the  olq'ect  of  his  work.  He 
may  have  failed  in  the  execution,  but  the  ob- 
ject surely  was  highly  important.  To  con- 
sider Christianity  in  its  relation  with  hu'.nan 
society;  to  trace  the  changes  which  it  has 
effected  in  the  reason  and  the  passions  of 
man;  to  show  how  it  has  modified  (he  genius 
of  arts  and  of  letters,  inoulci'-d  the  spirit  of 
modern  nations ;  in  a  word,  tc  unlold  all  lh» 


12 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


marvels  which  religion  has  wrought  in  the 
regions  of  poetry,  morality,  politics,  history, 
and  public  charity,  must  always  be  esteemed 
a  noble  undertaking.  As  to  its  execution,  he 
abandons  himself,  with  submission,  to  the 
criticisms  of  those  who  appreciate  the  spirit 
of  the  design. 

"  Take,  for  example,  a  picture,  professedly 
of  an  impious  tendency,  and  place  beside  it 
another  picture  on  the  same  subject  from  the 
Genius  of  Christianity,  and  I  will  venture  to 
affirm  that  the  latter  picture,  however  feebly 
executed,  will  weaken  the  impression  of  the 
first,  so  powerful  is  the  effect  of  simple  truth 
when  compared  to  the  most  brilliant  sophisms. 
Voltaire  has  frequently  turned  the  religious 
orders  into  ridicule  ;  well,  put  beside  one  of 
his  burlesque  representations  the  chapter  on 
the  Missions,  that  where  the  order  of  the 
Hospitallei-s  is  depicted  as  succouring  the 
travellers  in  the  desert,  or  the  monks  relieving 
the  sick  in  the  hospitals,  attending  those  dying 
of  the  plague  in  the  lazarettos,  or  accompany- 
ing the  criminal  to  the  scaffold,  what  irony 
will  not  be  disarmed — what  malicious  smile 
will  not  be  converted  into  tears  1  Answer  the 
reproaches  made  to  the  worship  of  the  Chris- 
tians for  their  ignorance,  by  appealing  to  the 
immense  labours  of  the.  ecclesiastics  who 
saved  from  destruction  the  manuscripts  of 
antiquity.  Reply  to  the  accusations  of  bad 
taste  and  barbarity,  by  referring  to  the  works 
of  Bossuet  and  Fenelon.  Oppose  to  the  carica- 
tures of  saints  and  of  angels,  the  sublime  effects 
of  Christianity  on  the  dramatic  part  of  poetry, 
on  eloquence,  and  the  fine  arts,  and  say 
whether  the  impression  of  ridicule  will  long 
maintain  its  ground  1  Should  the  author  have 
no  other  success  than  that  of  having  displayed 
before  the  eyes  of  an  infidel  age  a  long  series 
of  religious  pictures  without  exciting  disgust, 
he  would  deem  his  labours  not  useless  to  the 
cause  of  humanity." — III.  263—266. 

These  observations  appear  to  us  as  just  as 
they  are  profound,  and  they  are  the  reflections 
not  merely  of  a  sincere  Christian,  but  a  man 
practically  acquainted  with  the  state  of  the 
world.    It  is   of  the   utmost  importance,  no 
doubt,  that  there  should  exist  works  on  the 
Christian  faith,  in  which  the  arguments  of  the 
skeptic  should  be  combated,  and  to  which  the 
Christian  disciple  might  refer  with  confidence 
for  a  refutation  of  the  objections  which  have 
been  urged  against  his  religion.     But  great  as 
is  the  merit  of  such  productions,  their  bene- 
ficial effects  are  limited  in  their  operation  com- 
pared with  those  which  are  produced  by  such 
writings  as  we  are  considering.  The  hardened 
sceptic  will  never  turn  to  a  work  on  divinity 
for  a  solution  of  his  paradoxes ;  and  men  of 
the  world  can  never  be  persuaded  to  enter  on 
serious  arguments  even  on  the  most  moment- 
ous subject  of  human  belief.     It  is  the  indiffcr- 
tnce,  not  the  skepticism  of  such  men,  which  is 
chiefly  to  be  dreaded :  the  danger  to  be  appre- 
hended is  not  that  they  will  say  there  is  no 
God,  but  that  they  will  live  altogether  without 
God  in  the   world.    It  has  happened  but  too 
frequently  that  divines,  in  their  zeal  for  the 

Srogress   of  Christianity   among   such  men, 
ave  augmented  the  very  evil  they  intended  to 


remove.  They  have  addressed  themselves  in 
general  to  them  as  if  they  were  combatants 
drawn  out  in  a  theological  dispute ;  they  have 
urged  a  mass  of  arguments  which  they  were 
unable  to  refute,  but  which  were  too  uninterest- 
ing to  be  even  examined,  and  while  they  flat- 
tered themselves  that  they  had  effectually 
silenced  their  opponents'  objections,  those 
whom  they  addressed  have  silently  passed  bj' 
on  the  other  side.  It  is,  therefore,  of  incalcu- 
lable importance  that  some  writings  should 
exist  which  should  lead  men  imperccplibhj  into 
the  ways  of  truth,  which  should  insinuate 
themselves  into  the  tastes,  and  blend  them- 
selves with  the  refinements  of  ordinary  life, 
and  perpetually  recur  to  the  cultivated  mind 
with  all  that  it  admires,  or  loves,  or  venerates, 
in  the  world. 

Nor  let  it  be  imagined  that  reflections  such 
as  these  are  not  the  appropriate  theme  of  re- 
ligious instruction — that  they  do  not  form  the 
fit  theme  of  Christian  meditation.     Whatever 
leads  our   minds  habitually  to  the  Author  of 
the  Universe ; — whatever  mingles   the   voice 
of  nature  with  the  revelation  of  the  gospel ; — 
whatever  teaches  us  to  see,  in  all  the  changes 
of  the  world,  the  varied  goodness  of  him,  in 
whom   "we  live,   and   move,    and  have   our 
being," — brings  us  nearer  to  the  spirit  of  the 
Saviour  of  mankind.     But  it  is  not  only  as 
encouraging  a  sincere  devotion,  that  these  re- 
flections are  favourable  to  Christianity ;  there 
is  something,  moreover, ^ccM?ia»7y  allied  to  its 
spirit  in  such  observations  of  e^cternal  nature. 
When  our  Saviour  prepared  himself  for  his 
temptation,  his  agony,  and  death,  he  retired  to 
the  wilderness   of  Judaea,  to  inhale,  we  may 
venture  to  believe,  a  holier  spirit  amidst  its 
solitary  scenes,  and  to  approach  to  a  nearer 
communion  with  his  Father,  amidst  the  sub- 
limest  of  his  works.  It  is  with  similar  feelings, 
and  to   worship   the   same   Father,   that   the 
Christian  is  permitted  to  enter  the  temple  of 
nature  ;  and  by  the  spirit  of  his  religion,  there 
is  a  language  infused  into  the  objects  which 
she  presents,  unknown  to  the  worshipper  of 
former  times.    To  all  indeed  the  same  objects 
appear — the  same  sun  shines — the  same  hea- 
vens are  open:  but  to  the  Christian  alone  it  is 
permitted  to  know  the  Author  of  these  things  ; 
to   see   his   spirit  "move  in  the  breeze  and 
blossom  in   the  spring,"  and  to   read,  in   the 
changes  which  occur  in  the  material  world, 
the  varied  expression  of  eternal  love.    It  is 
from  the  influence  of  Christianity  accordingly 
that  the  key  has  been  given  to  the  signs  of 
nature.    It  was  only  when  the  Spirit   of  God 
moved  on  the  face  of  the  deep,  that  order  and 
beauty  was  seen  in  the  world. 

It  is  accordingly  peculiarly  well  worthy  of 
observation,  that  the  beauty  of  nature,  as  felt  in 
modern  times,  seems  to  have  been  almost  un- 
known to  the  writers  of  antiquit}'.  They  de- 
scribed occasionally  the  scenes  in  which  they 
dwelt ;  but,  if  we  except  Virgil,  whose  gentle 
mind  seems  to  have  anticipated,  in  this  in- 
stance, the  influence  of  the  gospel,  never  with 
any  deep  feeling  of  their  beauty.  Then,  as 
now,  the  citadel  of  Athens  looked  upon  the 
evening  sun,  and  her  temples  flamed  in  his 
setting  beam;  but  what  Athenian  writer  ever 


CHATEAUBRIAND. 


13 


described  the  matchless  glories  of  the  scene  ? 
Then,  as  now,  the  silvery  clouds  of  the  ^gean 
sea  rolled  round  her  verdant  isles,  and  sported 
in  the  azure  vault  of  heaven ;  but  what  Gre- 
cian poet  has  been  inspired  by  the  sight?  The 
Italian  lakes  spread  their  waves  beneath  a 
cloudless  sky,  and  all  that  is  lovely  in  nature 
was  gathered  around  them  ;  yet  even  Eustace 
tells  us,  that  a  few  detached  lines  is  all  that  is 
left  in  regard  to  them  by  the  Roman  poets. 
The  Alps  themselves, 

"The  palaces  of  nature,  whose  vast  walls 
Jlave  piiinarled  in  rloiuis  their  snowy  scalps, 
And  ttironed  eternity  in  icy  halls 
Of  cold  sublimity,  where  forms  and  falls 
The  avalanche— the  thunderbolts  of  snow." 

Even  these,  the  most  glorious  objects  which 
the  eye  of  man  can  behold,  were  regarded  by 
the  ancients  with  sentiments  only  of  dismay 
or  horror;  as  a  barrier  from  hostile  nations,  or 
as  the  dwelling  of  barbarous  tribes.  The  torch 
of  religion  had  not  then  lightened  the  face  of 
nature;  they  knew  not  the  language  which 
she  spoke,  nor  felt  that  holy  spirit,  which  to 
the  Christian  gives  the  sublimity  of  these 
scenes. 

Chateaubriand  divides  his  great  work  into 
four  parts.  The  first  treats  of  the  doctrinal 
parts  of  religion :  the  second  and  the  third, 
the  relations  of  that  religion  with  poetry,  litera- 
ture, and  the  arts.  The  fourth,  the  ceremonies 
of  public  worship,  and  the  services  rendered 
to  mankind  by  the  clergy,  regular  and  secular. 
On  the  mysteries  of  faith  he  commences  with 
these  fine  observ'ations. 

"  There  is  nothing  beautiful,  sweet,  or  grand 
in  life,  but  in  its  mysteries.  The  sentiments 
which  agitate  us  most  strongly  are  enveloped 
in  obscurity;  modesty,  virtuous  love,  sincere 
friucLship,  have  all  their  secrets,  with  which  the 
world  must  not  be  made  acquainted.  Hearts 
which  love  understand  each  other  by  a  word; 
half  of  each  is  at  all  times  open  to  the  other. 
Innocence  itself  is  but  a  holy  ignorance,  and 
the  most  ineffable  of  mysteries.  Infancy  is 
only  happy,  because  it  as  yet  knows  nothing; 
age  miserable,  because  it  has  nothing  more  to 
learn.  Happily  for  it,  when  the  mysteries  of 
life  are  ending,  those  of  immortalitj'-  commence. 

"  If  it  is  thus  with  the  sentiments,  it  is  as- 
suredly not  less  so  with  the  virtues;  the  most 
angelic  are  those  which,  emanating  directly 
from  the  Deity,  such  as  charity,  love  to  with- 
draw themselves  from  all  regards,  as  if  fear- 
ful tn  betray  their  celestial  origin. 

"  If  we  turn  to  the  understanding,  we  shall 
find  that  the  pleasures  of  thought  also  have  a 
certain  connection  with  the  mysterious.  To 
what  sciences  do  we  unceasingly  return  1  To 
those  which  always  leave  something  still  to 
be  discovered,  and  fix  our  regards  on  a  per- 
spective which  is  never  to  terminate.  If  we 
wander  in  the  desert,  a  sort  of  instinct  leads 
as  to  shun  the  plains  where  the  eye  embraces 
at  once  the  whole  circumference  of  nature,  to 
plunge  into  forests,  those  forests  the  cradle  of 
religion,  whose  shades  and  solitudes  arc  filled 
with  the  recollections  of  prodigies,  where  the 
ravens  and  the  doves  nourished  the  prophets 
and  fathers  of  the  church.  If  we  visit  a  modern 
monument,  whose   origin    or    destination    is 


known,  it  excites  no  attention ;  but  if  we  meet 
on  a  desert  isle,  in  the  midst  of  the  ocean, 
with  a  mutilated  statue  pointing  to  the  west, 
with  its  pedestal  covered  with  hieroglyphics, 
and  worn  by  the  -winds,  what  a  subject  of 
meditation  is  presented  to  the  traveller !  Everj 
thing  is  concealed,  every  thing  is  hidden  in 
the  universe.  Man  himself  is  the  grealeKt 
mystery  of  the  whole.  Whence  comes  th* 
spark  which  we  call  existence,  and  in  what 
obscurity  is  it  to  be  extinguished  1  The  Eter- 
nal has  placed  our  birth,  and  our  death,  under 
the  form  of  two  veiled  phantoms,  at  the  two 
extremities  of  our  career;  the  one  produces 
the  inconceivable  gift  of  life,  which  the  other 
is  ever  ready  to  devour. 

"It  is  not  surprising,  then,  considering  the 
passion  of  the  human  mind  for  the  mysterious, 
that  the  religions  of  every  country  should 
have  had  their  impenetrable  secrets.  God 
forbid !  that  I  should  compare  their  mysteries 
to  those  of  the  true  faith,  or  the  unfathomable 
depths  of  the  Sovereign  in  the  heavens,  to  the 
changing  obscurities  of  those  gods  which  are 
the  work  of  human  hands.  All  that  I  observe 
is,  that  there  is  no  reUgion  without  mysteries, 
and  that  it  is  they  with  the  sacrifice  which  every 
where  constitute  the  essence  of  the  worship. 
God  is  the  great  secret  of  nature,  the  Deity  was 
veiled  in  Egypt,  and  the  Sphynx  mms  seated  at 
the  entrance  of  his  temples." — I.  13,  14. 

On  the  three  great  sacraments  of  the  Church, 
Baptism,  Confession,  and  the  Communion,  he 
makes  the  following  beautiful  observations  : — 

"Baptism,  the  first  of  the  sacraments  which 
religion  confers  upon  man,  clothes  him,  in  the 
words  of  the  Apostle,  with  Jesus  Christ.  That 
sacrament  reveals  at  once  the  corruption  in 
which  we  were  born,  the  agonizing  pains 
which  attended  our  birth,  and  the  tribulations 
which  follow  us  into  the  world ;  it  tells  us  that 
our  faults  will  descend  upon  our  children,  and 
that  we  are  all  jointly  responsible ;  a  terrible 
truth,  Avhich,  if  duly  considered,  would  alone 
suffice  to  render  the  reign  of  virtue  universal 
in  the  world. 

"  Behold  the  infant  in  the  midst  of  the  waters 
of  the  Jordan  ;  the  man  of  the  wilderness  pours 
the  purifying  stream  on  his  head;  the  river  of 
the  Patriarchs,  the  camels  on  its  banks,  the 
Temple  of  Jerusalem,  the  cedars  of  Lebanon, 
seem  to  regard  with  interest  the  mighty  spec- 
tacle. Behold  in  mortal  life  that  infant  near 
the  sacred  fountain  ;  a  family  filled  with  thank- 
fulness surround  it;  renounce  in  its  name  the 
sins  of  the  world;  bestow  on  it  with  joy  the 
name  of  its  grandfather,  which  seems  thus  to 
become  immortal,  in  its  perpetual  lenoTa- 
tion  by  the  fruits  of  love  from  generation 
to  generation.  Even  now  the  father  is  im- 
patient to  take  his  infant  in  his  arms,  to  re- 
place it  in  its  mother's  bosom,  who  listens  be- 
hind the  curtains  to  all  (he  thrilling  sounds  of 
the  sacred  ceremony.  The  whole  family  sur- 
round the  maternal  bed;  tears  of  joy.  mingled 
with  the  transports  of  religion,  fall  from  every 
eye;  the  new  name  of  the  inf;int.  the  old  name 
of  its  ancestor,  is  repeated  by  every  moiitli, 
and  every  one  mingling  the  recollections  of 
the  past  with  the  joys  of  the  present,  thinks 
that  he  sees  the  venerable  grandfather  revive 


14 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


in  the  new-born  which  has  taken  his  name. 
Such  is  the  domestic  spectacle  which  through- 
out all  the  Christian  world  the  sacrament  of 
Baptism  presents  ;  but  religion,  ever  mingling 
lessons  of  duty  with  scenes  of  joy,  shows  us 
the  son  of  kings  clothed  in  purple,  renouncing 
the  grandeur  of  the  world,  at  the  same  fountain 
where  the  child  of  the  poor  in  rags  abjures 
the  pomps  by  which  he  will  in  all  probability 
never  be  tempted. 

"  Confession  follows  baptism ;  and  the 
Church,  with  that  wisdom  which  it  alone 
possesses,  fixed  the  era  of  its  commencement 
at  that  period  when  first  the  idea  of  crime  can 
enfer  the  infant  mind,  that  is  at  seven  years  of 
age.  All  men,  including  the  philosophers, 
how  different  soever  their  opinions  maybe  on 
other  subjects,  have  regarded  the  sacrament 
of  penitence  as  one  of  the  sti-ongest  barriers 
against  crime,  and  a  chef-d'osuvre  of  wisdom. 
What  innumerable  restitutions  and  repara- 
tions, says  Rousseau,  has  confession  caused  to 
be  made  in  Catholic  countries  !  According  to 
Voltaire, '  Confession  is  an  admirable  inven- 
tion, a  bridle  to  crime,  discovered  in  the  most 
remote  antiquity,  for  confession  was  recognised 
in  the  celebration  of  all  the  ancient  mysteries. 
We  have  adopted  and  sanctified  that  wise 
custom,  and  its  efiects  have  always  been  found 
to  be  admirable  in  inclining  hearts,  ulcerated 
by  hatred,  to  forgiveness.' 

"But  for  that  salutary  institution,  the  guilty 
would  give  w^ay  to  despair.  In  what  bosom 
would  he  discharge  the  Aveight  of  his  heart  1 
In  that  of  a  friend — Who  can  trust  the  friend- 
ships of  the  world  1  Shall  he  take  the  deserts 
for  a  confident  1  Alas!  the  deserts  are  ever 
filled  to  the  ear  of  crime  with  those  trumpets 
which  the  parricide  Nero  heard  round  the 
tomb  of  his  mother.  When  men  and  nature 
are  unpitiable,  it  is  indeed  consolatory  to  find 
a  Deity  inclined  to  pardon;  but  it  belongs  only 
to  the  Christian  religion  to  have  made  twin 
sisters  of  Innocence  and  Repentance. 

"  In  fine,  the  Communion  presents  instruc- 
tive ceremony ;  it  teaches  morality,  for  we 
must  be  pure  to  approach  it ;  it  is  the  offering 
of  the  fruits  of  the  earth  to  the  Creator,  and  it 
recalls  the  sublime  and  touching  history  of 
the  Son  of  Man.  Blended  with  the  recollection 
of  Easter,  and  of  the  first  covenant  of  God  with 
man,  the  origin  of  the  communion  is  lost  in 
the  obscurity  of  an  infant  world;  it  is  related 
to  our  first  ideas  of  religion  and  society,  and 
recalls  the  pristine  equality  of  the  human 
race  ;  in  fine,  it  perpetuates  the  recollection  of 
our  primeval  fall,  of  our  redemption,  and  re- 
acceptance  by  God." — I.  30 — 46. 

These  and  similar  passages,  not  merely  in 
this  work,  which  professes  to  be  of  a  popular 
cast,  but  in  others  of  the  highest  class  of 
Catholic  divinity,  suggest  an  idea  which,  the 
more  we  extend  our  reading,  the  more  we  shall 
find  to  be  just,  viz.,  that  in  the  greater  and 
pu  rer  writers  on  religion,  of  whatever  church 
or  age,  the  leading  doctrines  are  nearly  the 
-same,  and  that  the  differences  Avhich  divide 
their  followers,  and  distract  the  Avorld,  are 
seldom,  on  any  material  or  important  points, 
to  be  met  with  in  writers  of  a  superior  caste. 
Chateaubriand  is  a  faithful,  and  in  some  re- 


spects, perhaps,  a  bigoted,  Catholic ;  yet  there 
is  hardly  a  word  here,  or  in  any  other  part  of 
his  writings  on  religion,  to  which  a  Christian 
in  any  country  may  not  subscribe,  and  which 
is  not  calculated  in  all  ages  and  places  to  for- 
ward the  great  work  of  the  purification  and 
improvement  of  the  human  heart.  Travellers 
have  often  observed,  that  in  a  certain  rank  in 
all  countries  manners  are  the  same;  naturalists 
know,  that  at  a  certain  elevation  above  the 
sea  in  all  latitudes,  we  meet  with  the  same 
vegetable  productions;  and  philosophers  have 
often  remarked,  that  in  the  highest  class  of  in- 
tellects, opinions  on  almost  every  subject  in 
all  ages  and  places  are  the  same.  A  similar 
uniformity  may  be  observed  in  the  principles 
of  the  greatest  Avriters  of  the  world  on  religion : 
and  while  the  inferior  followers  of  their  dif- 
ferent tenets  branch  out  into  endless  divisions, 
and  indulge  in  sectarian  rancour,  in  the  more 
lofty  regions  of  intellect  the  principles  are 
substantially  the  same,  and  the  objects  of  all 
identical.  So  small  a  proportion  do  all  the 
disputed  points  in  theology  bear  to  the  great 
objects  of  religion,  love  to  God,  charity  to  man, 
and  the  subjugation  of  human  passion. 

On  the  subject  of  marriage,  and  the  reasons 
for  its  indissolubility,  our  author  presents  us 
with  the  following  beautiful  observations  : — 

"  Habit  and  a  long  life  together  are  more 
necessary  to  happiness,  and  even  to  love,  than 
is  generally  imagined.  No  one  is  happy  with 
the  object  of  his  attachment  until  he  has  passed 
many  days,  and  above  all,  many  days  of  mis- 
fortune, with  her.  The  married  pair  must 
know  each  other  to  the  bottom  of  their  souls ; 
the  mysterious  veil  which  covered  the  two 
spouses  in  the  primitive  church,  must  be 
raised  in  its  inmost  folds,  how  closely  soever 
it  may  be  kept  drawn  to  the  rest  of  the  world. 

"  What !  on  account  of  a  fit  of  caprice,  or 
a  burst  of  passion,  am  I  to  be  exposed  to  the 
fear  of  losing  my  wife  and  my  children,  and  to 
renounce  the  hope  of  passing  my  declining 
days  with  theml  Let  no  one  imagine  that 
fear  will  make  me  become  a  better  husband. 
No ;  we  do  not  attach  ourselves  to  a  posses- 
sion of  which  we  are  not  secure;  we  do  not 
love  a  property  which  we  are  in  danger  of 
losing. 

"  We  must  not  give  to  Hymen  the  wings  of 
Love,  nor  make  of  a  sacred  reality  a  fleeting 
phantom.  One  thing  is  alone  sufficient  to  de- 
stroy your  happiness  in  such  transient  unions  ; 
you  will  constantly  compare  one  to  the  other, 
the  wife  you  have  lost  to  the  one  you  have 
gained ;  and  do  not  deceive  yourself,  the  balance 
will  always  incline  to  the  past,  for  so  God  has 
constructed  the  human  heart.  This  distraction 
of  a  sentiment  which  should  be  indivisible 
will  empoison  all  your  joys.  When  you 
caress  your  new  infant,  you  will  think  of  the 
smiles  of  the  one  you  have  lost;  when  you 
press  your  wife  to  your  bosom,  your  hrtirt  will 
tell  you  that  she  is  not  the  first.  Every  thing 
in  man  tends  to  unity;  he  is  no  longer  happy 
when  he  is  divided,  and,  like  God,  who  made 
him  in  his  image,  his  soul  seeks  incessantly  to 
concentrate  into  one  point  the  past,  the  pre- 
sent, and  the  future. 

"  The  wife  of  a  Christian  is  not  a  simple 


CHATEAUBRIAND. 


IS 


nicrtal:  She  is  a  mysterious  angelic  being: 
the  fle.vli  of  the  flesh,  the  blood  of  the  blood  of 
lier  husband.  Man,  in  uniting  himself  to  her, 
does  nnthing  but  regain  part  of  tlie  substance 
which  he  has  lost.  His  soul  as  ^vell  as  his 
body  are  incomplete  without  his  wife:  he  has 
strength,  she  has  beauty ;  he  combats  tlie 
enemy  and  labours  the  fields,  but  he  under- 
stands nothing  of  domestic  life;  his  companion 
is  awanting  to  prepare  his  repast  and  sweeten 
his  existence.  He  has  his  crosses,  and  the 
partner  of  his  couch  is  there  to  soften  them : 
his  days  may  be  sad  and  troubled,  but  in  the 
chaste  arm's  of  his  wife  he  finds  comfort  and 
repose.  Without  woman  man  would  be  rude, 
gross,  and  solitar\'.  Woman  spreads  around 
him  the  flowers  of  existence,  as  the  creepers 
of  the  forests  which  decorate  the  trunks  of 
sturdy  oaks  with  their  perfumed  garlands. 
Finally,  the  Christian  pair  live  and  die  united: 
together  they  rear  the  fruits  of  their  union; 
in  the  dust  they  lie  side  by  side  ;  and  they  arc 
reunited  beyond  the  limits  of  the  tomb." — I. 
78,  79. 

The  extreme  unction  of  the  Catholic  Church 
is  described  in  these  touching  words  : 

"Come  and  behold  the  most  moving  spec- 
tacle which  the  woi'ld  can  exhibit — the  death 
of  the  faithful.  The  dying  Christian  is  no 
longer  a  man  of  this  world;  he  belongs  no 
farther  to  his  country;  all  his  relations  with 
society  have  ceased.  For  him  the  calculations 
of  time  are  closed,  and  the  great  era  of  eternity 
has  commenced.  A  priest  seated  beside  his 
bed  pours  the  consolations  of  religion  into  his 
dying  ear :  the  holy  minister  converses  with 
the  expiring  penitent  on  the  immortality  of  the 
soul;  and  that  sublime  scene  which  antiquity 
presented  but  once  in  the  death  of  the  greatest 
of  her  philosophers,  is  renewed  every  day  at 
the  couch  where  the  humblest  of  the  Christians 
expires. 

"  At  length  the  supreme  moment  arrives : 
one  sacrament  has  opened  the  gates  of  the 
world,  another  is  about  to  close  them  ;  religion 
rocked  the  cradle  of  existence;  its  sweet 
strains  and  its  maternal  hand  will  lull  it  to 
sleep  in  the  arms  of  death.  It  prepares  the 
baptism  of  a  second  existence ;  but  it  is  no 
longer  with  water,  but  oil,  the  emblem  of 
celestial  incorruption.  The  liberating  sacra- 
ment dissolves,  one  by  one,  the  chords  which 
attach  the  faithful  to  this  world:  the  soul,  half 
escaped  from  its  earthly  prison,  is  almost  visi- 
ble to  the  senses,  in  the  smile  which  plays 
around  his  lips.  Already  he  hears  the  music 
of  the  seraphims;  already  he  longs  to  lly  to 
those  regions,  where  hope  divine,  daughter  of 
virtue  and  death,  beckons  him  to  approach. 
At  length  the  angel  of  peace,  descending  from 
the  heavens,  touches  with  his  golden  sceptre 
his  wearied  eyelids,  and  closes  them  in  deli- 
cious repose  to  the  light.  He  dies :  and  so 
sweet  has  been  his  departure,  that  no  one  has 
heard  his  last  sigh;  and  his  friends,  long  after 
he  is  no  more,  preserve  silence  round  his 
couch,  still  thinking  that  he  slept;  so  like  the 
sloop  of  infancy  is  the  death  of  the  just." — I. 
09—71. 

It  is  against  pride,  as  every  one  knows, 
that  the  chief  eflbrts  of  the  Catholic  Church 


have  always  been  directed,  because  tiiey  con- 
sider it  as  the  source  of  all  other  crime. 
Whether  this  is  a  just  view  may,  perhaps,  be 
doubted,  to  the  extent  at  least  that  they  carry 
it;  but  there  can  be  but  cne  opinion  as  to  the 
eloquence  of  the  apology  which  Chateaubriand 
makes  for  this  selection. 

"In  the  virtues  preferred  by  Christianity, 
Ave  perceive  the  same  knowledge  of  human 
nature.  Before  the  coming  of  Christ,  the  soul 
of  man  was  a  chaos  ;  but  no  sooner  was  the 
word  heard,  than  all  the  elements  arranged 
themselves  in  the  moral  Avorld,  as  at  the  same 
divine  inspiration  triey  had  produced  the  mar- 
vels of  material  creation.  The  virtues  ascended 
like  pure  fires  into  the  heavens;  some,  like 
brilliant  suns,  attracted  the  regards  by  their 
resplendent  light;  others,  more  modest,  soughf 
the  shade,  where  nevertheless  their  lustre 
could  not  be  concealed.  From  that  moment 
an  admirable  balance  was  established  between 
the  forces  and  the  weaknesses  of  existence. 
Religion  directed  its  thunders  against  pride, 
the  vice  which  is  nourished  by  the  virtues  ;  it 
discovers  it  in  the  inmost  recesses  of  the  heart, 
and  follows  it  out  in  all  its  metamorphoses ; 
the  sacraments  in  a  holj'  legion  march  against 
it,  while  humility,  clothed  in  sackcloth  and 
ashes,  its  eyes  downcast  and  bathed  in  tears, 
becomes  one  of  the  chief  virtues  of  the  faith- 
ful."—I.  74. 

On  the  tendency  of  all  the  fables  concerning 
creation  to  remount  to  one  general  and  eternal 
truth,  our  author  presents  the  following  reflec- 
tions : 

"  After  this  exposition  of  the  dreams  of 
philosophy,  it  may  seem  useless  to  speak  of 
the  fancy  of  the  poets.  Who  does  not  know 
Deucalion  and  Pyrrha,  the  age  of  gold  and  of 
ironl  What  innumerable  traditions  are  scat- 
tered through  tlie  earth  !  In  India,  an  elephant 
sustains  the  globe ;  the  sun  in  Peru  has  brought 
forth  all  the  marvels  of  existence;  in  Canada, 
the  Great  Spirit  is  the  father  of  the  world  ;  in 
Greenland,  man  has  emerged  from  an  egg ;  in 
fine,  Scandinavia  has  beheld  the  birth  of  Askur 
and  Emla;  Odin  has  poured  in  the  breath  of 
life,  Ploenerus  reason,  and  Loedur  blood  and 
beauty. 

'  Askiim  et  Eiiilaiii  oiiini  conalii  dcstiliilos 
Aiiitiiani  noc  iinss^iilcliaiit,  rationcm  mn-  liahobant 
Nef.  saiiu'iiiiiMMi,  iicr,  seriiiniKMii,  ncc  rariiMii  vemistam, 
Aiiiiiwiin  (Icilil  Oiliiiiis,  rationciii  dcilit  lldMicriisi, 
I.dfilur  sangiiiiK'ui  adiliilil  ct  I'aricni  vcimstam.' 

"In  these  various  traditions,  we  find  our- 
selves placed  between  the  stories  of  children 
and  the  abstractions  of  philosophers ;  if  we 
were  obliged  to  choose,  it  were  better  to  take 
the  first. 

"  But  to  discover  the  original  of  the  picture 
in  the  midst  of  so  many  copies,  we  must  recur 
to  that  which,  by  its  unity  and  the  perfection 
of  its  parts,  unfolds  the  genius  of  a  master. 
It  is  that  which  we  find  in  Genesis,  the  original 
of  all  those  pictures  whieh  we  sec  reproduced 
in  so  many  dilferent  traditions.  What  can  be 
at  once  more  natural  and  more  magnificcnt,- 
more  easy  to  conceive,  and  more  in  unisou 
with  human  reason,  than  the  Creator  descend- 
ing amidst  the  night  of  ages  to  create  light  by 
a  word  1  In  an  instant,  the  sun  is  seen  sus- 
pended in  the  heavens,  in  the  midst  of  an  im 


16 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


mense  azure  vault;  with  invisible  bonds  he 
envelopes  the  planets,  and  whirls  them  round 
his  burning  axle;  the  sea  and  the  forests  ap- 
pear on  the  globe,  and  their  earliest  voices 
arise  to  announce  to  the  universe  that  great 
marriage,  of  which  God  is  the  priest,  the  earth 
the  nuptial  couch,  and  the  human  race  the 
posterity."— I.  97,  98. 

On  the  appearance  of  age  on  the  globe,  and 
its  first  aspect  when  fresh  from  the  hands  of 
the  Creator,  the  author  presents  an  hypothesis 
more  in  unison  with  the  imagination  of  a  poet 
than  the  observations  of  a  philosopher,  on  the 
gradual  formation  of  all  objects  destined  for  a 
long  endurance.  He  supposes  that  every  thing 
was  at  once  created  as  we  now  see  it. 

"It  is  probable  that  the  Author  of  nature 
planted  at  once  aged  forests  and  their  youthful 
progeny ;  that  animals  arose  at  the  same  time, 
some  full  of  years,  others  buoyant  with  the 
vigour  and  adorned  with  the  grace  of  youth. 
The  oaks,  while  they  pierced  with  their  roots 
the  fruitful  earth,  without  doubt  bore  at  once 
the  old  nests  of  rooks,  and  the  young  progeny 
of  doves.  At  once  grew  a  chrysalis  and  a 
butterfly ;  the  insect  bounded  on  the  grass, 
suspended  its  golden  egg  in  the  forests,  or 
trembled  in  the  undulations  of  the  air.  .The 
bee,  which  had  not  yet  lived  a  morning,  already 
counted  the  generations  of  flowers  by  its 
ambrosia — the  sheep  was  not  without  its  lamb, 
the  d'-e  without  its  fawns.  The  thickets  already 
contained  the  nightingale,  astonished  at  the 
melody  of  their  first  airs,  as  they  poured  forth 
the  new-born  eflfusion  of  their  infant  loves. 

"  Had  the  world  not  arisen  at  once  young 
and  old,  the  grand,  the  serious,  the  impressive, 
would  have  disappeared  from  nature  ;  for  all 
ihese  sentiments  depend  for  their  very  essence 
on  ancient  things.  The  marvels  of  existence 
\^'^ould  have  been  unknown.  The  ruined  rock 
would  not  have  hung  over  the  abyss  beneath; 
the  woods  would  not  have  exhibited  that 
splendid  variety  of  trunks  bending  under  the 
weight  of  years,  of  trees  hanging  over  the  bed 
of  streams.  The  inspired  thoughts,  the  vene- 
rated sounds,  the  magic  voices,  the  sacred  hor- 
ror of  the  forests,  would  have  vanished  with 
the  vaults  which  serve  for  their  retreats  ;  and 
the  solitudes  of  earth  and  heaven  would  have 
remained  naked  and  disenchanted  in  losing  the 
columns  of  oaks  which  united  them.  On  the 
first  day  Avhen  the  ocean  dashed  against  the 
shore,  he  bathed,  be  assured,  sands  beai'ing  all 
the  marks  of  the  action  of  his  waves  for  ages  ; 
cliffs  strewed  with  the  eggs  of  innumerable  sea- 
fowl,  and  rugged  capes  which  sustained  argainst 
the  waters  the  crumbling  shores  of  the  earth. 

"  Without  that  primeval  age,  there  would 
have  been  neither  pomp  nor  majesty  in  the 
work  of  the  Most  High ;  and,  contrary  to  all 
our  conceptions,  nature  in  the  innocence  of 
man  would  have  been  less  beautiful  than  it  is 
now  in  the  days  of  his  corruption.  An  insipid 
childhood  of  plants,  of  animals,  of  elements, 
would  have  covered  the  earth,  without  the 
poetical  feelings,  which  now  constitute  its 
principal  charm.  But  God  was  not  so  feeble 
a  designer  of  the  grove  of  Eden  as  the  incredu- 
lous would  lead  us  to  believe.  Man,  the  sove- 
reign  of  nature,  was  born  at  thirty  years  of  age, 


in  order  that  his  powers  should  correspond  ^ 
with  the  full-grown  magnificence  of  his  new 
empire, — while  his  consort,  doubtless,  had 
already  passed  her  sixteenth  spring,  though 
yet  in  the  slumber  of  nonentity,  that  she  might 
be  in  harmony  with  the  flowers,  the  birds,  the 
innocence,  the  love,  the  beauty  of  the  youthful 
part  of  the  universe."— L  137,  138. 

In  the  rhythm  of  prose  these  are  the  colours 
of  poetry,  but  still  this  was  not  to  all  appear- 
ance the  order  of  creation  ;  and  here,  as  in 
many  other  instances,  it  will  be  found  that  the 
deductions  of  experience  present  conclusions 
more  sublime  than  the  most  fervid  imagina- 
tion has  been  able  to  conceive.  Every  thing 
announces  that  the  great  works  of  nature  are 
carried  on  by  slow  and  insensible  gradations ; 
continents,  the  abode  of  millions,  are  formed 
by  the  confluence  of  innumerable  rills ;  vege- 
tation, commencing  with  the  lichen  and  the 
moss,  rises  at  length  into  the  riches  and  magni- 
ficence of  the  forest.  Patient  analysis,  philo- 
sophical discovery,  have  now  taught  us  that  it 
was  by  the  same  slow  progress  that  the  great 
work  of  creation  was  accomplished.  The  fos- 
sil remains  of  antediluvian  ages  have  laid  open 
the  primeval  works  of  nature;  the  long  period 
which  elapsed  before  the  creation  of  man,  the 
vegetables  which  then  covered  the  earth,  the 
animals  which  sported  amidst  its  watery  wastes, 
the  life  which  first  succeeded  to  chaos,  all 
stand  revealed.  To  the  astonishment  of  man- 
kind, the  order  of  creation,  unfolded  in  Genesis, 
is  proved  by  the  contents  of  the  earth  beneath 
every  part  of  its  surface  to  be  precisely  that 
which  has  actually  been  followed ;  the  days  of 
the  Creator's  workmanship  turn  out  to  be  the 
days  of  the  Most  High,  not  of  his  uncreated 
subjects,  and  to  correspond  to  ages  of  our 
ephemeral  existence ;  and  the  great  sabbath 
of  the  earth  took  place,  not,  as  we  imagined, 
when  the  sixth  sun  had  set  after  the  first  morn- 
ing had  beamed,  but  when  the  sixth  period  had 
expired,  devoted  by  Omnipotence  to  the  mighty 
undertaking.  God  then  rested  from  his  labours, 
because  the  great  changes  of  matter,  and  the 
successive  production  and  annihilation  of  dif- 
ferent kinds  of  animated  existence,  ceased; 
creation  assumed  a  settled  form,  and  laws 
came  into  operation  destined  for  indefinite  en- 
durance. Chateaubriand  said  truly,  that  to 
man,  when  he  first  opened  his  eyes  on  paradise, 
nature  appeared  with  all  the  majesty  of  age  as 
well  as  all  the  freshness  of  youth;  but  it  was 
not  in  a  week,  but  during  a  series  of  ages,  that 
the  magnificent  spectacle  had  been  assembled ; 
and  for  the  undying  delight  of  his  progeny,  ia 
all  future  years,  the  powers  of  nature  for  count- 
less time  had  been  already  exerted. 

The  fifth  book  of  the  Genie  de  Christianisme 
treats  of  the  proofs  of  the  existence  of  God, 
derived  from  the  wonders  of  material  nature — 
in  other  words,  of  the  splendid  subject  of 
natural  theology.  On  such  a  subject,  the  ob- 
servations of  a  mind  so  stored  with  knowledge, 
and  gifted  with  such  powers  of  eloquence,  may 
be  expected  to  be  something  of  extraordinary 
excellence.  Though  the  part  of  his  work,  ac- 
cordingly, which  treats  of  this  subject,  is  neces- 
sarily circumscribed,  from  the  multitude  of 
others  with  which  it  is  overwhelmed,  it  is  of 


CHATEAUBRIAND. 


17 


surpassing  beauty,  and  snperioT  in  point  of 
description  to  any  tiling  which  !j)as  been  pro- 
duced on  the  same  subject  by  the  genius  of 
Britain. 

"  There  is  a  God !  The  herbs  of  tlie  valley, 
the  cedars  of  the  mountain,  bless  him — the  in- 
sect sports  in  his  beams — the  elephant  salutes 
him  with  the  rising  orb  of  the  day — the  bird 
sings  him  in  the  foliage — the  thunder  pro- 
claims him  in  the  heavens — the  ocean  declares 
his  immensity — man  alone  has  said, '  There  is 
no  God !' 

"Unite  in  thought,  at  the  same  instant,  the 
most  beautiful  objects  in  nature ;  suppose  that 
you  see  at  once  all  the  hours  of  the  day,  and 
all  the  seasons  of  the  year;  a  morning  of 
spring  and  a  morning  of  autumn  ;  a  night  be- 
spangled with  stars,  and  a  night  covered 
with  clouds;  meadows  enamelled  with  Uowers, 
forests  hoary  with  snow;  fields  gilded  by  the 
tints  of  autumn ;  then  alone  you  ivill  have  a 
just  conception  of  the  universe.  While  3^ou 
are  gazing  on  that  sun  which  is  plunging 
under  the  vault  of  the  west,  another  observer 
admires  him  emerging  from  the  gilded  gates  of 
the  east.  By  what  unconceivable  magic  does 
that  aged  star,  which  is  sinking  fatigued  and 
burning  in  the  shades  of  the  evening,  reappear 
at  the  same  instant  fresh  and  humid  with  the 
rosy  dew  of  the  morning  1  At  every  instant 
of  the  day  the  glorious  orb  is  at  once  rising — 
resplendent  at  noonday,  and  setting  in  the 
west;  or  rather  our  senses  deceive  us,  and 
there  is,  properly  speaking,  no  east,  or  south, 
or  west  in  the  world.  Every  thing  reduces 
itself  to  one  single  point,  from  whence  the 
King  of  Day  sends  forth  at  once  a  triple  light 
in  one  single  substance.  The  bright  splendour 
is  perhaps  that  which  nature  can  present  that 
is  most  beautiful;  for  while  it  gives  us  an  idea 
of  the  perpetual  magnificence  and  resistless 
power  of  God,  it  exhibits,  at  the  same  time,  a 
shining  image  of  the  glorious  Trinity." 

The  instincts  of  animals,  and  their  adapta- 
tion to  the  wants  of  their  existence,  have  long 
furnished  one  of  the  most  interesting  subjects 
of  study  to  the  naturalist,  and  of  meditation  to 
the  devout  observer  of  creation.  Chateau- 
briand has  painted,  Avith  his  usual  descriptive 
powers,  one  of  the  most  familiar  of  these  ex- 
amples— 

"  What  ingenious  springs  move  the  feet  of  a 
bird?  It  is  not  by  a  contraction  of  muscles 
dependent  on  his  will  that  he  maintains  him- 
.self  firm  upon  a  branch  ;  his  foot  is  constructed 
in  such  a  way  that  Avhen  it  is  pressed  in  the 
centre,  the  toes  close  of  their  own  accord 
upon  the  body  which  supports  it.  It  results 
from  this  mechanism,  that  the  talons  of  the 
bird  grasp  more  or  less  firmly  the  object  on 
which  it  has  alighted,  in  proportion  to  the 
agitation,  more  or  less  violent,  which  it  has 
received.  Thus,  when  we  see  at  the  approach 
of  night  during  winter  the  crows  perched  on 
the  scathed  summit  of  an  aged  oak,  wc  sup- 
pose that,  watchful  and  atlentive,  they  main- 
tain their  place  with  pain  during  the  rocking 
of  the  winds;  and  yet,  heedless  of  danger,  an(l 
mocking  the  tempest,  the  winds  only  bring 
them  profounder  slumber; — (he  blasts  of  the 
north  attach  them  more  firmly  to  the  branch, 
?. 


from  whence  we  every  instant  expect  to  sec 
them  precipitated  ;  and  like  the  old  seaman 
whose  hammock  is  suspended  to  the  roof  of 
his  vessel,  the  more  he  is  tossed  by  the  winds, 
the  more  profound  is  his  repose." — I.  147,  148. 
"Amidst  the  difiercnt  instincts  which  the 
Sovereign  of  the  universe  has  implanted  in 
nature,  one  of  the  most  wonderful  is  that 
which  every  year  brings  the  fish  of  the  pole 
to  our  temperate  region.  They  come,  without 
once  mistaking  their  way,  through  the  solitude 
of  the  ocean,  to  reach,  on  a  fixed  day,  the 
stream  where  their  hymen  is  to  be  celebrated. 
The  spring  prepares  on  our  shores  their  nuptial 
pomp ;  it  covers  the  willows  v/ith  verdure,  it 
spreads  beds  of  moss  in  the  waves  to  serve 
for  curtains  to  its  crystal  couches.  Hardly 
are  these  preparations  completed  when  the 
enamelled  legions  appear;  the  animated  navi- 
gators enliven  our  coasts ;  some  spring  aloft 
from  the  surface  of  the  waters,  others  balance 
themselves  on  the  waves,  or  diverge  from  a 
common  centre  like  innumerable  Hashes  of 
gold;  these  dart  obliquely  their  shining  bodies 
athwart  the  azure  fluid,  Avhile  they  sleep  in 
the  rays  of  the  sun,  which  penetrates  beneath 
the  dancing  surface  of  the  waves.  All,  sport- 
ing in  the  joys  of  existence,  meander,  return, 
wheel  about,  dash  across,  form  in  squadron, 
separate,  and  reunite ;  and  the  inhabitant  of 
the  seas,  inspired  by  a  breath  of  existence, 
pursues  Avith  bounding  movements  its  mate, 
b)r  the  line  of  fire  Avhich  is  reflected  from  her 
in  the  stream."— I.  152,  153. 

Chateaubriand's  mind  is  full  not  only  of  the 
images  but  the  sounds  which  attest  the  reign 
of  animated  nature.  Equally  familiar  with 
those  of  the  desert  and  of  the  cultivated  plain, 
he  has  had  his  susceptibility  alike  open  in 
both  to  the  impressions  which  arise  to  a  pious 
observer  from  their  contemplation. 

"There  is  a  law  in  nature  relative  to  the 
cries  of  animals,  which  has  not  been  sufficient- 
ly observed,  and  deserves  to  be  so.  The  dif- 
ferent sounds  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  desert 
are  calculated  according  to  the  grandeur  or 
the  sweetness  of  the  scene  where  they  arise, 
and  the  hour  of  the  day  Avhen  they  are  heard 
The  roaring  of  the  lion,  loud,  rough,  and  tre 
mendous,  is  in  unison  with  the  desert  scenes 
in  Avhich  it  is  heard;  while  the  lowing  of  the 
oxen  diffuses  a  pleasing  calm  through  our 
valleys.  The  goat  has  something  trembling 
and  savage  in  its  cry,  like  the  rocks  and  ravines 
from  which  it  loves  to  suspend  itself.  The 
war-horse  imitates  the  notes  of  the  trumpet 
that  animates  him  to  the  charge,  and,  a,s  if  ho 
felt  that  he  Avas  not  made  for  degrading  evn- 
.ployments,  he  is  siient  under  the  spur  of  the 
labourer,  and  neighs  under  tiie  rein  of  the 
AA'arrior.  The  night,  by  turns  charming  or 
sombre,  is  enlivened  by  the  nighlingale  or 
saddened  by  the  oavI — the  one  sings  for  the 
zephyrs,  the  groves,  the  moon,  the  soul  of 
lovers — the  other  for  the  Avinds,  the  forests,  the 
darlcncss,  and  the  dead.  Finally,  all  the  ani 
mals  which  live  on  others  have  a  peculiar  crj 
by  Avhich  they  may  be  distinguished  by  the 
creatures  AA'hich  arc  destined  to  be  their  prey." 
— T.  IfjO. 

The  making  of  birds'  nest.i  is  on«  of  ibo 


18 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


most  common  objects  of  observation.  Listen 
to  the  reflections  of  genius  and  poetry  on  this 
beautiful  subject. 

"The  admirable  wisdom  of  Providence  is 
nowhere  more  conspicuous  than  in  the  nests 
of  birds.  It  is  impossible  to  contemplate,  with- 
out emotion,  the  Divine  goodness  M'hich  thus 
gives  industry  to  the  weak,  and  foresight  to 
the  thoughtless. 

"  No  sooner  have  the  trees  put  forth  their 
leaves,  than  a  thousand  little  workmen  com- 
mence their  labours.  Some  bring  long  pieces 
of  straw  into  the  hole  of  an  old  wall ;  others 
affix  their  edifice  to  the  windows  of  a  church; 
these  steal  a  hair  from  the  mane  of  ahorse; 
those  bear  away,  with  wings  trembling  beneath 
its  weight,  the  fragment  of  wool  which  a  lamb 
has  left  entangled  in  the  briers.  A  thousand 
palaces  at  once  arise,  and  eveiy  palace  is  a 
nest ;  within  every  nest  is  soon  to  be  seen  a 
charming  metamorphosis ;  first,  a  beautiful 
egg,  then  a  little  one  covered  with  down.  The 
little  nestling  soon  feels  his  wings  begin  to 
grow  ;  his  mother  teaches  him  to  raise  himself 
on  his  bed  of  repose.  Soon  he  takes  courage 
enough  to  approach  the  edge  of  the  nest,  and 
casts  a  first  look  on  the  works  of  nature. 
Terrified  and  enchanted  at  the  sight,  he  pre- 
cipitates himself  amidst  his  brothers  and  sisters 
who  have  never  as  yet  seen  that  spectacle ; 
but  recalled  a  second  time  from  his  couch,  the 
young  king  of  the  air,  who  still  has  the  crown 
of  infancy  on  his  head,  ventures  to  contemplate 
the  boundless  heavens,  the  waving  summit 
of  the  pine-trees,  and  the  vast  labyrinth  of  fo- 
liage which  lies  beneath  his  feet.  And,  at  the 
moment  that  the  forests  are  rejoicing  at  the 
sight  of  their  new  inmate,  an  aged  bird,  who 
feels  himself  abandoned  by  his  wings,  quietly 
rests  beside  a  stream;  there,  resigned  and 
solitary,  he  tranquilly  awaits '  death,  on  the 
banks  of  the  same  river  where  he  sung  his 
first  loves,  and  whose  trees  still  bear  his  nest 
and  his  melodious  offspring." — I.  158. 

The  subject  of  the  migration  of  the  feathered 
tribes  furnishes  this  attentive  observer  of  na- 
ture with  many  beautiful  images.  We  have 
room  only  for  the  following  extract; 

"In  the  first  ages  of  the  world, it  was  by  the 
flowering  of  plants,  the  fall  of  the  leaves,  the 
departure  and  the  arrival  of  birds,  that  the 
labourers  and  the  shepherds  regulated  their 
labours.  Thence  has  sprung  the  art  of  divina- 
tion among  certain  people  ;  they  imagined  that 
the  birds  which  were  sure  to  precede  certain 
changes  of  the  season  or  atmosphere,  could 
not  but  be  inspired  by  the  Deit3%  The  ancient 
naturalists,  and  the  poets,  to  whom  Ave  are 
indebted  for  the  few  remains  of  simplicity 
which  still  linger  amongst  us,  show  us  hoAV 
marvellous  was  that  manner  of  counting  by 
the  changes  of  nature,  and  what  a  charm  it 
spread  over  the  Avhole  of  existence.  God  is  a 
profound  secret.  Man,  created  in  his  image, 
is  equally  incomprehensible.  It  was  therefore 
an  ineffable  harmony  to  see  the  periods  of  his 
existence  regulated  by  measures  of  time  as 
harmonious  as  himself. 

"Beneath  the  tents  of  Jacob  or  of  Boaz,  the 
arriva.  of  a  bird  put  every  thing  in  movement ; 
•o«  Patriarch  made  the  circuit  of  the  camp  at 


the  head  of  his  followers,  armed  with  scythes. 
If  the  report  was  spread,  that  the  )'oung  of  the 
swallows  had  been  seen  wheeling  about,  the 
whole  people  joyfullycommenced  their  harvest. 
These  beautiful  signs,  while  they  directed  tne 
labours  of  the  present,  had  the  advantage  of 
foretelling  the  vicissitudes  of  the  approaching 
season.  If  the  geese  and  swans  arrived  in 
abundance,  it  was  known  that  the  winter 
would  be  snoAv.  Did  the  redbreast  begin  to 
build  its  nest  in  January,  the  shepherds  hoped 
in  April  for  the  roses  of  May.  The  marriage 
of  a  virgin  on  the  margin  of  a  fovmtain,  was 
represented  by  the  first  opening  of  the  bud  of 
the  rose ;  and  the  death  of  the  aged,  who  usual- 
ly drop  off'  in  autumn,  by  the  falling  of  leaves, 
or  the  maturity  of  the  harA-ests.  While  the 
philosopher,  abridging  or  elongating  the  year, 
extended  the  Avinter  over  the  A^erdure  of  spring, 
the  peasant  felt  no  alarm  that  the  astronomer, 
Avho  came  Xo  him  from  heaven,  would  be 
wrong  in  his  calculatiohs.  He  knew  that  the 
nightingale  Avould  not  take  the  season  of  hoar 
frost  for  that  of  floAvers,  or  make  the  groves 
resound  at  the  winter  solstice  Avith  the  songs 
of  summer.  Thus,  the  cares,  the  joys,  the 
pleasures  of  the  rural  life  were  determined, 
not  by  the  uncertain  calendar  of  the  learned, 
but  the  infallible  signs  of  Him  AAdio  traced  his 
path  to  the  sun.  That  sovereign  regulator 
.vshed  himself  that  the  rites  of  his  Avorship 
should  be  determined  by  the  epochs  fixed  by 
his  Avorks ;  and  in  those  days  of  innocence, 
according  to  the  seasons  and  the  labours  they 
required,  it  was  the  A^oice  of  the  zephyr  or  of 
the  tempest,  of  the  eagle  or  the  dove,  which 
called  the  Avorshipper  to  the  temple  of  his 
Creator."— L  171. 

Let  no  one  exclaim,  what  have  these  descrip- 
tions to  do  with  the  spirit  of  Christianity? 
Gray  thought  otherAvise,  when  he  Avrote  the 
sublime  lines  on  visiting  the  Grande  Char- 
treuse. Buchanan  thought  otherwise,  Avhen, 
in  his  exquisite  Ode  to  May,  he  supposed  the 
first  zephyrs  of  spring  to  blow  over  the  islands 
of  the  just.  The  work  of  Chateaubriand,  it  is 
to  be  recollected,  is  not  merely  an  exposition 
of  the  doctrines,  spirit,  or  precepts  of  Chris- 
tianity ;  it  is  intended  expressly  to  allure,  by 
the  charms  which  it  exhibits,  the  man  of  the 
AA'orld,  an  unbelieving  and  volatile  generation, 
to  the  feelings  of  devotion ;  it  is  meant  to  com- 
bine all  that  IS  delightful  or  lovely  in  the 
Avorks  of  nature,  with  all  that  is  sublime  or 
elevating  in  the  revelations  of  religion.  In  his 
eloquent  pages,  therefore,  Ave  find  iTnited  the 
Natural  Theology  of  Paley,  the  Contemplations 
of  Taylor,  and  the  Analogy  of  Butler ;  and 
if  the  theologians  will  look  in  vain  for  the 
weighty  arguments  by  which  the  English 
divines  haA'e  established  the  foundation  of  their 
faith,  men  of  ordinary  education  Avill  find  even 
more  to  entrance  and  subdue  their  minds. 

Among  the  proofs  of  the  immortality  of  the 
soul,  our  author,  with  all  others  Avho  have 
thought  upon  the  subject,  classes  the  obvious 
disproportion  betAveen  the  desires  and  capacity 
of  the  soul,  and  the  limits  of  its  acquisitions 
and  enjoyments  in  this  world.  In  the  follow- 
ing passage  this  argument  is  placed  in  its  just 
colours 


CHATEAUBRIAND 


19 


'•  if  it  is  impossible  to  deny,  that  the  hope  of 
man  continues  to  the  edge  of  the  grave — if  it 
be  true,  that  the  advantages  of  this  world,  so 
far  frona  satisfying  our  wishes,  tend  only  to 
augment  the  want  which  the  soul  experiences, 
and  dig  deeper  the  abyss  which  it  contains 
within  itself,  we  must  conclude  that  there  is 
something  beyond  the  limits  of  time.  'Vin- 
cula  hujus  mundi,  says  St.  Augustin,  'asperi- 
tatem  habent  veram,  jucunditatcm  falsam, 
certum  dolorem,  incertam  voluptatem,  durum 
laborem,  timidam  quietem,  rem  plenara  mise- 
rifc,  spem  bealitudinis  inanem.'  Far  from 
lamenting  that  the  desire  for  felicity  has  been 
planted  in  this  world,  and  its  ultimate  gratifica- 
tion only  in  another,  let  us  discern  in  that 
only  an  additional  proof  of  the  goodness  of  God. 
Since  sooner  or  later  we  must  quit  this  world. 
Providence  has  placed  beyond  its  limits  a 
charm,  which  is  felt  as  an  attraction  to  dimin- 
ish the  terrors  of  the  tomb ;  as  a  kind  mother, 
when  wishing  to  make  her  infant  cross  a  bar- 
rier, places  some  agreeable  object  on  the  other 
side."— I.  210. 

"Finally,  there  is  another  proof  of  the  im- 
mortality of  the  soul,  which  has  not  been  suf- 
ficiently insisted  on,  and  that  is  the  universal 
veneration  of  mankind  for  the  tomb.  There, 
by  an  invincible  charm,  life  is  attached  to 
death,  there  the  human  race  declares  itself 
superior  to  the  rest  of  creation,  and  proclaims 
aloud  its  lofty  destinies.  What  animal  regards 
its  coffin,  or  disquiets  itself  about  the  ashes  of 
its  fathers  1  Which  one  has  any  regard  for 
the  bones  of  its  father,  or  even  knows  its 
father,  after  the  first  necessities  of  infancy  arc 
passed  1  Whence  comes  then  the  all-power- 
ful idea  which  we  entertain  of  death  1  Do  a 
few  grains  of  dust  merit  so  much  considera- 
tion 1  No ;  without  doubt  we  respect  the 
bones  of  our  fathers,  because  an  inward  voice 
tells  us  that  all  is  not  lost  witli  them ;  and  that 
is  the  voice  which  has  everywhere  conse- 
crated the  funeral  service  throughout  the 
world ;  all  are  equally  persuaded  that  the  sleep 
is  not  eternal,  even  in  the  tomb,  and  that  death 
itself  is  but  a  glorious  transfiguration." — I.  217. 

To  the  objection,  that  if  the  idea  of  God  is 
innate,  it  must  appear  in  children  without 
any  education,  which  is  not  generally  the  case, 
Chateaubriand  replies: 

"  God  being  a  spirit,  and  it  being  impossible 
that  he  should  be  understood  but  by  a  spirit, 
an  infant,  in  whom  the  powers  of  thought  are 
not  as  yet  developed,  cannot  form  a  proper 
conception  of  the  Supreme  Being.  We  must 
not  expect  from  the  heart  its  noblest  function, 
whon  the  marvellous  fabric  is  as  yet  in  the 
hands  of  its  Creator. 

"Besides,  there  seems  reason  to  believe 
that  a  child  has,  at  least,  a  sort  of  instinct  of 
its  Creator;  witness  only  its  lilile  reveries,  its 
disquietudes,  its  fears  in  the  night,  its  disposi- 
tion to  raise  its  eyes  to  heaven.  An  infant 
joins  together  its  little  hands  and  repeats  after 
its  mother  a  prayer  to  the  good  God.  Why  does 
that  little  angel  lisp  with  so  much  love  and 
purity  the  name  of  the  Supreme  Being,  if  it 
has  no  inward  consciousness  of  its  existence 
in  its  heart  1 

"Behold  that  new-born  infant,  which    the 


nurse  still  carries  under  her  arms.  What  has 
it  done  to  give  so  much  joy  to  that  old  man,  to 
that  man  in  the  prune  of  life,  to  that  woman ' 
Two  or  three  syllables  half-formed,  which  na 
one  rightly  understands,  and  instantly  three 
reasonable  creatures  are  transported  with  de« 
light,  from  the  grandfather,  to  whom  all  that 
life  contains  is  known,  to  the  young  mother, 
to  whom  the  greater  part  of  it  is  as  yet  un* 
revealed.  Who  has  put  that  power  into  the 
word  of  man?  How  does  it  happen  that  the 
sound  of  a  human  voice  subjugates  so  instan- 
taneously the  human  heart  1  What  subjugates 
you  is  something  allied  to  a  mystery,  which 
depends  on  causes  more  elevated  than  the  in 
terest,  how  strong  soever,  Avhich  you  take  in 
that  infant:  something  tells  you  that  these  in- 
articulate words  ai-e  the  first  openings  of  an 
immortal  soul." — I.  224. 

There  is  a  subject  on  wiiich  human  genius 
can  hardly  dare  to  touch,  the  future  felicity  of 
the  just.  Our  author  thus  treats  this  delicate 
subject : 

"The  purest  of  sentiments  in  this  world  is 
admiration  ;  but  every  earthly  admiration  is 
mingled  with  weakness,  either  in  the  object  i+ 
admires,  or  in  that  admiring.  Imagine,  then, 
a  perfect  being,  which  perceives  at  once  all 
that  is,  and  has,  and  will  be  ;  suppose  that  soul 
exempt  from  envy  and  all  the  weaknesses  of 
life,  incorruptible,  indefatigable,  unalterable ; 
conceive  it  contemplating  without  ceasing  the 
Most  High,  discovering  incessantly  new  per- 
fections ;  feeling  existence  only  from  the  re- 
newed sentiment  of  that  admiration  ;  conceive 
God  as  the  sovereign  beauty,  the  universal 
principle  of  love ;  figure  all  the  attachments 
of  earth  blending  in  that  abyss  of  feeling, 
without  ceasing  to  love  the  objects  of  affection 
on  this  earth;  imagine,  finally,  that  the  inmate 
of  heaven  has  the  conviction  that  this  felicity 
is  never  to  end,  and  you  will  have  an  idea, 
feeble  and  imperfect  indeed,  of  the  felicity  of 
the  just.  They  are  plunged  in  this  abyss  of 
delight,  as  in  an  ocean  from  which  they  can- 
not emerge:  thej'-  wish  nothing;  they  have 
every  thing,  though  desiring  nothing;  an 
eternal  youth,  a  felicity  without  end;  a  glory 
divine  is  expressed  in  their  countenances  ;  a 
sweet,  noble,  and  majestic  joy;  it  is  a  sublime 
feeling  of  truth  and  virtue  Avhich  transports 
them ;  at  every  instant  they  experience  the 
same  rapture  as  a  mother  who  regains  a  be- 
loved child  whon^  she  believed  lost;  and  that 
exquisite  joy,  too  fleeting  on  earth,  is  there 
prolonged  through  the  ages  of  eternity. — I.  211, 

We  intended  to  have  gone  through  in  this 
paper  the  whole  Genie  dc  Cliristianisme,  and 
we  have  only  concluded  the  first  volume,  so 
prolific  of  beauty  are  its  pages.  We  make  no 
ajjology  for  the  length  of  the  quotations,  which 
have  so  much  exteiuled  tiie  iimilsof  lliisarticle; 
any  observations  would  be  inexcusable  which 
should  abridge  passages  of  such  transcendent 
beauty. 

"The  Itineraire  de  Paris  a  Jerusab-m."  is 
an  account  of  the  author's  journey  in  1806, 
from  Paris  to  Greece,  Constai\tinople,  Palc?-- 
tine,  Egypt  and  Carthage.  This  work  is  not 
so  much  a  book  of  travels  as  memoirs  of  the 
feelings  and  impressions  of  the  author  during 


20 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


a  journey  over  tne  shores  of  the  Mediterranean ; 
the  cradle,  as  Dr.  Johnson  observed,  of  all  that 
dignifies  and  has  blest  human  nature,  of  our 
■  laws,  our  religion,  and  our  civilization.  It 
may  readily  be  anticipated  that  the  observa- 
tions of  such  a  man,  in  such  scenes,  must  con- 
tain much  that  is  interesting  and  delightful: 
our  readers  may  prepare  themselves  for  a  high 
gratification ;  it  is  seldom  that  they  have  such 
an  intellectual  feast  laid  before  them.  We 
have  translated  the  passages,  both  because 
there  is  no  English  version  with  which  we  are 
acquainted  of  this  work,  and  because  the  trans- 
lations which  usually  appear  of  French  authors 
are  executed  in  so  slovenly  a  style. 

On  his  first  night  amidst  the  ruins  of  Sparta, 
our  author  gives  the  following  interesting  ac- 
count:— 

"  After  supper  Joseph  brought  me  my  saddle, 
which  usually  served  for  my  pillow.  I  wrap- 
ped myself  in  my  cloak,  and  slept  on  the  banks 
of  the  Eurotas  under  a  laurel.  The  night  was 
so  clear  and  serene,  that  the  milky  way  formed 
a  resplendent  arch,  reflected  in  the  waters  of 
the  river,  and  by  the  light  of  which  I  could 
read.  I  slept  with  my  eyes  turned  towards  the 
heavens,  and  with  the  constellation  of  the 
Swan  of  Leda  directly  above  my  head.  Even 
at  this  distance  of  time  I  recollect  the  pleasure 
I  experienced  in  sleeping  thus  in  the  woods 
of  America,  and  still  more  in  awakening  in 
the  middle  of  the  night.  I  there  heard  the 
sound  of  the  wind  rustling  through  those  pro- 
found solitudes,  the  cry  of  the  stag  and  the 
deer,  the  fall  of  a  distant  cataract,  while  the 
fire  at  my  feet,  half-extinguished,  reddened 
from  below  the  foliage  of  the  forest.  "  I  even 
experienced  a  pleasure  from  the  voice  of  the 
Iroquois,  when  he  uttered  his  cry  in  the  midst 
of  the  untrodden  woods,  and  by  the  light  of 
the  stars,  amidst  the  silence  of  nature,  pro- 
claimed his  unfettered  freedom.  Emotions  such 
as  these  please  at  twenty  years  of  age,  because 
life  is  then  so  full  of  vigour  that  it  sutfices  as 
it  were  for  itself,  and  because  there  is  some- 
thing in  early  youth  which  incessantly  urges 
towards  the  mysterious  and  the  unknown ; 
ipsi  slbi  somnia  Jinguitt ;  but  in  a  more  mature 
age  the  mind  reverts  to  more  imperishable 
emotions;  it  inclines,  most  of  all,  to  the  re- 
collections and  the  examples  of  history.  I  would 
still  sleep  willingly  on  the  banks  of  the  Eurotas 
and  the  Jordan,  if  the  shades  of  the  three  hun- 
dred Spartans,  or  of  the  twelve  sons  of  Jacob, 
were  to  visit  my  dreams  ;  but  I  would  no  longer 
set  out  to  visit  lands  which  have  never  been 
explored  by  the  plough.  I  now  feel  the  desire 
for  those  old  deserts  which  shroud  the  walls 
of  Babylon  or  the  legions  of  Pharsalia;  fields 
of  which  the  farrows  are  engraven  on  human 
thought,  and  where  I  may  find  man  as  I  am, 
the  blood,  the  tears,  and  the  labours  of  man." 
— L  86,  87. 

From  Laconia  our  author  directed  his  steps 
by  the  isthmus  of  Corinth  to  Athens.  Of  his 
first  feelings  in  the  ancient  cradle  of  taste  and 
genius  he  gives  the  following  beautiful  de- 
Kcription: — 

"  Overwhelmed  with  fatigue,  I  slept  for  some 
iime  without  interruption,  when  I  was  at  length 
awakened  by  the   sound  of  Turkish  music, 


proceeding  from  the  summits  of  the  Propylenic 
At  the  same  moment  a  Mussulman  priest  from 
one  of  the  mosques  called  the  faithful  to  pray 
in  the  city  of  Minerva.  I  cannot  describe 
what  I  felt  at  the  sound;  that  Iman  had  no 
need  to  remind  one  of  the  lapse  of  time;  his 
voice  alone  in  these  scenes  announced  the 
revolution  of  ages. 

"  This  fluctuation  in  human  affairs  is  the 
more  remarkable  from  the  contrast  which  it 
affords  to  the  unchangeableness  of  nature.  As 
if  to  insult  the  instability  of  human  afiairs,  the 
animals  and  the  birds  experience  no  change 
in  their  empires,  nor  alterations  in  their  habits. 
I  saw,  when  sitting  on  the  hill  of  the  Muses, 
the  storks  form  themselves  into  a  wedge,  and 
wing  their  flight  towai'ds  the  shores  of  Africa. 
For  two  thousanv.'  years  they  have  made  the 
same  voyage — they  have  remained  free  and 
happy  in  the  city  of  Solon,  as  in  that  of  the 
chief  of  the  black  eunuchs.  From  .the  height 
of  their  nests,  which  the  revolutions  below 
have  not  been  able  to  reach,  they  have  seen 
the  races  of  men  disappear ;  while  impious 
generations  have  arisen  on  the  tombs  of  their 
religious  parents,  the  young  stork  has  never 
ceased  to  nourish  its  aged  parent.  I  involun- 
tarily fell  into  these  reflections,  for  the  stork 
is  the  friend  of  the  traveller :  '  it  knows  the 
seasons  of  heaven.'  These  birds  were  fre- 
quently my  companions  in  the  sblitudes  of 
America :  I  have  often  seen  them  perched  on 
the  wigwams  of  the  savage ;  and  when  I  saw 
them  rise  from  another  species  of  desert,  from 
the  ruins  of  the  Parthenon,  I  could  not  avoid 
feeling  a  companion  in  the  desolation  of  empires. 

"  The  first  thing  which  strikes  a  traveller 
in  the  monuments  of  Athens,  is  their  lovely 
colour.  In  our  climate,  where  the  heavens 
are  charged  with  smoke  and  rain,  the  whitest 
stone  soon  becomes  tinged  with  black  and 
green.  It  is  not  thus  with  the  atmosphere  of 
the  city  of  Theseus.  The  clear  sky  and  bril- 
liant sun  of  Greece  have  shed  over  the  marble 
of  Paros  and  Pentilicus  a  golden  hue,  com- 
parable only  to  the  finest  and  most  fleeting 
tints  of  autumn. 

"  Before  I  saw  these  splendid  remains  I  had 
fallen  into  the  ordinary  error  concorning  them. 
I  conceived  they  were  perfect  in  their  details, 
but  that  they  wanted  grandeur.  But  the  first 
glance  at  the  originals  is  sufiicient  to  show 
that  the  genius  of  the  architects  has  supplied 
in  the  magnitude  of  proportion  what  was 
wanting  in  size;  and  Athens  is  accordingly 
filled  with  stupendous  edifices.  The  Athenians, 
a  people  far  from  rich,  few  in  number,  have 
succeeded  in  moving  gigantic  masses ;  the 
blocks  of  stone  in  the  Pnyx  and  the  Propyleum 
are  literally  quarters  of  rock.  The  slabs  which 
stretch  from  pillar  to  pillar  are  of  enormous 
dimensions  :  the  columns  of  the  Temple  of 
Jupiter  01}^mpius  are  above  sixtj'  feet  in  height, 
and  the  walls  of  Athens,  including  those  winch 
stretched  to  the  Pira3us,  extended  over  nine 
leagues,  and  were  so  broad  that  two  chariots 
could  drive  on  them  abreast.  The  Romans 
never  erected  more  extensive  fortifications. 

"  By  what  strange  fatality  has  it  happened 
that  the  chefs  d'oeuvre  of  antiquit}',  which  the 
moderns  go  so  far  to  admire,  have  ewed  theii 


CHATEAUBRIAND. 


21 


destruction  chiefly  to  the  moderns  themselves  t 
The  Parthenon  Avas  entire  in  1687;  the  Chris- 
tians at  first  converted  it  into  a  cluirch,  and  the 
Turks  into  a  mosque.  The  "Venetians,  in  the 
middle  of  the  light  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
bombarded  the  Acropolis  with  red-liot  sliot;  a 
shell  fell  on  the  Parthenon,  pierced  the  roof, 
communicated  to  a  few  barrels  of  powder,  and 
blew  into  the  air  great  part  of  the  edifice, 
which  did  less  honour  to  the  gods  of  antiquity 
than  the  genius  of  man.  No  sooner  was  the 
town  captured,  than  Morosini,  in  the  design 
of  embellishing  Venice  with  its  spoils,  took 
down  the  statues  from  the  front  of  the  Temple  ; 
and  another  modern  has  completed,  from  love 
for  the  arts,  that  whicii  the  Venetian  had  begun. 
The  invention  of  fii'C-arms  has  been  fatal  to 
the  monuments  of  antiquity.  Had  the  bar- 
barians been  acquainted  with  the  use  of  gun- 
powder, not  a  Greek  or  Roman  edifice  would 
have  survived  their  invasion;  they  would 
ha^•e  blown  up  even  the  Pyramids  in  the 
search  for  hidden  treasures.  One  year  of  war 
in  our  times  will  destroy  more  than  a  century 
of  combats  among  the  ancients.  Every  thing 
among  the  moderns  seems  opposed  to  the  per- 
fectionof  art;  their  country,  theirraanners,  their 
dress;  even  their  discoveries." — 1. 136, 145. 

These  observations  are  perfectly  well  found- 
ed. No  one  can  have  visited  the  Grecian  monu- 
ments on  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean, 
without  perceiving  that  they  were  thoroughly 
masters  of  an  element  of  grandeur,  hitherto 
but  little  understood  among  the  moderns,  that 
arising  from  gigantic  masses  of  stone.  The 
feeling  of  sublimity  which  they  produce  is  in- 
describable :  it  equals  that  of  Gothic  edifices 
of  a  thousand  times  the  size.  Every  traveller 
must  have  felt  this  upon  looking  at  the  im- 
mense masses  which  rise  in  solitary  magnifi- 
cence on  the  plains  at  Stonehenge.  The  great 
block  in  the  tomb  of  Agamemnon  at  Argos ; 
those  in  the  Cyclopean  Walls  of  Volterra,  and 
in  the  ruins  of  Agrigentum  in  Sicily,  strike 
the  beholder  with  a  degree  of  astonishment 
bordering  on  awe.  To  have  moved  such 
enormous  masses  seems  the  work  of  a  race 
of  mortals  superior  in  thought  and  power 
to  this  degenerate  age;  it  is  impossible,  in 
visiting  them,  to  avoid  the  feeling  that  you 
arc  beholding  the  work  of  giants.  It  is  to  this 
cause,  we  are  persuaded,  that  the  extraordina- 
ry impression  produced  by  the  pyramids,  and 
all  the  works  of  the  Cyclopean  age  in  archi- 
tecture, is  to  be  ascribed;  and  as  it  is  an 
element  of  sublimity  within  the  reach  of  all 
who  have  considerable  funds  at  their  com- 
mand, it  is  earnestly  to  be  hoped  that  it  will 
not  be  overlooked  by  our  architects.  fStrangc 
that  so  powerful  an  ingredient  in  the  sublime 
should  iiave  been  lost  sight  of  in  proportion  to 
the  ability  of  the  age  to  produce  it,  and  that  the 
monuments  raised  in  the  infancy  of  the 
mechanical  art,  shou'.d  still  be  those  in  which 
alone  it  is  to  be  seen  to  perfection ! 

We  willingly  translate  the  description  of  the 
xinrivalled  scene  viewed  from  the  Acropolis 
by  the  same  poetical  hand ;  a  description  so 
glowing,  and  yet  so  true,  that  it  almost  recalls, 
afier  the  lapse  of  years,  the  fading  tints  of  the 
oric'inal  on  the  mcmorv. 


"To  understand  the  view  from  the  Acropolis 
you  must  figure  to  yourself  all  the  plain  at  its 
loot ;  bare  and  clothed  in  a  dusky  heath,  inter- 
sected here  and  there  by  woods  of  olives, 
squares  of  barley,  and  ridges  of  vines ;  you 
must  conceive  the  heads  of  columns,  and  the 
ends  of  ancient  ruins,  emerging  from  the  midsi 
of  that  cultivation ;  Albanian  women  washing 
their  clothes  at  the  fountain  or  the  scanty 
streams ;  peasants  leading  their  asses,  laden 
with  provisions,  into  the  modern  city :  those 
ruins  so  celebrated,  those  isles,  those  seas, 
whose  names  are  engraven  on  the  memory, 
illumined  by  a  resplendent  light.  I  have  seen 
from  the  rock  of  the  Acropolis  the  sun  rise 
between  the  two  summits  of  Mount  Ilymettus  : 
the  ravens,  which  nestle  round  the  citadel,  but 
never  fly  over  its  summit,  floating  in  the  air 
beneath,  their  glossy  wings  reflecting  the  rosy 
lints  of  the  morning:  columns  of  light  smoke 
ascending  from  the  villages  on  the  sides  of  the 
neighbouring  mountains  marked  the  colonies 
of  bees  on  the  far-famed  Hymettus ;  and  the 
ruins  of  the  Parthenon  w-ere  illuminated  by 
the  finest  tints  of  pink  and  violet.  The  sculp- 
tures of  Phidias,  struck  by  a  horizontal  ray  of 
gold,  seemed  to  start  from  their  marbled  bed 
by  the  depth  and  mobility  of  their  shadows : 
in  the  distance,  the  sea  and  the  Pirteus  were 
resplendent  with  light,  while  on  the  verge  of 
the  western  horizon,  the  citadel  of  Corinth, 
glittering  in  the  rays  of  the  rising  sun,  shone 
like  a  rock  of  purple  and  fire." — I.  149. 

These  are  the  colours  of  poetry ;  but  beside 
this  brilliant  passage  of  French  description, 
we  willingly  place  the  equally  correct  and  still 
more  thrilling  lines  of  our  own  poet. 

"  Slow  sinks  mori!  beauteous  ere  liis  race  be  run 

Aloiij;  IMorca's  hills  the  setting  sun, 

Not  as  in  northern  clime  obscurely  briaht, 

But  one  unclouded  blaze  of  livini;  liuht; 

O'er  the  hushed  deep  the  yellow  beams  he  throws, 

Gilds  the  creen  wave  that  trenibU's  as  it  glows; 

On  old  /1\L'ina's  rod;  ;ind  Idra's  isle. 

The  (;o(l  of  Gladness  sheds  his  partina;  smile  ; 

O'er  his  own  regions  lingerim;  loves  to  shine, 

Though  there  bis  altars  are  no  more  divine  ; 

Descending  fast,  the  mountain  shadows  kiss 

Thy  glorious  gulf,  unconciuer'd  Salaiuis! 

Their  azure  arches  through  the  \ous  expanse, 

More  deeply  purpled  meet  his  mellowing  glance, 

And  tenderesl  lints,  along  their  suiumils  driven, 

Mark  his  gay  course  and  own  the  hues  of  heaven. 

Till,  darkly  shaded  from  the  land  ami  deep, 

liehind  his  Delidiian  clilf  lie  sinks  to  sleep." 

The  columns  of  the  temple  of  Jupiter  Olym- 
pius  produced  the  same  eirects  on  the  enthu- 
siastic mind  of  Chateaubriand  as  they  do  on 
every  traveller: — But  he  has  added  some  re- 
flections highly  descriptive  of  the  peculiar  turn 
of  his  mind. 

"  At  length  we  came  to  the  great  isolated 
columns  jilaced  in  the  quarter  which  is  called 
the  city  of  Adrian.  On  a  portion  of  the  archi- 
trave which  unites  two  of  the  columns,  is  to 
be  seen  a  piece  of  masonry,  once  the  abode  of 
a  hermit.  It  is  impossible  to  conceive  how 
that  buililing,  ^hich  is  still  entire,  coubl  have 
been  erected  on  the  summit  of  one  of  these 
prodigious  coltynns,  whose  height  is  above 
sixty  feet.  Thus  this  vast  temple,  at  which 
the  Athenians  toiled  for  seven  centuries,  which 
all  the  kings  of  Asia  laboured  to  finish,  which 
Adrian,  the  ruler  of  the  world,  had  first  the 
glory  to  complete,  has  sunk  under  the  hand  of 


S2 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


time,  and  the  cell  of  a  hermit  has  remained 
undecayed  on  its  ruins.  A  miserable  cabin  is 
borne  aloft  on  two  columns  of  marble,  as  if 
fortune  had  ^wsked  to  exhibit,  on  that  magni- 
ficent pedestal,  a  monument  of  its  triumph  and 
its  caprice. 

"These  columns,  though  twenty  feet  higher 
than  those  of  the  Parthenon,  are  far  from  pos- 
sessing their  beaut)^  The  degeneracy  of  taste 
is  apparent  in  their  construction  ;  but  isolated 
and  dispersed  as  they  are,  on  a  naked  and 
desert  plain,  their  effect  is  imposing  in  the 
highest  degree.  I  stopped  at  their  feet  to  hear 
the  wind  whistle  through  the  Corinthian  fofiage 
on  their  summits :  like  the  solitary  palms 
Avhich  rise  here  and  there  amidst  the  ruins  of 
Alexandria.  When  the  Turks  are  threatened 
b}'  any  calamity,  they  bring  a  lamb  into  this 
place,  and  constrain  it  to  bleat,  with  its  face 
turned  to  heaven.  Being  unable  to  find  the 
voice  of  innocence  among  men,  they  have  re- 
course to  the  new-born  lamb  to  mitigate  the 
anger  of  heaven." — I.  152,  153. 

He  followed  the  footsteps  of  Chandler  along 
the  Long  Walls  to  the  Pirceus,  and  found  that 
profound  solitude  in  that  once  busy  and  ani- 
mated scene,  which  is  felt  to  be  so  impressive 
by  every  traveller. 

"  If  Chandler  was  astonished  at  the  solitude 
of  the  Pira2us,  I  can  safely  assert  that  I  was 
not  less  astonished  than  he.  We  had  made 
the  circuit  of  that  desert  shore ;  three  harbours 
had  met  our  eyes,  and  in  all  that  space  we  had 
not  seen  a  single  vessel  !  The  only  spectacle 
to  be  seen  was  the  ruins  and  the  rocks  on  the 
shore — the  only  sounds  that  could  be  heard 
were  the  cry  of  the  seafowl,  and  the  murmur 
of  the  wave,  which,  breaking  on  the  tomb  of 
Themistocles,  drew  forth  a  perpetual  sigh  from 
the  abode  of  eternal  silence.  Borne  awaj'  by 
the  sea,  the  ashes  of  the  conqueror  of  Xerxes 
repose  beneath  the  waves,  side  by  side  with 
the  bones  of  the  Persians.  In  vain  I  sought 
the  Temple  of  Venus,  the  .bng  gallei}^  and 
the  S3'mbolical  statue  which  represented  the 
Athenian  people;  the  image  of  that  implacable 
democracy  was  for  ever  fallen,  beside  the 
walls,  where  the  exiled  citizens  came  to  im- 
plore a  return  to  their  country.  Instead  of 
those  superb  arsenals,  of  those  Agor^  resound- 
ing with  the  voice  of  the  sailors  ;  of  those 
edifices  which  rivalled  the  beauty  of  the  city 
of  Rhodes,  I  saw  nothing  but  a  ruined  convent 
and  a  solitary  magazine.  A  single  Turkish 
sentinel  is  perpetually  seated  on  the  coast ; 
months  and  years  revolve  without  a  bark  pre- 
senting itself  to  his  sight.  Such  is  the  deplora- 
ble state  into  which  these  ports,  once  so 
famous,  have  now  fallen — Who  have  over- 
turned so  many  monuments  of  gods  and  meni 
The  hidden  power  which  overthrows  every 
thing,  and  is  itself  subject  to  the  Unknown 
God  whose  altar  St.  Paul  beheld  at  Phalera." 
~I.  157,  158. 

The  fruitful  theme  of  the  decay  of  Greece 
has  caWed  forth  many  of  the  finest  apostrophes 
}■>(  our  moralists  and  poets.  On  this  subject 
Chateaubriand  offers  the  following  striking 
observations : — 

"  One  would  imagine  that  Greece  itself  an- 
nouEced,  by  its  mourning,  the  misfortunes  of 


its  children.  In  general,  the  country  is  uncul- 
tivated, the  soil  bare,  re  ugh,  savage,  of  abrowa 
and  withered  aspect.  There  are  no  rivers, 
properly  so  called,  but  little  streams  and  tor- 
rents, which  become  dry  in  summer.  No 
farm-houses  are  to  be  seen  on  the  farms,  no 
labourers,  no  chariots,  no  oxen,  or  horses  of 
agriculture.  Nothing  can  be  figured  so  melan- 
choly as  to  see  the  track  of  a  modern  Avheel, 
where  you  can  still  trace  in  the  worn  parts  of 
the  rock  the  track  of  ancient  wheels.  Coast 
along  that  shore,  bordered  by  a  sea  hardly 
more  desolate — place  on  the  summit  of  a  rock 
a  ruined  tower,  an  abandoned  convent — figure 
a  minaret  rising  up  in  the  midst  of  the  solitude 
as  a  badge  of  slaveiy — a  solitary  flock  feeding 
on  a  cape,  surmounted  by  ruined  columns — 
the  turban  of  a  Turk  scaring  the  few  goats 
which  browze  on  the  hills,  and  you  will  obtain 
a  just  idea  of  modern  Greece. 

"  On  the  eve  of  leaving  Greece,  at  the  Cape 
of  Sunium,  I  did  not  abandon  myself  alone  to 
the  romantic  ideas  which  the  beauty  of  the 
scene  Avas  fitted  to  inspire.  I  retraced  in  my 
mind  the  history  of  that  country ;  I  strove  to 
discover  in  the  ancient  prosperity  of  Athens 
and  Sparta  the  cause  of  their  present  misfor- 
tunes, and  in  their  present  situation  the  germ 
of  future  glory.  The  breaking  of  the  sea, 
which  insensibly  increased  against  the  rocks 
at  the  foot  of  the  Cape,  at  length  reminded  me 
that  the  wind  had  risen,  and  that  it  was  time 
to  resume  my  voyage.  We  descended  to  the 
vessel,  and  found  the  sailors  already  prepared 
for  our  departure.  We  pushed  out  to  sea, 
and  the  breeze,  Avhich  blew  fresh  from  the  land, 
bore  us  rapidly  towards  Zea.  As  we  receded 
from  the  shore,  the  columns  of  Sunium  rose 
more  beautiful  above  the  waves :  their  pure 
white  appeared  well  defined  in  the  dark  azure 
of  the  distant  sky.  We  were  already  far  from 
the  Cape  ;  bvU  we  still  heard  the  murmur  of 
the  waves,  which  broke  on  the  cliffs  at  its  foot, 
the  whistle  of  the  winds  through  its  solitary 
pillars,  and  the  cry  of  the  sea-birds  which  wheel 
round  the  stormy  promontory  :  they  were  the 
last  sounds  which  I  heard  on  the  shores  of 
Greece."— 1. 196. 

"  The  Greeks  did  not  excel  less  in  the  choice 
of  the  site  of  their  edifices  than  in  the  forms 
and  proportions.  The  greater  part  of  the  pro- 
montories of  Peloponnesus,  Attica,  and  Ionia, 
and  the  Islands  of  the  Archipelago,  are  marked 
by  temples,  trophies,  or  tombs.  These  monu- 
ments, surrounded  as  they  generally  are  with 
woods  and  rocks,  beheld  in  all  the  changes  of 
light  and  shadow,  sometimes  in  the  midst  of 
clouds  and  lightning,  sometimes  by  the  light 
of  the  moon,  sometimes  gilded  by  the  rising 
sun,  sometimes  flaming  in  his  setting  beams, 
throw  an  indescribable  charm  over  the  shores 
of  Greece.  The  earth,  thus  decorated,  re- 
sembles the  old  Cybele,  who,  crowned  and 
seated  on  the  shore,  commanded  her  son 
Neptune  to  spread  the  waves  berjeath  her 
feet. 

"  Christianit}',  to  which  we  owe  the  sole 
architecture  in  unison  with  our  manners,  has 
also  taught  how  to  place  our  true  monuments : 
our  chapels,  our  abbeys,  our  monasteries,  are 
dispersed  on  the  summits  of  hills — not  .that,  the 


CHATEAUBRIAND. 


3» 


choice  of  the  site  was  always  the  work  of  the 
architect,  but  that  an  art  which  is  in  unison 
with  the  feelin;;s  of  the  people,  seldom  errs  far 
!  in  what  is  really  beautiful.  Observe,  on  the 
other  hand,  how  wretchedly  almost  all  our 
edifices  copied  from  the  antique  are  placed. 
Not  one  of  the  heights  around  Paris  is  orna- 
mented with  any  of  the  splendid  edifices  with 
which  the  city  is  filled.  The  modern  Greek 
edifices  resemble  the  corrupted  language  which 
they  speak  at  Sparta  and  Athens ;  it  is  in  vain 
to  maintain  that  it  is  the  language  of  Homer 
and  Plato;  a  mixture  of  uncouth  words,  and 
of  foreign  constructions,  betrays  at  every  in- 
stant the  invasion  of  the  barbarians. 

"To  the  loveliest  sunset  in  nature,  suc- 
ceeded a  serene  night.  The  firmament,  re- 
flected in  the  waves,  seemed  to  sleep  in  the 
midst  of  the  sea.  The  evening  star,  my  faith- 
ful companion  in  my  journe}'',  was  ready  to 
sink  beneath  the  horizon;  its  place  could  only 
be  distinguished  by  the  rays  of  light  which  it 
occasionally  shed  upon  the  water,  like  a  dying 
taper  in  the  distance.  At  intervals,  the  per- 
fumed breeze  from  the  islands  which  we  pass- 
ed entranced  the  senses,  and  agitated  on  the 
surface  of  the  ocean  the  glassy  image  of  the 
heavens."— I.  182,  183. 

The  appearance  of  morning  in  the  sea  of 
Marmora  is  described  in  not  less  glowing 
colours. 

"At  four  in  the  morning  we  n'eighed  an- 
chor, and  as  the  wind  was  fair,  we  found  our- 
selves in  less  than  an  hour  at  the  extremity  of 
the  waters  of  the  river.  The  scene  was  worthy 
of  being  described.  On  the  right,  Aurora  rose 
above  the  headlands  of  Asia;  on  the  left,  was 
extended  the  sea  of  Marmora;  the  heavens  in 
the  east  were  of  a  fiery  red,  which  grew  paler 
in  proportion  as  the  morning  advanced;  the 
morning  star  still  shone  in  that  empurpled 
light;  and  above  it  you  could  barely  descry 
the  pale  circle  of  the  moon.  The  picture 
changed  while  I  still  contemplated  it;  soon  a 
blended  glory  of  rays  of  rose  and  gold,  diverg- 
ing from  a  common  centre,  mounted  to  the 
zenith;  these  columns  were  efiaced,  revived, 
and  effaced  anew,  until  the  .sun  rose  above  the 
horizon,  and  confounded  all  the  lesser  shades 
in  one  universal  blaze  of  light." — I.  230. 

His  journey  into  the  Holy  Land  awakened 
a  new  and  not  less  interesting  train  of  ideas, 
throughout  the  whole  of  which  we  recognise 
(he  peculiar  featuresofM.de  Chateaubriand's 
mind :  a  strong  and  poetical  sense  of  the 
beauties  of  nature,  a  memory  fraught  with 
historical  recollections;  a  deep  sense  of  reli- 
gion, illustrated,  however,  rather  as  it  affects 
the  imagination  and  the  passions,  than  the 
judgment.  It  is  a  mere  chimera  to  sujipose 
that  such  aids  are  to  be  rejected  by  the  friends 
of  Christianity,  or  that  truth  may  with  safety 
discard  (he  aid  of  fancy,  either  in  subduing 
the  passions  or  afl'ccting  the  heart.  On  the 
contrary,  every  day's  experience  must  con- 
vince us,  that  for  one  who  can  understand  an 
argument,  hundreds  can  enjoy  a  romance; 
and  that  truth,  to  affect  multitudes,  must  con- 
descend to  wear  the  garb  of  fancy.  It  is  no 
doubt  of  vast  importance  that  works  should 
exist  in  which  the  truths  of  religion  are  un- 1 


folded  with  lucid  precision,  and  its  principles 
defined  with  the  force  of  reason:  but  it  is  at 
least  of  equal  moment,  that  others  should  be 
found  in  which  the  graces  of  eloquence  and 
the  fervour  of  enthusiasm  form  an  attraction  to 
those  who  are  insensible  to  graver  considera'' 
tions  ;  where  the  reader  is  tempted  to  follow  a 
path  which  he  finds  only  strewed  with  flowers, 
and  he  unconsciously  inhales  the  breath  of 
eternal  life. 

Cosi  all  Ejtro  fanciul  porciamo  aspcrsi 
l)i  soave  licor  eli  orsi  dtO  vaso,     \  •     ,^ 

Siirclii  ainari  iiiKaniiato  iiitanto  ei\()6ve,  *J 

E  (lal  iiigaiino  sua  vita  riceve.        V' 

^  - 
"  On  Hearing  the  coast  of  Judea,  the  first 
visitors  we  received  were  three  sv/allows. 
They  were  perhaps  on  their  way  from  France, 
and  pursuing  their  course  to  Syria.  I  was 
strongly  templed  to  ask  them  what  news  they 
brouglit  from  that  paternal  roof  Avhich  I  had  so 
long  quitted.  I  recollect  that  in  years  of  in- 
fancy, I  spent  entire  hours  in  watching  with 
an  indescribable  pleasure  the  course  of  swal- 
lows in  autumn,  when  assembling  in  crowds 
previous  to  their  annual  migration :  a  secret 
instinct  told  me  that  I  too  should  be  a  travel- 
ler. They  assembled  in  the  end  of  autumn 
around  a  great  fishpond ;  there,  amidst  a  thou- 
sand evolutions  and  flights  in  air,  they  seemed 
to  try  their  wings,  and  prepare  for  their  long 
pilgrimage.  Whence  is  it  that  of  all  the  re- 
collections in  existence,  we  prefer  those  which 
are  connected  with  our  cradle  1  The  illusions 
of  self-love,  the  pleasures  of  youth,  do  not 
recur  with  the  same  charm  to  the  memory ; 
we  find  in  them,  on  the  contrary,  frequent  bit- 
terness and  pain;  but  the  slightest  circum 
stances  revive  in  the  heart  the  recollections 
of  infancy,  and  always  with  a  fresh  charm. 
On  the  shores  of  the  lakes  in  America,  in  an 
unknown  desert,  which  was  sublime  only  from 
the  effect  of  solitude,  a  swallow  has  frequently 
recalled  to  my  recollection  the  first  years  of 
my  life ;  as  here  on  the  coast  of  Syria  they 
recalled  them  in  sight  of  an  ancient  land  re- 
sounding with  the  traditions  of  history  and  the 
voice  of  ages. 

"The  air  was  so  fresh  and  so  balmy  that 
all  the  passengers  remained  on  deck  during 
the  night.  At  six  in  the  morning  I  was  awa- 
kened by  a  confused  hum  ;  I  opened  my  eyes, 
and  saw  ail  the  ]iilgrims  crowding  towards 
the  prow  of  the  vessel.  I  asked  what  it  was? 
they  all  rejilied,  '  Signor,  il  Carmclo.'  I  in- 
stantly rose  from  the  plank  on  which  I  was 
stretched,  and  eagerly  looked  out  for  the  sacred 
mountain.  Every  one  strove  to  show  it  to  me, 
but  I  could  see  notiiing  by  reason  of  the  daz- 
zling of  the  sun,  which  now  rose  above  the 
horizon.  The  moment  had  something  in  it 
that  was  august  and  impressive;  all  the  pil- 
grims, with  their  chaplcts  in  their  hands, 
remained  in  silence,  watching  fcu"  the  appear- 
ance of  the  Holy  Land;  the  captain  prayed 
aloud,  and  not  a  sound  was  to  be  heard  but 
that  prayer  and  the  rush  of  the  vessel,  as  it 
ploughed  with  a  fair  wind  through  (he  azure 
sea.  From  time  lo  time  the  cry  arose,  from 
those  in  elevated  parts  of  the  vessel,  that  they 
saw  Mount  Carmel,  and  at  length  I  myself 
perceived  it  like  a  roond  globe  under  the  rayi 


M 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


of  the  sun.     I  then  fell  on  my  knees,  after  the 
manntT  of  thf  L;itiii  piljjrims.     My  first  im- 

rression  was  ni>l  the  kind  of  agitation 'whicii 
experienced  on  approaching  the  coast  of 
Greece,  hut  the  sight  of  the  cradle  of  the  Israel- 
ites, and  of  the  country  of  Christ,  filled  me 
uiili  awe  and  veneration.  I  was  about  to 
ill -i-cnd  on  liic  land  of  miracles — on  the  birth- 
place of  the  sublimest  poetry  that  has  ever 
appeared  on  earth^m  tlie  spot  where,  speak- 
ing only  as  it  has  aflocted  human  history,  the 
most  wonderful  event  has  occurred  which 
ever  changed  the  destinies  of  the  species.  I 
was  about  to  visit  the  scenes  wliich  iiad  been 
seen  before  me  by  Godfrey  of  Bouillon,  Ray- 
mond of  Toulouse,  Tancred  the  Brave,  Richard 
CcTur  dc  Lion,  and  Saint  liouis.  whose  virtues 
even  the  infidels  respected.  How  could  an 
obscure  pii-xrim  like  myself  dare  to  tread  a 
soil  ennobled  by  such  recollections!" — L  263 

Nothing  is  more  striking  in  the  whole  work 
than  the  description  of  the  Dead  Sea,  and  the 
Valley  o(  Jordan.  He  has  contrived  to  bring 
the  features  of  that  extraordinary  scene  more 
completely  before  us  than  any  of  the  numerous 
English  travellers  who  have  preceded  or  fol- 
lowed him  on  the  same  route. 

"We  quitted  the  convent  at  three  in  the 
afternoon,  ascended  the  torrent  of  Cedron,  and 
at  length,  crossing  the  ravine,  rejoined  our 
route  to  the  east.  An  opening  in  the  mountain 
gave  us  a  passing  view  of  Jerusalem.  I 
hardly  recognised  the  city;  it  seemed  a  mass 
of  broken  rocks ;  the  sudden  appearance  of 
that  city  of  desolation  in  the  midst  of  the  wil- 
derness had  something  in  it  almost  terrifying. 
She  was,  in  truth,  the  Ijueen  of  the  Desert. 

"As  we  advanced,  the  aspect  of  the  moun- 
tains continued  constantly  the  same,  that  is,  a 
powdery  white — without  shade,  a  tree,  or  even 
moss.  At  half  past  four,  we  descended  from 
the  lofty  chain  we  had  hitherto  traversed,  and 
wound  along  another  of  inferior  elevation.  At 
length  we  arrived  at  the  last  of  the  chain  of 
heights,  which  close  in  on  the  west  the  Valley 
of  Jordan  and  the  Dead  Sea.  The  sun  was 
nearly  setting ;  we  dismounted  from  our 
houes,  and  I  lay  down  to  contemplate  at  lei- 
sure the  lake,  the  valley,  and  the  river. 

"  When  you  speak  in  general  of  a  valley, 
you  concei-ve  it  either  cultivated  or  iinculii- 
vatcd ;  if  the  former,  it  is  filled  with  villages, 
corn-fields,  vinej-ards,  and  flocks;  if  the  latter, 
it  presents  grass  or  forests ;  if  it  is  watered  by 
a  river,  that  river  has  windings,  and  the  sinu- 
osities or  projecting  points  afl^rd  agreeable 
and  varied  landsca])es.  But  here  there  is  no- 
thing of  the  kind.  Conceive  two  long  chains 
of  mountains  running  parallel  from  north  to 
south,  without  projections,  without  recesses, 
without  vegetation.  The  ridge  on  the  east, 
called  the  Mountains  of  Arabia,  is  the  most 
elevated;  viewed  at  the  distance  of  eight  or 
ten  leagues,  it  resembles  a  vast  wall,  cxtroinely 
similar  to  the  Jura,  as  seen  from  the  Lake  of 
Geneva,  from  its  form  and  azure  tint.  You 
can  perceive  neither  summits  nor  the  smallest 
peak-;;  only  here  and  there  slight  inequalities, 
as  if  the  hand  of  the  )>ainlr'r  who  traced  the  long 
lilts  on  the  sky  had  occasionallv  trembled. 


"The  chain  on  the  eastern  side  forms  par* 
of  the  mountains  of  Judea — less  elevated  and 
more  uneven  than  the  ridge  on  the  west:  it 
dificrs  also  in  its  character ;  it  exhibits  great 
masses  of  rock  and  sand,  Avhich  occasionally 
present  all  the  varieties  of  ruined  fortificaticns, 
armed  men,  and  floating  banners.  On  the 
side  of  Arabia,  on  the  other  hand,  black  rocks, 
with  perpendicular  flanks,  spread  from  afar 
their  shadows  over  the  w,aters  of  the  Dead 
Sea.  The  smallest  bird  could  not  find  in  those 
crevices  of  rock  a  morsel  of  food ;  every  thing 
announces  a  country  which  has  fallen  under 
the  divine  wrath;  every  thing  inspires  the 
horror  at  the  incest  from  whence  sprung  Am- 
nion and  Moab. 

"  The  valley  which  lies  between  these  moun- 
tains resembles  the  bottom  of  a  sea,  from 
which  the  waves  have  long  ago  withdrawiv: 
banks  of  gravel,  a  dried  bottom — rocks  covered 
with  salt,  deserts  of  moving  sand — here  and 
there  stunted  arbutus  shrubs  grow  with  diffi- 
culty on  that  arid  soil;  their  leaves  are  co- 
vered with  the  salt  which  had  nourished  their 
roots,  M-hile  their  bark  has  the  scent  and  taste 
of  smoke.  Instead  of  villages,  nothing  but  the 
ruins  of  towers  are  to  be  seen.  Through  the 
midst  of  the  valley  flows  a  discoloured  stream, 
which  seems  to  drag  its  lazy  course  unwill- 
ingly towards  the  lake.  Its  course  is  not  to 
be  discerned  by  the  water,  but  by  the  Avillows 
and  shrubs  which  skirt  its  banks — the  Arab 
conceals  himself  in  these  thickets  to  waylay 
and  rob  the  pilgrim. 

"Such  are  the  places  rendered  famous  by 
the  maledictions  of  Heaven:  that  river  is  the 
Jordan :  that  lake  is  the  Dead  Sea.  It  appears 
with  a  serene  surface;  but  the  guilty  cities 
which  are  embosomed  in  its  waves  have  poi- 
soned its  waters.  Its  solitaiy  abj-sses  can 
sustain  the  life  of  no  living  thing;  no  vessel 
ever  ploughed  its  bosom; — its  slrores  are  with- 
out trees,  without  birds,  without  A'erdure ;  its 
water,  frightfully  salt,  is  so  heavy  that  the 
highest  wind  can  hardly  raise  it. 

"  In  travelling  in  Judea,  an  extreme  feelii>g 
of  ennui  frequently  seizes  the  mind,  from  the 
sterile  and  monotonous  aspect  of  the  objects 
which  are  presented  to  the  eye :  but  when 
journeying  on  through  these  pathless  deserts, 
the  expanse  seems  to  spread  out  to  infinity 
before  you,  the  ennui  disappears,  and  a  secret 
terror  is  experienced,  Avliich,  far  from  lower- 
ing the  soul,  elevates  and  inflames  the 
genius.  These  extraordinary  scenes  reveal 
the  land  desolated  by  miracles  ;-r— that  burning 
sun,  the  impetuous  eagle,  the  barren  fig-tree; 
all  the  poetry,  all  the  pictures  of  Scripture  are 
there.  Every  name  recalls  a  mystery;  every 
grotto  speaks  of  the  life  to  come ;  every  peak 
re-echoes  the  voice  of  a  prophet.  God  him- 
self has  spoken  on  these  shores:  these  dried- 
up  torrents,  these  cleft  rocks,  these  tombs  rent 
asunder,  attest  his  resistless  hand  :  the  desert 
appears  mute  wfth  terror;  and  you  feel  that  it 
has  never  ventured  to  break  silence  since  it 
heard  the  voice  of  the  Eternal."— L  317. 

"  I  employed  two  complete  hours  in  wan- 
dering on  the  shores  of  the  Dead  Sea,  notwith 
standing  the  remonstrances  of  the  Bedouins, 
who  pressed  me  to  quit  that  dangerous  regioc. 


CHATEAUBRIAND. 


25 


I  was  desirous  of  seeing  the  Jordan,  at  the 
place  where  it  discharges  itself  into  the  lake; 
but  the  Arabs  refused  to  lead  me  thither,  be- 
cause the  river,  at  a  league  from  its  mouth, 
makes  a  detour  to  the  left,  and  approaches  the 
mountains  of  Arabia.  It  was  necessary,  there- 
fore, to  direct  our  steps  towards  the  curve 
which  was  nearest  us.  We  struck  our  tents, 
and  travelled  for  an  hour  and  a  half  with  ex- 
cessive ditiiculty,  through  a  fine  and  silvery 
sand.  We  were  moving  towards  a  little  wood 
of  willows  and  tamarinds ;  which,  to  my  great 
surprise,  I  perceived  growing  in  the  midst  of 
the  desert.  All  of  a  sudden  the  Bethlemites 
stopped,  and  pointed  to  something  at  the  bottom 
of  a  ravine,  Avhich  had  not  yet  attracted  my  at- 
tention. Without  being  able  to  say  what  it 
was,  I  perceived  a  sort  of  sand  rolling  on 
through  the  fixed  banks  which  surrounded  it. 
I  approached  it,  and  saw  a  yellow  stream 
which  could  hardly  be  distinguished  from  the 
sand  of  its  two  banks.  It  was  deeply  furrowed 
through  the  rocks,  and  with  difficulty  rolled 
on,  a  stream  surcharged  with  sand :  it  was  the 
Jordan. 

"  I  had  seen  the  great  rivers  of  America, 
with  the  pleasure  which  is  inspired  by  the 
magnificent  works  of  nature.  I  had  hailed 
the  Tiber  with  ardour,  and  sought  with  the 
same  interest  the  Eurotas  and  the  Cephisus ; 
but  on  none  of  these  occasions  did  I  expe- 
rience the  intense  emotion  which  I  felt  on  ap- 
proaching the  Jordan.  Not  only  did  that  river 
recall  the  earliest  antiquity,  and  a  name  ren- 
dered immortal  in  the  finest  poetry,  but  its 
banks  were  the  theatre  of  the  miracles  of  our 
religion.  Judea  is  the  only  country  which 
recalls  at  once  the  earliest  recollections  of 
man,  and  our  first  impressions  of  heaven ; 
and  thence  arises  a  mixture  of  feeling  in  the 
mind,  which  no  other  part  of  the  world  can 
produce."— I.  327,  328. 

The  peculiar  turn  of  his  mind  renders  our 
author,  in  an  especial  manner,  partial  to  the 
description  of  sad  and  solitary  scenes.  The 
following  description  of  the  Valley  of  Jehosha- 
phat  is  in  his  best  style. 

"The  Valley  of  Jehoshaphat  has  in  all  ages 
served  as  the  burying-place  to  Jerusalem :  you 
meet  there,  side  by  side,  monuments  of  the 
most  distant  times  and  of  the  present  century. 
The  Jews  still  come  there  to  die,  from  all  the 
corners  of  the  earth.  A  stranger  sells  to  them, 
for  almost  its  Aveight  in  gold,  the  land  which 
contains  the  bones  of  their  fathers.  Solomon 
planted  that  valley:  the  shadow  of  the  Temple 
by  which  it  was  overhung — the  torrent,  called 
after  grief,  which  traversed  it — the  Psalms 
%vhich  David  there  composed — the  Lamenta- 
tions of  Jeremiah,  which  its  rocks  re-echoed, 
render  it  the  fitting  abode  of  the  tomb.  Jesus 
Christ  commenced  his  Passion  in  the  same 
place :  that  innocent  David  there  shed,  for  the 
expiation  of  our  sins,  those  tears  which  the 
guilty  David  let  fall  for  his  own  transgressions. 
Few  names  awaken  in  our  minds  recollections 
50  solemn  as  the  Valley  of  Jehoshaphat.  It  is 
«o  full  of  mysteries,  that,  according  to  the 
Prophet  Joel,  all  mankind  will  be  assembled 
there  before  the  Eternal  Judge. 

"The   aspect  of  this   celebrated  valley  is 


desolate;  the  western  side  is  bounded  by  a 
ridge  of  lofty  rocks  which  support  the  walls 
of  Jerusalem,  above  which  the  towers  of  the 
city  appear.  The  eastern  is  formed  by  the 
Mount  of  Olives,  and  another  eminence  called 
the  Mount  of  Scandal,  from  the  idolatry  of 
Solomon.  These  two  mountains,  which  adjoin 
each  other,  are  almost  bare,  and  of  a  red  and 
sombre  hue  ;  on  their  desert  side  you  see  here 
and  there  some  black  and  withered  vineyards, 
some  wild  olives,  some  ploughed  land,  covered 
with  hyssop,  and  a  few  ruined  chapels.  At 
the  bottom  of  the  valley,  you  perceive  a  tor 
rent,  traversed  by  a  single  arch,  which  appears 
of  great  antiquity.  The  stones  of  the  Jewish 
cemetery  appear  like  a  mass  of  ruins  at  the 
foot  of  the  mountain  of  Scandal,  under  the 
village  of  Siloam.  You  can  hardly  distin- 
guish the  buildings  of  the  village  from  the 
ruins  with  which  they  are  surrounded.  Three 
ancient  monuments  are  particularly  conspicu- 
ous :  those  of  Zachariah,  Josaphat,  and  Ab- 
salom. The  sadness  of  Jerusalem,  from  which 
no  smoke  ascends,  and  in  which  no  sound  is 
to  be  heard ;  the  solitude  of  the  surrounding 
mountains,  where  not  a  living  creature  is  to 
be  seen ;  the  disorder  of  those  tombs,  ruined, 
ransacked,  and  half-exposed  to  view,  would 
almost  induce  one  to  believe  that  the  last 
trump  had  been  heard,  and  that  the  dead  were 
about  to  rise  in  the  Valley  of  Jehoshaphat." — 
II.  .34,  35. 

Chateaubriand,  after  visiting  with  the  devo- 
tion of  a  pilgrim  the  Holy  Sepulchre,  and  all 
the  scenes  of  our  Saviour's  sufi'erings,  spent  a 
day  in  examining  the  scenes  of  the  Crusaders' 
triumphs,  and  comparing  the  descriptions  in 
Tasso's  Jerusalem  Delivered  with  the  places 
where  the  events  which  they  recorded  actually 
occurred.  He  found  them  in  general  so  ex- 
tremely exact,  that  it  was  difficult  to  avoid  the 
conviction  that  the  poet  had  been  on  the  spot. 
He  even  fancied  he  discovered  the  scene  of 
the  Flight  of  Erminia,  and  the  inimitable  com- 
bat and  death  of  Clorinda. 

From  the  Holy  Land,  he  sailed  to  Egypt; 
and  we  have  the  following  graphic  picture  of 
the  approach  to  that  cradle  of  art  and  civili- 
zation. 

"  On  the  20th  October,  at  five  in  the  morn- 
ing, I  perceived  on  the  green  and  ruffled  sur- 
face of  the  water  a  line  of  foam,  and  beyond  it 
a  pale  and  still  ocean.  The  captain  clapped 
me  on  the  shoulder,  and  said  in  French,  'Nilo;' 
and  soon  we  entered  and  glided  through  those 
celebrated  waters.  A  few  palm-trees  and  a 
minaret  announce  the  situation  of  Rosetta,  but 
the  town  itself  is  invisible.  These  shores  re- 
semble those  of  the  coast  of  Florida;  they  are 
totally  difl^ereat  from  those  of  Italy  or  Greece, 
every  thing  recalls  the  tropical  regions. 

"At  ten  o'clock  Ave  at  length  discovered, 
beneath  the  palm-trees,  a  line  of  sand  Avhich 
extended  Avestward  to  the  promontory  of 
Aboukir,  before  AA'hich  Ave  Avere  obliged  ti» 
pass  before  arriving  opposite  to  Alexandria. 
At  five  in  the  evening,  the  shore  suddenly 
changed  its  aspect.  The  palm-trees  seemed 
planted  in  lines  along  the  shore,  like  the  elms 
along  the  roads  in  France.  Nature  appears  to 
take  a  pleasure  in  thus  recalling  the  ideas  of 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


jj^i!;, ,■;.,.,  I'n  a  country  where  that  civiliza- 
6on  •.  ami  barbarity  has  now  resumed 

I  eleven  o'clock  when  wc  cast 

eiiy,  and  as  it  was  some 
I  .  .mid'  gel  ashore.  I  h.-hl  full 

y     ..  I  Milt  the  conleinplatum  which 

Uie  «ri-i)e  awakened. 

"I  Nau-  on  my  riRht  several  vessels, and  the 
e«atl<\  which  stands  on  the  site  of  the  Tower 
.     I  -.     Oil  my  left,  the  horizon  seemed 

^  ,  saiid-hilis,  ruins,  and  ohelisks;  im- 

I  .  in  front,  extended  a  long  wall,  with 

;; uses  appearing  above  it;  not  a  light 

w»s  to  \ye  seen  on  shore,  and  not  a  sound  came 

frm  the  city.     This,  nevertheless,  was  Alex- 

.T.Jii,-*.   ih««   rival    of  .Memphis   and   Thebes, 

;iied  three  millions  of  inhabit- 

ihe  sanctuary  of  the  Muses, 

and  the  abode  of  science  amidst  a  benighted 

wor! '      "   ■  •  were  heard  the  orgies  of  Antony 

and  '  I.  and  here  was  Cicsar  received 

V  ill  regal  splendour  by  the  Queen 

But  in  vain  I  listened.     A  fatal 

I  nad  plunged  the  people  into  a  hope- 

1.    .;i :    that   talisman    is   the   despotism 

which  extinguishes  every  joy,  which  stifles 
fven  the  cry  of  suffering.  And  what  sound 
cmlcl  .Tfise  in  a  city  of  which  at  least  a  third 
1  ' ;  another  third  of  which  is  sur- 

I  y  by  the  tombs  of  its  former  in- 

liaSi'anls;  and  of  which  the  third,  which  still 
mrvives  between  those  dead  extremities,  is  a 
spocics  of  breathing  trunk,  destitute  of  the 
i  -hake  off  its  chains  in  the  middle 

I  and  the  tomb  T"— II.  163. 

It  IS  to  be  regretted  that  Chateaubriand  did 
Dot  visit  Upper  Egypt.  His  ardent  and  learned 
mind  would  have  found  ample  room  for  elo- 
quent declamation,  amidst  the  gigantic  ruins 
of  Luxor,  and  the  iSphynx  avenues  of  Thebes. 
T  ■  "U   of  the   Kile,  however,  pre- 

^'  Horn   seeing  even  the  Pyramids 

nearer  than  Grand  Cairo;  and  when  on  the 
yrrnf.  of  that  interesting  region,  he  was  com- 

t<'lli-d  unwillingly  to  retrace  his  steps  to  the 
"nMirh  shores.  After  a  tempestuous  voyage, 
al(PM-  th.'  cuast  of  Lybia,  he  cast  anchor  off 
111.'  imiis  of  Carthage;  and  thus  describes 
h:N  lieliugs  oa  surveying  those  venerable 
remains: 

"  Frcim  the  summit  of  Byrsa,  the  eye  em- 
bra<  <■  111.-  ruins  of  Carthage,  which  are  more 
r  than    are    generally   imagined; 

'  those  of  Sparta,  having  nothing 

u.-ii  preserved,  but  embracing  a  considerable 
ftpace.  I  saw  them  in  the  middle  of  February: 
the  ohvcii.  the  fiu'-trees,  were  already  bursting 
"  isli'-s  of  angelica  and  acan- 

'■'  of  verdure,  amidst  the  re- 

iiniiis  .1  iiiarbie  of  every  colour.  In  the  dis- 
taii.--.  I  cast  my  eyes  over  the  Isthmus,  the 
doll  Me  sea,  the  distant  isles,  a  cerulean  sea,  a 
*'■'    '"'"  ;'  "\  azure  mountains.     I  saw 

'  Is,  and  aquediicis;  moorish 

^  "inetan  hermit.iges  ;  gliiier- 

' 'he  white  buildings  of  Tunis. 
Niiir..iiiided  with  (he  most  touching  recollec- 
licms.  I  ih.iught  alternately  of  Dido,  Soplx.nis- 
ba.  and  the  noble  wife  of  Asilrubal ;  I  onlein- 
plaip.I  !!,.•  v.'vt  plains  where  the  legions  of 
Anmbal.  .Sci|>ii).  and  Cwsar  were  buried:  My 


eyes  sought  for  the  sito  of  Utica.  Alas  !  The 
remains  of  the  palace  of  Tiberius  still  remain 
in  the  island  of  Capri,  and  you  search  in  vain 
at  Utica  for  the  house  of  Cato.  Finally,  the 
terrible  Vandals,  the  rapid  Moors,  passed  be- 
fore my  recollection,  Avhich  terminated  at  last 
on  .Saiiil  Louis,  expiring  on  that  inhospitable 
shore.  May  the  story  of  the  death  of  that 
prince  terminate  this  itinerary;  fortunate  to 
re-enter,  as  it  were,  into  my  country  by  the 
ancient  monument  of  his  virtues,  and  to  cIosb 
at  the  sepulchre  of  that  Ising  of  holy  memory 
my  long  pilgrimage  to  the  tombs  of  illustrious 
men."— II.  257,  258. 

"As  long  as  his  strength  permitted,  the 
dying  monarch  gave  instructions  to  his  son 
Philip;  and  when  his  voice  failed  liim,  he 
wrt)te  with  a  faltering  hand  these  precepts, 
which  no  Frenchman,  worthy  of  the  name, 
will  ever  be  able  to  read  without  emotion. 
'  My  son,  the  first  thing  which  I  enjoin  you  is 
to  love  God  with  all  your  heart;  fur  without 
that  no  man  can  be  saved.  Beware  of  vio- 
lating his  laws;  rather  endure  the  worst  tor- 
ments, than  sin  against  his  commandments. 
Should  he  send  you  adversity,  receive  it  with 
humility,  and  bless  the  hand  which  chastens 
you  ;  and  believe  that  you  have  well  deserved 
it,  and  that  it  will  turn  to  your  weal.  Should 
he  try  you  with  prosperity,  thank  him  with 
humility  of  heart,  and  be  not  elated  by  his 
goodness.  Do  justice  to  every  one,  as  well 
the  poor  as  the  rich.  Be  liberal,  free,  and 
courteous  to  your  servants,  and  cause  them  to 
love  as  well  as  fear  you.  Should  any  contro- 
versy or  tumult  arise,  sift  it  to  the  bottom, 
whether  the  result  be  favourable  or  unfavour- 
able to  your  interests.  Take  care,  in  an  espe- 
cial manner,  that  your  subjects  live  in  peace 
and  tranquillity  under  your  reign.  Respect 
and  preserve  their  privileges,  such  as  they 
have  received  them  from  their  ancestors,  and 
preserve  them  with  care  and  love. — And  now, 
I  give  you  every  blessing  which  a  father  can 
bestow  on  his  child;  praying  the  Father,  Son, 
and  Holy  Spirit,  that  they  may  defend  you  from 
all  adversities ;  and  that  we  may  again,  after 
this  mortal  life  is  ended,  be  united  before  God, 
and  adore  his  Majesty  for  ever!'  " — IL  264, 

"The  style  of  Chateaubriand,"  says  Napo- 
leon, "is  not  that  of  Racine,  it  is  that  of  a 
prophet;  he  has  received  from  nature  the 
sacred  flame ;  it  breathes  in  all  his  works."* 
It  is  of  no  common  man — being  a  political  oppo- 
nent— that  Napoleon  would  have  said  these 
words.  Chateaubriand  had  done  nothing  to 
gain  favour  wiili  the  French  Emperor;  on  the 
contrary,  he  irritated  him  by  throwing  up  his 
employment  and  leaving  his  country  upon  the 
assassination  of  the  Duke  d'Enghien.  In  truth, 
nothing  is  more  remarkable  aniidst  the  selfish- 
ness of  political  apostasy  in  France,  than  the 
uniform  consistence  and  disinterestedness  of 
this  great  man's  opinions.  His  principles, 
indeed,  were  not  all  the  same  at  fifty  as  at 
lwenty-fi<'e ;  we  should  be  glad  to  know  Avhose 
arc.  excepting  those  who  are  so  obtuse  as  to 
derive  no  light  from  the  extension  of  know, 
ledge    and    the   acquisitions   of    experience! 

•  Memoirs  of  Napoleon,  iv.  342. 


JNAPOLEON. 


27 


Change  is  so  far  from  being  despicable,  that 
it  is  highly  honourable  in  itself,  and  when  it 
proceeds  from  the  natural  modification  of  the 
mind,  from  the  progress  of  years,  or  the  lessons 
of  more  extended  experience.  It  becomes 
contemptible  only  when  it  arises  on  the  sug- 
gestions of  interest,  or  the  desires  of  ambition. 
Now,  Chateaubriand's  changes  of  opinion  have 
all  been  in  opposition  to  his  interest;  and  he 
has  suffered  at  different  periods  of  his  life  from 
his  resistance  to  the  mandates  of  authority,  and 
his  rejection  of  the  calls  of  ambition.  In  early 
life,  he  was  exiled  from  France,  and  shared  in 
all  the  hardships  of  the  emigrants,  from  his 
attachment  to  Royalist  principles.  At  the 
earnest  request  of  Napoleon,  he  accepted  of- 
fice under  the  Imperial  Government,  but  he 
relinquished  it,  and  again  became  an  exile 
upon  the  murder  of  the  Duke  d'Enghien.  The 
influence  of  his  writings  was  so  powerful  in 
favour  of  the  Bourbons,  at  the  period  of  the 
Restoration,  that  Louis  XVIII.  truly  said,  they 
were  Avorth  more  than  an  army.  He  followed 
the  dethroned  Monarch  to  Ghent,  and  con- 
tributed much,  by  his  powerful  genius,  to  con- 
solidate the  feeble  elements  of  his  power,  after 
the  fall  of  Napoleon.  Called  to  the  helm  of 
affairs  in  1824,  he  laboured  to  accommodate 
the  temper  of  the  monarchy  to  the  increasing 
spirit  of  freedom  in  the  country,  and  fell  into 
disgrace  with  the  Court,  and  was  distrusted  b}^ 
the  Royal  Family,  because  he  strove  to  intro- 
dude  those  popular  modifications  into  the  ad- 
ministration of  affairs,  which  might  have  pre- 
vented the  revolution  of  July ;  and  finally,  he 
has  resisted  all  the  efforts  of  the  Citizen-King 
to  engage  his  great  talents  in  defence  of  the 
throne  of  the  Barricades.  True  to  his  princi- 
ples, he  has  exiled  himself  from  France,  to 
preserve  his  independence ;  and  consecrated 
in  a  foreign  land  his  illustrious  name,  to  the 
defence  of  the  child  of:-misfortune. 

Chateaubriand  is  not  only  an  eloquent  and 
beautiful  writer,  he  is  also  a  profound  scholar, 
and  an  enlightened  thinker.  His  knowledge 
of  history  and  classical  literature  is  equalled 
only  by  his  intimate  acquaintance  with  the 
early  annals  of  the  church,  and  the  fathers  of 
the  Catholic  faith ;  while  in  his  speeches  deli- 
vered in  the  Chamber  of  Peers  since  the 
restoration,  will  be  found  not  only  the  most 


eloquent  but  the  most  complete  and  satistac 
tory  dissertations  on  the  political  state  of 
France  during  that  period,  which  is  anywhere 
to  be  met  with.  It  is  a  singular  circumstance, 
that  an  author  of  such  great  and  varied  ac- 
quirements, who  is  universally  allowed  by  all 
parties  in  France  to  be  their  greatest  living 
writer,  should  be  hardly  known  except  by 
name  to  the  great  body  of  readers  in  this 
countr)^ 

His  greatest  work,  that  on  which  his  fam* 
will  rest  with  posterit}-,  is  the  "Genius  of 
Christianity,"  from  which  such  ample  quota- 
tions have  already  been  given.  The  next  is 
the  "  Martyrs,"  a  romance,  in  which  he  has 
introduced  an  exemplification  of  the  principles 
of  Christianity,  in  the  early  sufferings  of  the 
primitive  church,  and  enriched  the  narrative 
by  the  splendid  description  of  the  scenery  in 
Egypt,  Greece,  and  Palestine,  which  he  had 
visited  during  his  pilgrimage  to  Jerusalem,  and 
all  the  stores  of  learning  which  a  life  spent  in 
classical  and  ecclesiastical  lore  could  accumu- 
late. The  last  of  his  considerable  publications 
is  the  "  EtudesHistoriques,"  a  work  eminently 
characteristic  of  that  superiority  in  historical 
composition,  which  we  have  allowed  to  the 
French  modern  writers  over  their  contempo- 
raries in  this  country;  and  which,  we  fear, 
another  generation,  instructed  when  too  late 
b}"-  the  blood  and  the  tears  of  a  Revolution, 
will  be  alone  able  fully  to  appreciate.  Its  ob- 
ject is  to  trace  the  influence  of  Christianity 
from  its  first  spread  in  the  Roman  empire  to 
the  rise  of  civilization  in  the  Western  world; 
a  field  in  which  he  goes  over  the  ground  trod 
by  Gibbon,  and  demonstrates  the  unbounded 
benefits  derived  from  religion  in  all  the  institu- 
tions of  modern  times.  In  this  noble  under- 
taking he  has  been  aided,  with  a  still  more 
philosophical  mind,  though  inferior  fire  and 
eloquence,  by  Guizot;  a  writer,  who,  equally 
with  his  illustrous  rival,  is  as  yet  unknown, 
save  by  report,  in  this  country ;  but  from 
whose  joint  labours  is  to  be  dated  the  spring 
of  a  pure  and  philosophical  system  of  religious 
inquiry  in  France,  and  the  commencement  of 
that  rev'ival  of  manly  devotion,  in  which  the 
antidote,  and  the  only  antidote,  to  the  fanati-* 
cism  of  infidelity  is  to  be  found. 


napoleojnv 


_  The  age  of  Napoleon  is  one,  of  the  delinea- 
tion of  which  history  and  biography  will  never 
be  weary.  Such  is  the  variety  of  incidents 
which  it  exhibits — the  splendid  and  heart-stir- 
ring events  which  it  records — the  immortal 
characters  which  it  portrays — and  the  import- 
ant consequences  which  have  followed  from 
it,  that  the  interest  felt  in  its  delineation,  so 


*  Memoires  de  la  Duchesse  D' Abrantes,  2  vols.  Colburn. 
London.  The  translations  are  executed  by  ourselves,  as 
we  have  not  seen  the  English  version. 


far  from  diminishing,  seems  rather  to  increase 
with  the  lapse  of  time,  and  will  continue 
through  all  succeeding  ages,  like  the  eras  of 
Themistocles,  Csesar,  and  the  Crusades,  to 
form  the  noblest  and  most  favourite  subjects 
of  historical  description. 

Numerous  as  have  been  the  Memoirs  which 
have  issued  from  the  French  press  during  the 
last  fifteen  years,  in  relation  to  this  eventful 
era,  the  public  passion  for  information  on  it  is 
still  undiminished.  Every  new  set  of  memoirs 
which  is  ushered  into  the  world  with  an  histo 


S8 


ALISON'S  MISCELLAIS'EOUS  ESSAYS 


rical  name,  or  any  pretensions  to  authenticity, 
is  cacerly  read  by  all  classes  on  the  continent. 
EtiL'lisli  translations  generally  appear  in  due 
I, 111',  but  thoy  arc,  in  {general,  so  extremely  ill 
executed,  as  lo  pive  no  conception  whatever 
of  the  spirit  of  the  original ;  and  as  there  is 
not  one  reader  out  of  a  hundred  who  can 
read  French  with  such  facility  as  to  make  it  a 
matter  ol'  pleasure,  the  consequence  is,  that 
jIkwc  ilc-li?lurul  works  are  still  but  imperfectly 
known  to  the  British  piiblie.  Every  person 
iiHiniately  acquainted  with  their  composition, 
must  have  perceived  in  what  an  extremely 
unfavourable  aspect  they  appear  in  our  ordi- 
nar>-  translations  ;  and  iu  the  utter  ignorance 
Df  the  principles  of  revolution  which  pervades 
the  preat  bulk  of  the  best  informed  classes  in 
this  countrj',  compared  to  what  obtains  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Channel,  is  to  be  found  the 
best  evidence,  that  the  great  historical  works 
which  have  rccenti}'  appeared  on  the  events 
of  the  last  forty  years  in  France,  have  had  no 
share  whatever  in  the  formation  of  public 
opinion  in  this  country. 

The  Duchess  of  Abrantes  undertakes  the 
work  of  Memoirs  of  her  own  Times  with  sin- 
gular and  almost  peculiar  advantages.  Her 
mother,  Madame  Pennon,  a  Corsican  lady  of 
high  rank,  M-as  extremely  intimate  with  the 
family  of  Napoleon.  She  rocked  the  future 
emperor  on  her  knee  from  the  day  of  his  birth, 
and  the  intimacy  of  the  families  continued  till 
he  was  removed  to  the  command  of  the  army 
of  Italy,  in  April,  1796.  The  authoress  herself, 
though  then  a  child,  recounts  with  admirable 
esprit,  and  all  the  air  of  truth,  a  number  of 
early  anecdotes  of  Napoleon ;  and  after  his 
return  from  Egypt  she  was  married  to  Junot, 
then  (Jovernor  of  Paris,  and  subsequently  ad- 
mitted as  an  habitual  guest  in  the  court  circle 
of  the  First  Consul.  In  her  Memoirs,  we  have 
thus  a  picture  of  the  private  and  domestic  life 
of  Napoleon  from  his  cradle  to  his  grave;  we 
trace  him  through  all  the  gradations  of  the 
Ecole  .Militaire,  the  artillery  service,  the  cam- 
paigns of  Italy,  the  return  from  Egypt,  the 
Consulate,  and  the  Empire,  and  live  with  those 
who  have  filled  the  world  with  their  renown, 
as  we  would  do  with  our  most  intimate  ac- 
quaintances and  friends. 

I',  has  always  struck  us  as  a  singular  proof 
♦f  the  practical  sagacity  and  just  discrimina- 
xm  of  character  in  Sir  Walter  Scott,  that 
^ough  his  Life  of  Napoleon  was  published 
acfore  the  Memoirs  of  Bouricnne,  the  view 
vhich  he  gives  of  Napoleon's  character  is 
substanlinlly  the  same  as  that  drawn  by  his 
confidential  secretary,  his  school  companion, 
and  the  depositary  of  his  inmost  thoughts. 
This  is  very  remarkable.  The  French  are 
never  weary  of  declaiming  on  the  inaccuracies 
"f  the  Scottish  i)ioginpher,  and  declare  that  he 
wrote  history  in  romance,  and  romanre  in 
history;  but  they  have  never  been  able  to 
point  out  any  serious  or  important  error  in 
ni<  narrative.  The  true  reproach  aj^ainst  Sir 
Walter's  work  is  of  a  (lin'rrent  kind,  and  con- 
s:r.rs  in  this,  not  that  he  has  incorrectlv  staled 
acts,  but  unjustly  coloured  opinions  ;' that  he 
nas  not  done  justice  to  any  of  the  parlies 
whose  condicts  desolated  France  during  the 


revolution,  and  has  written  rather  in  the  spini 
of  an  English  observer,  than  one  participant 
in  the  feelings  of  the  actors  in  those  mighty 
events.  There  is  but  one  way  in  which  this 
defect  can  be  avoided  by  a  native  of  this 
country,  and  that  is,  by  devoting  himself  for  a 
long  course  of  years  to  the  study  of  the  me- 
moirs and  historians  of  the  Revolution,  and  by 
acquiring,  by  incessant  converse  with  the 
writings,  somewhat  of  the  spirit  which  ani- 
mates the  people  of  the  continent.  The  object 
to  be  attained  by  this,  is  not  to  imbibe  their 
prejudices,  or  become  infatuated  by  their 
errors,  but  to  know  and  appreciate  their  ideas, 
and  do  that  justice  to  passions  directed  against 
this  country,  which  we  willingly  award  to  those 
excited  in  its  favour. 

The  character  of  Napoleon  has  been  dra-«-n 
by  his  contemporaries  with  more  graphic 
power  than  any  other  conqueror  in  historj'^; 
and  yet  so  varied  and  singular  is  the  combina- 
tion of  qualities  Avhich  it  exhibits,  and  so  much 
at  variance  with  what  we  usually  observe  in 
human  nature  around  us,  that  there  is  no  man 
can  say  he  has  a  clear  perception  of  what  it 
actually  was : — Brave,  without  being  chival- 
rous ;  sometimes  humane,  seldom  generous ; 
insatiable  in  ambition  ;  inexhaustible  in  re- 
sources ;  without  a  thirst  for  blood,  but  totally 
indifferent  to  it  when  his  interests  were  con- 
cerned ;  without  any  fixed  ideas  on  religion, 
but  a  strong  perception  of  its  necessity  as  a 
part  of  the  mechanism  of  government;  a  great 
general  with  a  small  army,  a  mighty  conqueror 
with  a  large  one;  gifted  with  extraordinary 
powers  of  perception,  and  the  clearest  insight 
into  every  subject  connected  with  mankind ; 
without  extensive  information  derived  from 
study  ;  but  the  rarest  aptitude  for  making  him- 
self master  of  every  subject  from  actual  ob- 
servation ;  ardently  devoted  to  glorj',  and  yet 
incapable  of  the  self-sacrifice  which  consti- 
tutes its  highest  honours;  he  exhibited  a  mix- 
ture of  great  and  selfish  qualities,  such  as 
perhaps  never  were  before  combined  in  any 
single  individual.  His  greatest  defect  was  the 
constant  and  systematic  disregard  of  truth 
which  pervaded  all  his  thoughts.  He  was 
totally  without  the  (Jroi'vre,  or  honesty,  which 
forms  the  best  and  most  dignified  feature  in 
the  Gothic  or  German  character.  The  maxim, 
]\Iiig)ia  est  Veritas  ct  pravalcbit,  never  seems  to 
have  crossed  his  mind.  His  intellect  was  the 
perfection  of  that  of  the  Celt  or  Greek ;  with- 
out a  shadow  of  the  magnanimity  and  honesty 
which  has  ever  characterized  the  Roman  and 
Gothic  races  of  mankind.  Devoted  as  he  was 
to  the  captivating  idol  of  posthumous  fame ; 
deeming,  as  he  did,  that  to  live  in  the  recollec- 
tion and  admiration  of  future  ages  "  constituted 
the  true  immortality  of  the  soul,"  he  never 
seems  to  have  been  aware  that  truth  is  essen- 
tial to  the  purest  and  most  lasting  celebrity; 
and  that  the  veil  which  artifice  or  flattery 
draws  over  falsehood  during  the  prevalence 
of  power,  will  be  borne  away  with  a  merciless 
hand  on  its  termination. 

In  the  Memoirs  of  Napoleon  and  of  the 
Archduke  Charles,  the  opposite  character  of 
their  minds,  and  of  the  races  to  which  they 
belonged,  is  singularly  portrayed      These  of 


NAPOLEOX. 


29 


the  latter  are  written  with  a  probity,  an  integ- 
rity, and  an  impartiality  above  all  praise  ;  he 
censures  himself  for  his  faults  with  a  severity 
unknown  to  Caesar  or  Frederick,  and  touches 
with  a  light  hand  on  those  glorious  successes 
which  justly  gained  for  him  the  title  of  Saviour 
of  Germany.  Cautious,  judicious,  and  reason- 
able, his  arguments  convince  the  understand- 
ing, but  neither  kindle  the  imagination  nor 
inspire  the  fancy.  In  the  Memoirs  of  Napo- 
leon, on  the  other  hand,  dictated  to  Montholon 
and  Gourgaud,  there  are  to  be  seen  in  every 
page  symptoms  of  the  clearest  and  most  for- 
cible intellect;  a  cmip  d'ccil  over  every  subject 
of  matchless  vigour  and  reach;  an  ardent  and 
vehement  imagination  ;  passions  which  have 
ripened  under  a  southern  sun,  and  conceptions 
which  have  shared  in  the  luxuriant  growth  of 
tropical  climates.  Yet  amidst  all  these  varied 
excellencies,  we  often  regret  the  simple  bo7i- 
Romie  of  the  German  narrative.  We  admire 
the  clearness  of  the  division,  the  lucid  view  of 
every  subject,  the  graphic  power  of  the  pic- 
tures, and  the  forcible  perspicuity  of  the  lan- 
guage ;  but  we  have  a  total  want  of  confidence 
in  the  veracity  of  the  narrative.  In  every  page 
we  discover  something  suppressed  or  coloured, 
to  magnify  the  importance  of  the  writer  in  the 
estimation  of  those  who  study  his  work;  and 
while  we  incessantly  recur  to  it  for  striking 
political  views,  or  consummate  military  criti- 
cism, we  must  consult  works  of  far  inferior 
celebrity  for  the  smallest  details  in  which  his 
fame  was  personally  concerned.  We  may 
trust  him  in  speculations  on  the  future  destiny 
of  nations,  the  march  of  revolutions,  or  the 
cause  of  military  success  ;  but  we  cannot  rely 
on  the  nixmbers  stated  to  have  been  engaged, 
or  the  killed  and  wounded  in  a  single  engage- 
ment. 

The  character  of  Napoleon  has  mainly  rest- 
ed, since  the  publication  of  his  work,  on  Bou- 
rienne's  Memoirs.  The  peculiar  opportunities 
which  he  had  of  becoming  acquainted  with  the 
inmost  thoughts  of  the  First  Consul,  and  the 
ability  and  graphic  powers  of  his  narrative, 
have  justly  secured  for  it  an  immense  reputa- 
tion. It  is  probable  that  the  private  character 
and  hidden  motives  of  Napoleon  will  mainly 
rest  v/ith  posterity  on  that  celebrated  work. 
Every  day  brings  out  something  to  support  its 
veracity;  and  the  concurring  testimony  of  the 
most  intelligent  of  the  contemporary  writers 
tends  to  show,  that  his  narrative  is,  upon  the 
whole,  the  most  faithful  that  has  yet  been  pub- 
lished. Still  it  is  obvious  that  there  is  a  secret 
rankling  at  the  bottom  of  Bourienne's  heart 
against  his  old  schoolfellow.'  He  could  hardly 
be  expected  to  forgive  the  extraordinary  rise 
and  matchless  celebrity  of  one  who  had  so  long 
been  his  equal.  He  evinces  the  highest  admi- 
ration for  the  Emperor,  and,  upon  the  whole, 
has  probably  done  him  justice ;  yet,  upon  par- 
ticular points,  a  secret  spleen  is  apparent;  and 
though  there  seems  no  ground  for  discrediting 
most  of  his  facts,  yet  we  must  not  in  every  m- 
stance  adopt  implicitly  the  colouring  in  which 
he  has  painted  them.  It  is  quite  plain  that 
Bourienne  was  involved  in  some  money  trans- 
actions, in  which  Napoleon  conceived  that  he 
made  an  improper  use  of  the   state   secrets 


which  came  to  his  knowledge,  in  his  officiai' 
situation  of  private  secretary;  and  that  to  this 
cause  his  exile  into  honourable  and  liwrntive 
banishment  at  Hamburgh  is  to  be  ascribed. 
Whether  this  banishment  was  justly  qr  un 
justly  inflicteJ,  is  iminaterial  in  considering 
the  credit  due  to  the  narrative.  If  he  was  hard 
ly  dealt  M'ilh,  while  our  opinion  of  his  indivi- 
dual integrity  must  rise,  the  weight  of  the 
feelings  of  exasperation  with  which  he  was 
animated  must  receive  a  proportional  augmen- 
tation. 

The  Memoirs  of  the  Duchess  of  Abrantes 
are  well  qualified  to  coi'rect  the  bias,  and  sup- 
ply the  deficiencies  of  those  of  his  private  se- 
cretary. As  a  woman,  she  had  no  personal 
rivalry  with  Napoleon,  and  could  not  feel  her- 
self mortified  by  his  transcendant  success.  As 
the  wife  of  one  of  his  favourite  and  most  pros- 
perous generals,  she  had  no  secret  reasons  of 
animosity  against  the  author  of  her  husband's 
elevation.  Her  intimate  acquaintance  also 
with  Napoleon,  from  his  very  infancy,  and  be- 
fore flattery  or  poAver  had  aggravated  the  faults 
of  his  character,  renders  her  peculiarly  weU 
qualified  to  portray  its  original  tendency.  Many 
new  lights,  accordingly,  have  been  throwB 
upon  the  eventful  period  of  his  reign,  as  weh 
as  his  real  character,  by  her  Memoirs.  His 
disposition  appears  in  a  more  amiable  light — 
his  motives  are  of  a  higher  kind,  than  froni 
preceding  accounts;  and  we  rise  from  the  pe- 
rusal of  her  fascinating  volumes  with  the  im 
pression,  which  the  more  extensively  we  studj 
human  nature  we  shall  find  to  be  the  more 
correct,  that  men  are  generally  more  amiable 
at  bottom  than  we  should  be  inclined  to  ima- 
gine from  their  public  conduct;  that  their  faults 
are  fully  as  much  the  result  of  the  circum- 
stances in  which  they  are  placed,  as  of  any 
inherent  depravity  of  disposition;  and  that 
dealing  gently  with  those  who  are  carried  along 
on  the  stream  of  revolution,  we  should  reserve 
the  weight  of  onr  indignation  for  those  who 
put  the  perilous  torrent  in  motion. 

But  leaving  these  general  speculations,  it  is 
time  to  lay  before  our  readers  a  few  extracts 
from  these  volumes  themselves,  and  to  com- 
municate some  portion  of  the  pleasure  which 
we  have  derived  from  their  perusal.  In  doing 
so  we  shall  adopt  our  usual  plan  of  translating 
the  passages  ourselves ;  for  it  is  impossible 
to  convey  the  least  idea  of  the  original  in  the 
circumlocutions  of  the  ordinary  London  ver- 
sions. 

Of  the  early  youth  of  Napoleon  at  the  Ecole 
Militaire  of  iParis,  with  the  management  of 
which  he  was  in  the  highest  degree  dissatislied, 
we  have  the  following  interesting  account  :— 

"  When  we  got  into  the  carriage.  Napoleon, 
who  had  contained  himself  before  his  sister, 
broke  out  into  the  most  violent  invectives 
against  the  administration  of  such  places  as  the 
,Maison  St.  Cyr,  for  young  ladies,  and  the  Ecole 
Militaire  for  cadets.  My  uncle,  who  was  ex- 
tremely quick  in  his  temper,  at  last  got  out  of 
all  patience  at  the  tone  of  cutting  bitterness 
which  appeared  in  his  language,  and  told  him 
so  without  reserve.  Napoleon  Avas  then  silent, 
for  enough  of  good  breeding  still  remained  to 
make  youth  respect  the  voice  of  those  advanced 


30 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


in  3-cars.  But  his  heart  -was  so  full  as  to  be 
almost  burstinfT.  Sliorilj'  after  he  led  back  the 
conversation  to  the  subject,  and  at  last  his  ex- 
pressions became  so  olfensive  that  my  father 
said  to  hini  rudely,  'Be  silent;  it  ill  becomes 
you,  who  are  educated  at  the  expense  of  the 
kiiiL'.  to  speak  in  that  manner.' 

**  My  mother  has  often  since  told  me,  she 
was  afraid  Napoleon  would  be  suffocated  at 
these  words.  In  an  instant  he  became  pale 
and  inarticulate.  When  he  recovered  his  voice, 
he  exclaimed  in  a  voice  trembling'  with  emo- 
tion, '  I  am  not  an  clevc  of  the  King,  but  of  the 
State' 

"'A  fine  distinction,  trul}-,'  replied  my  un- 
cle. '  Whether  you  are  an  eleve  of  the  King, 
or  of  the  State,  is  of  no  consequence;  besides, 
is  not  the  King  the  State!  I  desire  that  you 
will  not  speak  in  such  terms  of  your  benefactor 
in  my  presence.' 

"'I  will  do  nothing  to  displease  you,  M. 
Comncne,'  replied  the  young  man.  '  Permit  me 
oniv  to  add,  that  if  I  teas  the  ma.itcr,  and  had  the 
power  to  alter  these  regulations,  they  should 
be  very  diflerent,  and  for  the  good  of  the  M-hole.' 

"  I  have  recounted  that  scene  onl}'  to  remark 
these  words — '  Jf  J  iras  the  master.'  He  has 
Fince  become  so,  and  all  the  world  knows  what 
he  has  done  for  the  administration  of  the  Ecole 
Militaire.  I  am  convinced  that  he  long  enter- 
tained a  painful  sense  of  the  humiliation  he 
underwent  at  that  establishment.  At  our  ar- 
rival in  Paris,  he  had  been  a  year  there,  and 
that  whole  period  was  one  of  contradiction  and 
disgust.  He  was  not  loved  by  his  companions. 
Many  persons  who  were  acquainted  with  my 
father,  declared  to  him  that  Napoleon's  charac- 
ter was  such  as  could  not  be  rendered  sociable. 
He  was  discontented  with  every  thing,  and  ex- 
pressed his  censure  aloud  in  such  decided 
terms,  as  made  him  pass  with  these  old  M'or- 
thies  for  a  young  firebrand.  The  result  of  this 
conduct  was,  that  his  removal  info  a  regiment 
was  unanimously  demanded  by  every  one  at 
the  school,  and  thus  it  advanced  the  period  of 
his  promotion.  He  obtained  a  sub-lieutenancy, 
which  was  stationed  at  Grenoble.  Before  his 
departure,  he  came  to  live  some  time  with  us: 
my  sister  was  at  a  convent,  but  she  came  fre- 
quently home  during  the  period  of  her  vacation. 
I  recollect  that  the  day  when  he  first  put  on  his 
unifonn,  he  was  as  joyous  as  young  men  gene- 
rally arc  on  such  an  occasion:  but  his  boots 
pave  a  singularly  ridiculous  appearance  to  his 
fiirure :  they  were  of  such  enormous  dimensions, 
Ihat  his  little  thin  legs  quite  disappeared  with- 
in them.  Everybody  knows  that  nothing  has 
so  quick  an  eye  for  the  ridiculous  as  childhood, 
so  the  moment  that  my  sister  and  I  saw  him 
come  into  the  room  with  these  enormous  boots, 
we  burst  out  into  immoderate  fits  of  laughter. 
Tlien,  as  subsequently,  he  could  not  endure 
pleasantr)',  when  he  was  its  object:  my  sister, 
w,ho  was  considerably  older  than  I,  answered, 
that  as  he  had  girded  on  his  sword,  he  should 
consider  himself  as  the  Chevalier  of  Dames, 
and  be  highly  flattered  by  their  joking  with 
liim 

" '  It  is  easy  to  see,'  said  Napoleon  with  a 
haii:;lity  air,  'that  you  are  a  little  miss  just  let 
loose  from  school.' 


"My  sister  was  then  thirteen  years  old:  it 
may  easily  be  imagined  how  such  an  expres* 
sion  hurt  her.  She  was  of  a  very  gentle  dis- 
position,— but  neither  she  nor  any  other  wo 
man,  whatever  her  age  or  disposition  may  be, 
can  bear  a  direct  insult  to  hervanit}' — that  of 
Cccile  was  keenly  offended  at  the  expression 
of  little  miss  escaped  from  school. 

"'And  you,'  said  she,  *  are  nothing  but  a 
Puss  i>-  Boots.' 

"  Everyone  burst  out  a  laughing:  the  stroke 
had  told  most  effectually-  I  cannot  describe 
the  wrath  of  Napoleon ;  he  answered  nothing, 
and  it  was  as  well  he  did  not.  My  mothe- 
thought  the  epithet  so  well  applied,  that  she 
laughed  with  all  her  heart.  Napoleon,  though 
little  accustomed  at  that  time  to  the  usage  of 
the  world,  had  a  mind  too  fine,  too  strong  an 
instinctive  perception,  not  to  see  that  it  was 
necessary  to  be  silent  when  his  adversary Avas 
a  woman,  and  personalities  were  dealt  in: 
whatever  her  age  was,  she  was  entitled  to  re- 
spect. At  least,  such  was  then  the  code  of  po- 
liteness in  those  Avho  dined  at  table.  Now  that 
utility  and  personal  interest  alone  are  the  order 
of  the  da)%  the  consumption  of  time  in  such 
pieces  of  politeness  is  complained  of:  and 
every  one  grudges  the  sacrifices  necessary  to 
carry  into  the  world  his  little  contingent  of  so- 
ciability. 

"  Bonaparte,  though  grievously  piqued  at 
the  unfortunate  epithet  applied  to  him  by  my 
sister,  affected  to  disregard  it,  and  began  to 
laugh  like  the  rest;  and  to  prove  that  he  bore 
her  no  ill  will  on  that  account,  he  bought  a 
little  present,  on  which  was  engraved  a  Puss 
in  Boots,  running  before  the  carriage  of  the 
Marquis  of  Carabu-s.  This  present  cost  him  a 
good  deal,  which  assorted  ill  with  the  strait- 
ened state  of  his  finances.  He  added  a  beau- 
tiful edition  of  'Puss  in  Boots,'  for  my  sister, 
telling  her  that  it  was  a  So?(i-cniV  which  he  beg- 
ged her  to  keep  for  his  sake. 

"  '  The  storj'-book,'  said  my  mother,  '  is  too 
much :  if  there  had  only  been  the  engraving, 
it  was  all  well;  but  the  book  for  Cecile, shows 
you  were  piqued  against  her.' 

"  He  gave  his  word  to  the  contrary.  But  I 
still  think  with  my  mother,  that  he  Avas  piqued, 
and  bitter!}^  so :  the  whole  stor)'Avas  of  no  small 
service  to  me  at  a  future  time,  as  Avill  ajipear 
in  tiie  sequel  to  these  memoirs." — I.  52,  53. 

Several  interesting  anecdotes  are  preserved 
of  the  Reign  of  Terror,  singularly  characteris- 
tic of  the  horrors  of  that  eventful  period.  The 
following  picture  is  evidently  drawn  from  the 
life  :— 

"  On  the  following  day,  my  brother  Albert 
was  obliged  to  remain  a  considerable  time  at 
home,  to  put  in  order  the  papers  which  my 
father  had  directed  to  be  burnt.  He  went  out 
at  three  o'clock  to  see  us:  he  found  on  the  road 
groups  of  men  in  a  state  of  horrible  and  bloody 
drunkenness.  Many  Avere  naked  down  to  the 
Avaist;  their  arms,  their  breasts  bathed  in  blood. 
At  the  end  of  their  pikes,  they  bore  fragments 
of  clothes  and  bloody  remnants:  their  looks 
Avere  haggard;  their  eye?  inflamed.  As  he  ad- 
vanced, these  groups  became  more  frequent 
and  hideous.  My  brother,  mortally  alarmed 
as  to  our  fate,  and  determined  at  all  hazards 


NAPOIEON. 


31 


to  rejoin  us,  pushed  on  his  horse  along  the 
Boulevard  where  he  then  was,  and  arrived  in 
front  of  the  Palace  Beauraarchais.  There  he 
was  arrested  by  an  immense  crowd,  composed 
of  the  same  naked  and  bloody  men,  but  with 
an  expression  of  countenance  altogether  infer- 
nal. They  set  up  hideous  cries :  they  sung, 
they  danced  ;  the  Saturnalia  of  Hell  were  be- 
fore him.  No  sooner  did  they  see  the  cabriolet 
of  Albert,  than  they  raised  still  louder  yells : 
an  aristocrat !  an  aristocrat !  and  in  a  moment 
the  cabriolet  was  surrounded  by  a  raging  mul- 
titude, in  the  midst  of  which  an  object  was 
elevated  and  presented  to  his  view.  Troubled 
as  the  sight  of  my  brother  was,  he  could  dis- 
tinguish long  white  hair,  clotted  with  blood, 
and  a  face  beautiful  even  in  death.  The  figure 
is  brought  nearer,  and  its  lips  placed  on  his. 
The  unliappy  wretch  set  up  a  frightful  cry. 
He  knew  the  head :  it  was  that  of  the  Princess 
Lamballe. 

"The  coachman  whipped  the  horse  with  all 
his  strength ;  and  the  generous  animal,  with 
that  aversion  for  blood  which  characterizes  its 
race,  rushed  from  that  spectacle  of  horror  with 
redoubled  speed.  The  frightful  trophy  was 
overturned,  with  the  cannibals  who  bore  it,  by 
the  wheels  of  the  carriage,  and  a  thousand 
imprecations  followed  my  brother,  who  lay 
stretched  out  insensible  in  the  bottom  of  the 
cabriolet. 

"  Serious  consequences  resulted  to  my  bro- 
ther from  that  scene  of  horror.  He  Avas  car- 
ried to  a  physician,  where  he  was  soon  taken 
seriously  ill  of  a  burning  fever.  Inhis  delirium, 
the  frightful  figure  was  ever  present  to  his  ima- 
^'nation.  He  never  ceased,  for  days  together, 
to  see  that  livid  head  and  those  fair  tresses 
bathed  in  blood.  For  years  after,  he  could  not 
recall  the  recollection  of  that  horrible  event 
without  falling  into  a  swoon,  nor  think  of  those 
days  of  wo  without  the  most  vivid  emotion. 

"  A  singular  circumstance  concluded  this 
tale  of  horror.  My  brother,  in  1802,  when 
Commissary  General  of  Police  at  Marseilles, 
received  secret  instructions  to  watch,  -with 
peculiar  care,  over  a  man  named  Raymonet, 
but  whose  real  name  was  different.  He  lived 
in  a  small  cottage  on  the  banks  of  the  sea ;  ap- 
peared in  comfortable  circumstance?,  but  had 
no  relation  nor  friend ;  he  lived  alcne  in  his 
solitary  cabin,  and  received  every  m;rninghis 
provisions  from  an  old  woman,  who  brought 
them  to  his  gate.  The  secret  instructions  of 
the  police  revealed  the  fact,  that  this  person 
had  been  one  of  the  principal  assassins  at  the 
Abbaye  and  La  Force,  in  September,  1793,  and 
was  in  an  especial  manner  noted  as  the  most 
cruel  of  the  assassins  of  the  Princess  Lam- 
balle. 

"One  morning  my  brother  received  intelli- 
gence that  this  man  was  at  the  point  of  death"; 
and,  gracious  God!  what  a  death!  For  three 
days  he  had  endured  all  the  torments  of  hell. 
The  accident  which  had  befallen  him  M-as  per- 
fectly natural  in  its  origin,  but  it  had  made  him 
suffer  the  most  excruciating  pains.  He  was 
alone  in  his  habitation;  he  was  obliged  to  drag 
himself  to  the  nearest  surgeon  to  obtain  assist- 
ance, but  it  was  too  late  :  an  operation  was  im- 
possible, and  would  not  even  have  assuaged 


the  pains  of  the  dying  wretcn.  He  refused 
alike  religious  succour  and  words  of  consola- 
tion.  His  deathbed  was  a  chair  of  torture  in- 
comparably  more  agonizing  than  the  martyr* 
dom  of  a  Christian.  He  died  with  blasphemies 
in  his  mouth,  like  the  Reprobate  in  Dante's 
Inferno."— L  95. 

The  French,  who  have  gone  through  the 
Revolution,  frequently  complain  that  there  arc 
no  descriptions  given  in  any  historical  works 
which  convey  the  least  idea  of  the  Rcign  of 
Terror;  so  infinitely  did  the  reality  of  that 
dreadful  pei'iod  exceed  all  that  description  can 
convey  of  the  terrible.  There  might,  however, 
we  are  persuaded,  be  extracted  from  the  con- 
temporary Memoirs  (for  in  no  other  quartei 
can  the  materials  be  found)  a  picture  of  that 
memorable  era,  which  would  exceed  all  that 
Shakspeare  or  Dante  had  figured  of  human 
atrocity,  and  take  its  place  beside  the  plague 
in  Thucydides,  and  the  Annals  of  Tacitus,  as  a 
lasting  beacon  to  the  human  race,  of  the  un- 
heard of  horrors  following  in  the  train  of  de- 
mocratic ascendancy. 

One  of  the  most  curious  parts  of  the  Duch- 
ess's work  is  that  which  relates  to  the  arrest 
of  Napoleon  after  the  fall  of  Robespierre,  in 
consequence  of  the  suspicions  that  attached  to 
him,  from  his  mission  to  Genoa  with  the  bro- 
ther of  that  tyrant.  It  appears,  that  whatever 
he  may  have  become  afterwards,  Napoleon  was 
at  that  period  an  ardent  republican:  not  pro- 
bably because  the  principles  of  democracy 
were  suited  to  his  inclinations,  but  because  he 
found  in  the  favour  of  that  faction,  then  the 
ruling  power  in  France,  the  only  means  of  gra- 
tifying his  ambition.  Salicetti,  one  of  the  de- 
puties from  Corsica,  occasioned  his  arrest  after 
the  fall  of  Robespierre,  and  he  was  actually  a 
few  days  in  custody.  Subsequently,  Salicetti 
himself  was  denounced  by  the  Convention,  and 
concealed  in  the  house  of  Madame  Pennon, 
mother  to  the  Duchess  of  Abrantes.  The  whole 
details  which  follow  this  event  are  highly  inte- 
resting; and  as  theyaiford  one  of  the  few  really 
generous  traits  of  Napoleon's  character,  we 
willingly  give  them  a  place. 

"  The  retreat  of  Salicetti  in  our  house  was 
admirably  contrived.  His  little  cabinet  was 
so  stuffed  with  cushions  and  tapestry,  that  the 
smallest  sound  could  not  be  heard.  No  one 
could  have  imagined  where  he  was  concealed. 

"  On  the  following  morning  at  eleven  o'clock, 
Napoleon  arrived.  He  was  dressed  in  his  usual 
costume ;  a  gray  great-coat  buttoned  up  to  the 
throat, — a  black  neckcloth, — round  hat,  which 
came  down  over  the  eyes.  To  say  the  truth, 
at  that  period  no  one  was  elegantly  dressed, 
and  the  personal  appearance  of  Napoleon  did 
not  appear  so  singular  as  it  now  does,  upon 
looking  back  to  the  period.  He  had  in  his 
hand  a  bouquet  of  violets,  which  he  presented 
to  my  mother.  That  piece  of  gallantry  was  so 
unusual  in  him,  that  we  immediately  began  to 
laugh.  "  It  appears,'  said  he, '  I  am  not  an  fan 
at  my  new  duties  of  Cavaliere  Servente.' 
Then  changing  the  subject,  he  added,  '  Well, 
Madame  Permon,  Salicetti  has,  in  his  turn, 
reaped  the  bitter  fruits  of  arrest.  They  must 
be  the  more  difficult  to  swallow,  that  he  ami 
his  associates  have  planted  the  trees  c  n  which 


32 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


ihey  Rfow.'  '  What  !*  said  my  mother,  with  an 
air  of  .surprise,  and  making  asitjn  to  me  at  the 
same  Umo  lo  .^Init  the  door,  '  is  Salicctti  arrest- 
ed!'  •  l)o  you  not  know,'  replied  Napoleon, 
« ih  ■  tre-'I  was  yesterday  decreed  at  the 
A-  I  thoufiht  you  knew  it  so  well, 

that  h<-  was  concealid  in  your  house.'  '  In  my 
houso  !'  replied  my  mother,  with  a  well-feigned 
air  of  surprise  ; '  Napoleon,  my  dear  child,  you 
are  mad!  In  my  house!  That  implies  that  I 
have  one,  which  unfortunately  is  not  the  case. 
My  dear  General,  I  heg  you  will  not  repeat 
»uch  nonsense.  What  have  I  done  to  entitle 
you  thus  to  sport  with  me  as  if  I  were  deranged, 
for  I  can  call  it  nothing  else  V 

"At  these  words  Napoleon  rose  up;  he 
crossed  his  arms,  advanced  immediately  op- 
posite to  my  mother,  where  he  stood  for  some 
lime  without  saying  a  word.  My  mother  bore, 
without  llmching,  his  piercing  look,  and  did  not 
so  much  as  drop  her  eyelid  under  that  eagle's 
eye.  'Madame  Pcrmon,'  said  he  at  length, 
•Salicetti  is  concealed  in  your  house:  nay,  do 
not  interrupt  me.  I  do  not  know  it  for  certain, 
but  I  have  no  doubt  of  it,  because  yesterday  at 
five  o'clock  he  was  seen  on  the  Boulevard, 
coming  in  this  direction,  after  he  had  received 
intelligence  of  the  decree  of  the  Assemblj'.  He 
has  no  friend  in  this  quarter  who  would  risk  life 
and  liberty  to  save  him  but  yourself;  there  can 
be  no  doubt,  therefore,  where  he  is  concealed.' 

"This  long  harangue  gave  my  mother  time 
to  regain  her  assurance.  'What  title  could 
Balicetti  have  to  demand  an  asylum  from  me  1 
He  knows  that  our  sentiments  are  not  the  same. 
I  was  on  the  point  of  setting  out,  and  had  it 
not  been  for  an  accidental  letter  from  my  hus- 
band, I  would  have  been  now  far  advanced  on 
my  road  to  Gascony.' 

" '  What  title  bad  he  to  seek  an  asylum  in 
5'our  house?'  replied  Napoleon,  'that  is  the 
justest  observation  you  have  yet  made, Madame 
Permon.  To  take  refuge  with  a  lonely  woman, 
who  might  be  compromised  for  a  few  hours  of 
concealment  to  a  proscribed  culprit,  is  an  act 
that  no  one  else  would  be  capable  of.  You  are 
indeed  his  debtor;  are  )-t)u  not.  Mademoiselle 
Loulou  V  said  he,  turning  to  me,  who  had 
hitherto  remained  silent  in  the  window. 

"  I  feigned  to  be  engaged  with  flower-pots  in 
a  window,  where  there  were  several  bushes  of 
arbutus., ind  did  not  answer  him.  My  mother, 
who  V  I  my  motive,  said  to  me, 'Ge- 

neral l;  ,  •  speaks  to  you,  my  dear.'  1 
then  turned  to  him ;  the  remains  of  my  trouble 
might  show  him  what  had  passed  in  the  mind 
of  a  girl  of  fifieen,  who  was  compelled,  in  spite 
of  herself,  to  do  an  unpolite  thing.  He  took 
my  hand,  pressed  it  between  his  two,  and, 
turning  to  my  mother,  exclaimed,  'I  ask  your 
pardon;  I  have  been  in  the  wrong;  your 
daughter  has  given  me  a  lesson.'  'You  give 
Lauretie  more  merit  than  she  really  has,'  re- 
plied my  mother.  *  She  has  not  given  you  a 
lesson,  tiecause  she  does  not  know  wherefore 
she  should  do  so;  but  I  will  do  so  immediately, 
if  you  persist  in  believing  a  thing  which  has 
no  foundation,  but  might  do  mc  irreparable 
mischief  if  it  were  spread  abroad.' 

"  Bniinparie  said,  with  a  voice  full  of  emo- 
»ion    'Madame  Permon.  you  are  .in  uncom- 


monly generous  woman,  and  that  man  is  a 
wicked  man.  You  could  not  have  closed  }'our 
door  upon  him,  and  he  knew  it ;  and  yet  you 
expose  yourself  and  that  child  fur  such  a  man. 
Formerly  I  hated  him ;  now  I  despise  him.  He 
has  done  me  a  great  deal  of  harm ;  yes,  he  has 
done  me  a  great  deal  of  harm,  and  you  know 
it.  He  has  had  the  malice  to  take  advantage 
of  his  momentary  ascendency  to  strive  lo  sink 
me  below  the  water.  He  has  accused  me  of 
crimes;  for  what  crime  can  be  so  great  as  to 
be  a  traitor  to  your  country"?  Salicetti  con- 
ducted himself  in  that  affair  of  Loano,  and  my 
arrest,  like  a  miserable  wretch.  Junot  was 
going  to  have  killed  him,  if  I  had  not  prevented 
him.  That  young  man,  full  of  fire  and  friend- 
ship for  me,  was  anxious  to  have  fought  him 
in  single  combat ;  he  declared  that  if  he  would 
not  fight,  he  would  have  thrown  him  over  the 
window.  Now  he  is  proscribed;  Salicetti,  in 
his  turn,  can  now  appreciate  the  full  extent 
of  what  it  is  to  have  one's  destiny  shattered, 
ruined  by  an  accusation.' 

"  '  Napoleon,'  said  my  mother,  stretching  out 
her  hand  to  him,  '  Salicetti  is  not  here.  I  swear 
he  is  not.  And  must  I  tell  you  all  V  '  Tell  it; 
tell  it,'  said  he,  with  extreme  impatience. 
'Well,  Salicetti  was  here  yesterday  at  six 
o'clock,  but  he  went  out  at  half-past  eight.  I 
convinced  him  of  the  impossibility  of  his 
remaining  concealed  in  furnished  lodgings. 
He  admitted  it,  and  went  away.' 

"  While  my  mother  spoke,  the  eyes  of  Na- 
poleon continued  fixed  upon  her  with  an  eager- 
ness of  which  it  is  impossible  to  convey  an 
idea.  Immediately  after,  he  moved  aside,  and 
walked  rapidly  through  the  chamber.  '  I  was 
right,  then,  after  all,'  he  exclaimed.  '  He  had 
then  the  cowardice  to  say  to  a  generous  woman, 
Give  your  life  for  me.  But  did  he  who  thus 
contrived  to  interest  you  in  his  fate,  tell  you 
that  he  had  just  assassinated  one  of  his  col- 
leagues 1  Did  he  wash  his  hands  before  he 
touched  yours  to  implore  mercy"!' 

"  '  Napoleon,  Napoleon  !'  exclaimed  my  mo- 
ther in  Italian,  and  with  great  emotion, '  this  is 
too  much.  Be  silent,  or  I  inust  be  gone.  If 
they  have  murdered  this  man  after  he  left  me, 
at  least  it  is  no  fault  of  mine.'  Napoleon  at 
this  time  was  not  less  moved.  He  sought 
about  everywhere  like  a- hound  after  its  prey. 
He  constantly  listened  to  hear  him,  but  could 
make  out  nothing.  My  mother  was  in  despair. 
Salicetti  heard  every  thing.  A  single  pUnk 
separated  him  from  us  ;  and  I,  in  my  inexpe- 
rience, trembled  lest  he  should  issue  frorn  his 
retreat  and  betray  us  all.  At  length,  after  a 
fruitless  search  of  two  hours,  he  ros-j  and  went 
away.  It  was  full  time  ;  my  mother  was  Avorn 
out  with  mortal  disquietude.  'A  thousand 
thanks,'  said  he,  as  he  left  the  room;  'and 
above  all,  Madame  Permon,  forgive  me.  But 
if  you  had  ever  been  injured  as  I  have  been 
by'that  man  !     Adieu !'  "—I.  M7,  148. 

A  few  days  after,  Madame  Permon  set  out 
for  Gascony,  Avlth  Salicetti,  disguised  as  a  foot- 
man, seated  behind  the  carriage.  Hardly  had 
they  arrived  at  the  first  post,  when  a  man  ar- 
rived on  horseback,  with  a  letter  for  Madame 
Permon.  They  were  all  in  despair,  conceiv- 
ing they  were  discovered,  but  upon  opening  it, 


NAPOLEON, 


33 


their  apprehensions  were  dispelled;  it  was 
from  Bonaparte,  who  had  received  certain  in- 
telligence from  his  servant  that  Salicetti,  his 
mortal  enemy,  was  in  the  carriage  with  her, 
and  had  been  concealed  in  her  house.  He 
had  learned  it  from  his  servant,  who  became 
acquainted  with  it  from  Madame  Permon's 
maid,  M-ho,  though  faithful  to  misfortune,  could 
not  conceal  the  secret  from  love.  It  was  in 
the  following  terms  : — 

"  I  never  wished  to  pass  for  a  hypocrite.  I 
would  be  so,  if  I  did  not  declare  that  for  more 
than  twenty  days  I  have  known  for  certain  that 
Salicetti  was  concealed  in  your  house.  Recol- 
lect my  words  on  the  1st  Prairial ;  I  was  then 
almost  sure  of  it,  now  I  know  it  beyond  a  doubt. 
Salicetti,  you  see  I  could  repay  you  the  injury 
you  have  don.e  me  ;  iu  doing  so,  I  should  only 
have  requited  the  evil  which  you  did  to  me, 
whilst  you  gratuitously  injured  one  who  had 
never  offended  you.  Which  is  the  nobler  part 
at  this  moment — yours  or  mine  ]  I  have  it  in 
ray  power  to  revenge  myself,  but  I  will  not  do 
it. — Perhaps  you  will  say  that  your  benefac- 
tress serves  as  your  shield,  and  I  own  that  that 
consideration  is  powerful.  But  though  you 
were  alone,  unarmed,  and  proscribed,  your 
head  would  be  safe  from  my  hands.  Go — seek 
in  peace  an  asylum  where  you  may  become 
animated  with  nobler  sentiments  towards  your 
country.  My  mouth  is  closed  on  your  name, 
and  will  never  open  more  on  that  subject. 
Repent,  and  appi-eciate  my  motives.  I  deserve 
it,  for  they  are  noble  and  generous. — Madame 
Permon — My  warmest  wishes  attend  you  and 
your  daughter.  You  are  two  helpless  beings, 
without  defence.  May  Providence  and  the 
prayers  of  a  friend  be  ever  with  you !  Be 
prudent,  and  do  not  stop  in  the  great  towns. 
Adieu !  receive  my  kindest  regards. — N.  Bo- 
napahte." — I.  160. 

We  regard  this  letter  and  the  pi'evious 
transaction  to  which  it  refers,  if  it  shall  be 
deemed  by  those  intimately  acquainted  with 
the  parties  as  perfectly  authentic,  as  by  far  the 
most  important  trait  in  the  character  of  Na- 
poleon during  his  early  life  which  has  yet  ap- 
peared. It  demonstrates  that  at  that  period  at 
least  his  heart  was  accessible  to  generous  sen- 
timents, and  that  he  was  capable  of  perform- 
ing a  noble  action.  Admitting  that  he  was,  in 
a  great  degree,  swayed  in  this  proceeding  by  his 
regard  for  Madame  Permon,  who  appears  to 
have  been  a  woman  of  great  attractions,  and 
for  whom,  as  we  shall  presently  see,  he  con- 
ceiv^ed  M'armer  feelings  than  those  of  mere 
friendship,  still  it  is  not  an  ordinary  character, 
and  still  less  not  an  ordinary  Italian  character, 
which,  from  such  motives,  would  forego  the 
fiendish  luxury  of  revenge.  This  trait,  there- 
fore, demonstrates  that  Napoleon's  character 
originally  was  not  destitute  of  generosity;  and 
the  more  charitable,  and  probably  the  more 
just,  inference  is,  that  the  selfishness  and  ego- 
tism by  which  he  was  afterwards  so  strongly 
characterized,  arose  from  that  uninterrupted 
and  extraordinary  flow  of  prosperity  which 
befell  him,  and  which  experience  everywhere 
proves  is  more  fatal  to  generosity  or  interest 
in  others  than  any  thing  else  in  the  course  of 
man  here  below. 

3 


On  the  voyage  along  the  charming  banks 
of  the  Garonne  from  Bordeaux  to  Toulouse, 
our  authoress  gives  the  following  just  and  in- 
teresting account: — 

"  That  mind  must  be  really  disquieted  or  in 
suffering,  which  does  not  derive  the  highest 
pleasure  from  the  voyage  by  wafer  from  Bor- 
deaux to  Toulouse.  I  have  seen  since  the 
shores  of  the  Arno,  those  of  the  Po,  the  Tagus, 
and  the  Brenta;  I  have  seen  the  Arno  in  its 
thundering  cascade,  and  in  its  placid  waters ; 
all  traverse  fertile  plains,  and  exhibit  ravish- 
ing points  of  view:  but  none  of  them  recall 
the  magical  illusion  of  the  voj^age  from  Bor- 
deaux to  Toulouse.  Marmande,  Agen,  Lan- 
gon.  La  Reole, — all  those  towns  whose  names 
are  associated  with  our  most  interesting  recol- 
lections, are  there  associated  with  natural 
scenery  prodigal  of  beauty,  and  illuminated 
by  a  resplendent  sun  and  a  pure  atmosphere. 
I  can  conceive  nothing  more  beautiful  than 
those  enchanted  banks  from  Reole  to  Agen. 
Groups  of  trees,  Gothic  towers,  old  castles, 
venerable  steeples,  which  then,  alas!  no  longer 
called  the  Catholics  to  prayer.  Alas  !  at  that 
time,  even  the  bells  were  absent, — thej'-  no 
longer  called  the  faithful  tc  the  house  of  God. 
Every  thing  was  sad  and  deserted  around  that 
antique  porch.  The  grass  was  growing  between 
the  stones  of  the  tombs  in  the  nave;  and  the 
shepherd  was  afar  ofl^,  preaching  the  word  of 
God  in  distant  lands,  while  his  flock,  deprived 
of  the  Bread  of  Life,  beheld  their  infants 
springing  up  around  them,  without  any  more 
religious  instruction  than  the  savages  of  the 
desert."— L  166. 

The  fact  here  mentioned  of  the  total  want  of 
religious  instruction  in  the  people  of  th« 
country  in  France,  is  by  far  the  most  serious 
consequence  which  has  followed  the  tempests 
of  the  Rev'olution.  The  thread  of  religious  in- 
struction from  parent  to  child,  has,  for  the 
first  time  since  the  introduction  of  Chi'istianity 
in  the  western  world,  been  broken  over  nearly 
a  whole  nation.  A  whole  generation  has  not 
only  been  born,  but  educated  and  bred  up  to 
manhood,  without  any  other  religious  impres- 
sions than  what  they  received  from  the  tradi- 
tions of  their  parents.  Lavalette  has  recorded, 
that  during  the  campaigns  of  Napoleon  in 
Italy,  the  soldiers  never  once  entered  a  church, 
and  looked  upon  the  ceremonies  of  the  Catho- 
lics in  the  same  way  as  they  Avould  have  done 
on  the  superstition  of  Hindostan  or  Mexico. 
So  utterly  ignorant  were  they  of  the  elements 
even  of  religious  knowledge,  that  when  they 
crossed  from  Egypt  into  Syria,  they  knew  not 
that  they  were  near  the  places  celebrated  in 
Holy  Writ ;  they  drank  without  consciousness 
at  the  fountains  of  Moses,  wound  without 
emotion  round  the  foot  of  Mount  Sinai,  and 
quartered  at  Bethlehem  and  on  Mount  Carmel, 
ignorant  alike  of  the  cradle  of  Christianity,  or 
of  the  glorious  efforts  of  their  ancestors  in 
those  scenes  to  regain  possession  of  the  Holy 
Sepulchre. 

What  the  ultimate  consequences  of  ihis 
universal  and  unparalleled  break  in  religious 
instruction  must  be,  it  is  not  dilhcult  to  fore- 
tell. The  restoration  of  the  Christian  worship 
by  Napoleon,  the  efforis  of  the  Bourbons  during 


M 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


fifieen  years  to  restore  its  sway,  have  proved 
in  a  preal  degree  nugatory:  Christianity,  re- 
appearing in  llie  garb  of  political  power,  has 
lost  us  original  and  destined  hold  of  the  peo- 
ple ;  It  is  regarded  by  all  the  ardent  and  impe- 
tuous part  of  the  nation,  as  a  mere  collection 
of  antiquated  prejudices  or  nursery  talcs, 
adopted  by  government  for  political  purposes, 
and  (itted  only  to  enslave  and  fetter  the  human 
mind.  The  consequence  has  been,  an  univer- 
sal emancipation  of  the  nation,  in  towns  at 
least,  from  the  fetters  of  religion, — a  dissolu- 
tion of  manners  pervading  the  middling  and 
lower  orders  to  a  degree  unparalleled  in  mo- 
dern Europe, — and  an  universal  inclination  in 
the  higher  to  adopt  selfish  maxims  in  life,  and 
act  upon  the  principles  of  individual  interest 
and  elevation.  This  is  the  great  feature  of 
modern  society  in  France, — the  distinguishing 
characteristic  which  is  alike  deplored  by  their 
writers,  and  observed  by  the  strangers  Avho 
visit  their  coun.rj'.  They  are  fast  descending 
into  the  selfishness  and  egotism  which,  in 
ancient  times,  were  the  invariable  forerunners 
of  political  decline.  This  character  has  be- 
come incapable  of  sustaining  genuine  freedom; 
from  the  fountains  of  selfishness  its  noble 
streams  never  yet  flowed.  The  tempests  of 
democracy  will  for  a  time  agitate  France, 
because  the  people  will  long  strive  to  shake 
off  the  restraints  of  government  and  religion, 
in  order  that  no  fetters  may  be  imposed  on 
their  passions ;  when  they  have  discovered, 
as  they  will  soon  do,  that  this  leads  only  to 
universal  suflering,  they  will  sink  down 
quietly  and  for  ever  under  the  shadow  of  des- 
potism. And  this  will  be  the  consequence  and 
the  punishment  of  their  abandonment  of  that 
which  constitutes  the  sole  basis  of  lasting  or 
general  freedom — the  Christian  religion  and 
private  virtue. 

One  of  the  convulsions  attended  with  the 
least  suffering  in  the  whole  course  of  the  Re- 
volution, was  the  13th  Vendemiare,  1795, 
when  Napoleon,  at  the  head  of  the  troops  of 
the  Convention,  .'iOOO  strong,  defeated  40,000 
of  the  National  Guard  of  Paris,  on  the  very 
ground  at  the  Tuileries,  which  was  rendered 
famous,  thirt3'-five  years  after,  by  the  over- 
throw of  Charles  X.  and  the  dynasty  of  the 
Bourbons.  The  fidlowing  description,  how- 
ever, conveys  a  lively  picture  of  what  civil 
war  is,  even  in  its  least  horrible  forms. 

"  During  some  hours,  we  flattered  ourselves 
that  matters  would  be  arranged  between  the 
Naticmal  Guards  and  the  Convention  ;  but 
sud<lt'nly  at  half-past  four  the  cannon  began 
to  discharge.  Hardly  was  the  first  report 
heard,  when  the  reply  began  on  all  sides.  The 
efTert  was  immediate  and  terrible  on  my  poor 
father;  he  uttered  a  piercing  cry,  and  calling 
for  succour,  was  soon  seized  with  a  violent 
delirium.  In  vain  we  gave  him  the  soothing 
draughts  which  had  been  prescribed  by  M. 
Duchesnois.  All  the  terrific  scenes  of  the  Re- 
volution passed  before  liis  eyes,  and  every 
new  discharge  which  was  heard  pierced  him 
to  the  heart.  What  a  day  !  what  a  night !  Our 
windows  were  bndien  to  pieces;  towards  the 
evening  the  section  retired,  and  they  fought 
vtDdcr  our  eyes ;  but  when   they  came  to  the 


church  of  St.  Roch,  and  the  theatre  of  the  K©. 
public,  it  seemed  as  if  the  house  would  fall  to 
pieces. 

"My   father  was   in   agony;    he   cried,  he  i 
wept.    Never  shall  I  forget  the  horrors  of  that 
terrible  time.     Our  terrors  rose  to  the  highest 
pitch,  when  we   heard' that  barricades  were  ; 
erected  in  the  Rue  de  la  Loi.    Every  hour  of  | 
that  dreadful  night  was  to  me  like  the  hour  of  ! 
the  damned,  of  which  Father  Bridagne  speaks 
ToKJours  jamais.    I  loved  my  father  with  the 
sincerest  afTection,  and  I  adored  my  mother.   I 
saw  the  one  dying  with  the  discharges  of  can- 
non, which  resounded  in  his  ears,  while  the  | 
other,  stretched  at  the  foot  of  that  bed  of  death,  '. 
seerncd  ready  to  follow  him.     There  are  some 
recollections  which  are  eternal ;  never  will  ihe 
remembrance  of  that  dreadful  night,  and  of   I 
those  two  days,  be  effaced  from  my  memory; 
they  are  engraven  on  my  mind  with  a  burning 
iron."— L  p.  190. 

Salicetti  fell  ill  in  their  house,  from  anxiety 
on  account  of  the  fate  of  Rome  and  his  accom- 
plices, who  were  brought  to  trial  for  a  con- 
sjjiracy  to  restore  the  Reign  of  Terror.  The 
picture  she  gives  of  his  state  of  mind  when  on 
the  bed  of  sickness,  is  finely  descriptive  of  the 
whirl  of  agony  which  infidelity  and  democracy 
produce. 

"We  had  soon  a  new  torment  to  undergo; 
Salicetti  fell  ill.  Nothing  can  equal  the  hor- 
rors of  his  situation ;  he  was  in  a  high  fever, 
and  delirious  ;  but  what  he  said,  what  he  saw, 
exceeds  any  thing  that  can  be  conceived.  I 
have  read  many  romances  which  portrayed  a  : 
similar  situation.  Alas!  how  their  description 
falls  short  of  the  truth !  Never  have  I  read 
any  thing  which  approached  it — Salicetti  had 
no  religion;  that  added  to  the  horrors  of  these 
dreadful  scenes.  He  did  not  utter  complaints ; 
blasphemies  were  eternally  poured  forth.  The 
deatli  of  Rome  and  his  friends  produced  the 
most  terrible  effect  on  his  mind ;  their  tragic 
fate  was  incessantly  present  to  his  thoughts. 
One,  in  particular,  seemed  never  to  quit  his 
bedside ;  he  spoke  to  him,  he  listened,  he 
answered  ;  the  dialogues  between  thein,for  he 
answered  for  his  dead  friend,  were  enough  to 
turn  our  brains.  Sometimes  he  fancied  him- 
self in  a  chamber  red  with  blood.  But  what 
caused  me  more  terror  than  all  the  rest,  was 
the  low  and  modulated  tone  of  his  voice  during 
his  delirium;  it  would  appear  that  terror  had 
mastered  all  his  other  faculties,  even  the 
acutest  suflerings.  No  words  can  convey  an 
idea  of  the  horror  inspired  by  that  pale  and  i 
extenuated  man,  uttering,  on  a  bed  of  death,  * 
blasphemies  and  anathemas  in  a  voice  modu- 
lated and  subdued  by  terror.  I  am  at  a  loss  to  . 
convey  the  impression  of  what  I  felt,  for, 
though  so  vividly  engraven  on  my  memory,  I 
know  not  how  to  give  it  a  name." — I.  p.  156. 

It  is  well  sometimes  to  folloAVthe  irreligious 
and  the  Jacobins  to  their  latter  end.  How 
desperately  do  these  men  of  blood  then  quail 
under  the  prospect  of  the  calamities  they  have 
indicted  on  others;  how  terribly  does  the  evil 
they  have  committed  return  on  their  own 
heads;  how  infinitely  does  the  scene  drawn 
from  the  life,  exceed  all  that  the  imagination 
of  Dante  could  conceive  of  the  terrible  I 


NAPOLEON. 


86 


It  is  well  known  what  a  dreadful  famine 
prevailed  in  Paris  for  some  time  after  the  sup- 
pression of  the  revolt  of  the  13th  Vendemiare. 
Our  authoress  supplies  us  with  several  anec- 
dotes, highly  characteristic  of  the  period,  and 
which  place  Bonaparte's  character  in  a  very 
favourable  light. 

"At  that  period  famine  prevailed  in  Paris, 
with  more  severity  than  anywhere  else  in 
France;  the  people  were  literally  sufTering 
under  want  of  bread ;  the  other  necessaries  of 
life  were  not  less  deficient.  What  an  epoch  ! 
Great  God  !  the  misery  was  frightful — the 
depreciation  of  the  assignats  went  on  aug- 
menting with  the  public  suflering — the  poor, 
totally  without  work,  died  in  their  hovels,  or 
issuing  forth  in  desperation,  joined  the  rob- 
bers, who  infested  all  the  roads  in  the 
country. 

"  Bonaparte  was  then  of  great  service  to  us. 
We  had  white  bread  for  our  own  consump- 
tion; but  our  servants  had  only  the  black 
bread  of  the  Sections,  which  was  unwholesome 
and  hardly  eatable.  Bonaparte  sent  us  every 
day  some  rolls  for  breakfast,  which  he  came 
to  eat  with  us  with  the  greatest  satisfaction. 
At  that  period,  I  can  affirm  with  confidence, 
since  he  associated  me  in  his  acts  of  benefi- 
cence, that  Napoleon  saved  the  lives  of  above 
a  hundred  families.  He  made  domiciliary  dis- 
tributions of  bread  and  wood,  which  his  situa- 
tion as  military  commander  enabled  him  to  do. 
I  was  intrusted  with  the  division  of  these 
gifts  among  ten  families,  who  were  dying  of 
famine.  The  greater  part  of  them  lodged  in 
the  Rue  St.  Nicholas,  close  to  our  house.  That 
street  was  inhabited  at  that  time  by  the  poorest 
class.  No  one  who  has  not  ascended  one  of 
its  crowded  stairs,  has  an  idea  of  what  real 
misery  is. 

'•  One  day  Bonaparte,  coming  to  dine  at 
my  mother's,  was  stopped  in  alighting  from 
his  carriage  by  a  woman,  who  bore  the  dead 
body  of  an  infant  in  her  arms.  It  was  the 
youngest  of  six  children.  Misery  and  famine 
had  dried  up  her  milk.  Her  little  child  had 
just  died — it  was  not  yet  cold.  Seeing  every 
day  an  officer  with  a  splendid  uniform  alight 
at  our  house,  she  came  to  beg  bread  from  him, 
'in  order,'  as  she  expressed  it,  'that  her  other 
infants  should  not  share  the  fate  of  the  youngest 
— and  if  I  get  nothing,  I  will  take  the  whole 
five,  and  we  will  throw  ourselves  together  into 
the  river.'" 

"  This  was  no  vain  threat  on  the  part  of  that 
unhappy  woman,  for  at  that  period  suicides 
succeeded  each  other  every  day.  Nothing  was 
talked  of  but  the  tragic  end  of  some  family. 
Bonaparte  entered  the  room  with  the  expres- 
sion of  melancholy,  which  did  not  leave  him 
during  the  whole  of  dinner.  He  had  at  the 
moment  given  a  few  assignats  to  that  unhappy 
woman ;  but  after  we  rose  from  table,  he 
begged  my  mother  to  make  some  inquiries 
concerning  her.  She  did  so,  and  found  that 
her  story  was  all  true,  and  that  she  was  of 
good  character.  Napoleon  paid  her  the  wages 
due  to  her  deceased  husband  by  the  govern- 
ment, and  got  for  her  a  small  pension.  She 
succeeded  in  bringing  up  her  children,  who 
ever  after  retained  the  most  lively  sense  of 


gratitude  towards  '  the  General,'  as  they  callei 
their  benefactor." — I.  195. 

The  Duchess  gives  a  striking  picture  of  the 
difference  in  the  fashions  and  habits  of  living 
which  has  resulted  from  the  Revolution.  Be. 
ing  on  a  subject  whijre  a  woman's  observations 
are  more  likely  to  be  accurate  than  those  of  a 
man,  we  willingly  give  a  place  to  her  observa 
tions. 

"  Transported  from  Corsica  to  Paris  at  the 
close  of  the  reign  of  Louis  XV.,  my  mothei 
had  imbibed  a  second  nature  in  the  midst  ol 
the  luxuries  and  excellencies  of  that  period. 
We  flatter  ourselves  that  we  have  gained 
much  by  our  changes  in  that  particular ;  but 
we  are  quite  wrong.  Forty  thousand  livres  a 
year,  fifty  years  ago,  would  have  commanded 
more  luxury  than  two  hundred  thousand  now. 
The  elegancies  that  at  that  period  surrounde(? 
a  woman  of  fashion  cannot  be  numbered ;  a 
profusion  of  luxuries  were  in  common  use, 
of  M'hich  even  the  name  is  now  forgotten.  The 
furniture  of  her  sleeping  apartment — the  bath 
in  daily  use — the  ample  folds  of  silk  and  velvet 
which  covered  the  windows — the  perfumes 
which  filled  the  room ;  the  rich  laces  and  dresses 
which  adorned  the  wardrobe,  were  widely  dif- 
ferent from  the  ephemeral  and  insufficient 
articles  by  which  they  have  been  replaced. 
My  opinion  is  daily  receiving  confirmation; 
for  every  thing  belonging  to  the  last  age  is 
daily  coming  again  into  fashion,  and  I  hope 
soon  to  see  totally  expelled  all  those  fashions 
of  Greece  and  Rome,  which  did  admirably  well 
under  the  climate  of  Rome  or  Messina,  but  are 
ill  adapted  for  our  vent  du  hize  and  cloudy 
atmosphere.  A  piece  of  muslin  suspended 
on  a  gilt  rod,  is  really  of  no  other  use  but  to 
let  a  spectator  see  that  he  is  behind  the  cur- 
tain. It  is  the  same  with  the  imitation  tapestry 
— the  walls,  six  inches  thick,  which  neither 
keep  out  the  heat  in  summer,  nor  the  cold  in 
winter.  All  the  other  parts  of  modern  dress 
and  furniture  are  comprised  in  my  anathema, 
and  will  alwa)'s  continue  to  be  so. 

"  It  is  said  that  every  thing  is  simplified, 
and  brought  down  to  the  reach  of  the  most 
moderate  fortunes.  That  is  true  in  one  sense ; 
that  is  to  say,  our  confectioner  has  muslin 
curtains  and  gilt  rods  at  his  windows,  and  his 
wife  has  a  silk  cloak  as  well  as  ourselves,  be- 
cause it  is  become  so  thin  that  it  is  indeed 
accessible  to  every  one,  but  it  keeps  no  one 
warm.  It  is  the  same  with  all  the  other  stuffs. 
We  must  not  deceive  ourselves;  we  have 
gained  nothing  by  all  these  changes.  Do  not 
say,  'So  much  the  better,  this  is  equality.' 
By  no  means;  equality  is  not  to  be  found  here, 
any  more  than  it  is  in  England,  or  America, 
or  anywhere,  since  it  cannot  exist.  The  conse- 
quence of  attempting  it  is,  that  you  will  have 
bad  silks,  bad  satins,  bad  velvets,  and  that  is 
all. 

"The  throne  of  fashion  has  encountered 
during  the  Revolution  another  throne,  and  it 
has  been  shattered  in  consequence.  The 
French  people,  amidst  their  dreams  of  equali- 
ty, have  lost  their  own  hands.  The  large  and 
soft  arm-chairs,  the  full  and  ample  draperies, 
thecushionsof  eider  down,  all  the  other  deli- 
cacies  which  we  alone  understood  of  all  tha 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


Koropean  family,  led  only  to  the  imprison- 
nipni  of  their  possessors;  and  if  you  had  the 
nusforliinc  to  inhabit  a  spacious  hotel,  within 
»  court,  to  void  the  odious  noise  and  smells 
of  the  street,  you  had  )'our  throat  cut.  That 
mode  of  treating  elegant  manners  put  them 
out  of  fashion  ;  they  were  speedily  abandoned, 
and  the  barbarity  of  their  successors  still  so 
lingers  amongst  us,  that  every  day  you  sec  put 
into  the  lumber-room  an  elegant  Grecian  chair 
which  has  broken  your  arm,  and  canopies 
which  smell  of  the  stable,  because  they  are 
started  with  hay. 

"  I  growl  because  I  am  growing  old.  If  I 
saw  that  the  world  was  going  tiie  way  it  should, 
I  would  say  nothing,  and  would  perhaps  adopt 
the  custom  of  our  politicians,  which  is,  to  cm- 
brace  the  last  revolution  with  alacrity,  what- 
ever it  may  be.  Sec  how  comfortable  this  is, 
say  our  young  men,  who  espouse  the  cause 
of  the  last  easy  chair  which  their  upholsterer 
has  made  for  them,  as  of  the  last  of  the  thirteen 
or  fifteen  constitutions  which  have  been  manu- 
factured for  them  during  the  last  forty  years. 
I  will  follow  their  example;  I  will  applaud 
every  thing,  even  the  new  government  of  Louis 
Philippe  ;  though,  it  must  be  confessed,  that  to 
do  so  requires  a  strong  disposition  to  see 
every  thing  in  the  most  favourable  colours." — 
L  197,  198. 

The  authoress  apologizes  frequently  for 
these  and  similar  passages,  containing  details 
on  the  manners,  habits,  and  fashions  during 
the  period  in  which  she  lived;  hut  no  excuse 
is  required  for  their  insertion.  Details  of  ball- 
dresses,  saloons,  operas,  and  theatres,  may 
appear  extremely  trifling  to  those  Avbo  have 
only  to  cross  the  street  to  witness  them;  but 
they  become  very  diflerent  when  they  are  read 
after  the  lapse  of  centuries,  and  the  accession 
of  a  totally  diflerent  set  of  manners.  They  arc 
the  materials  from  which  alone  a  graphic  and 
interesting  history  of  the  period  can  be  framed. 
What  would  we  give  for  details  of  this  sort 
on  the  era  of  Casar  and  Pompey?  with  Avhal 
eagerness  do  we  turn  to  the  faithful  pages  of 
Froissart  and  Monstrcllct  for  similar  informa- 
tion concerning  the  chivalrous  ages  ;  and  with 
what  delight  do  we  read  the  glowing  pictures 
in  Ivanhoe  and  the  Crusaders,  in  Quentin 
Durward  and  Kcnilworth,  of  the  manners, 
customs,  and  habits  of  those  periods  1  To  all 
appearance,  the  world  is  changing  so  rapidly 
umlfT  ihn  pressure  of  the  revolutionary  tem- 
r   ,  before  the    lapse   of  many  gcnera- 

tiv   ■  iiabiis  of  our  times  will  be  as  much 

lh«  object  of  research  to  the  antiquarv,  and  of 
interest  to  the  historian,  as  those  of  Richard 
*  Ca-ur  de  Lion  or  the  Black  Prince  arc  to  our 
age. 

We  have  mentioned  above,  that  Napoleon's 
interest  in  Madame  Permon  appeared  to  have 
been  stronger  than  that  of  mere  friendship. 
The  following  passage  contains  the  accrmnt 
of  a  declaration  and  refusal,  which  never  pro- 
bably before  were  equalled  since  the  beginnin"^ 
of  the  world: — 

"Napoleon  came  one  day  to  my  mother,  a 
considerable  time  after  the  death  of  my  father, 
tnd  proposed  a  marriage  between  his  sister 
Pauline  and  my  brother  Permon.     'Permon 


has  some  fortune,'  said  he;  'my  sister  has 
nothing:  but  I  am  in  a  situation  to  do  much 
for  my  connections,  and  I  could  procure  an 
advantageous  place  for  her  husband.  That 
alliance  would  render  me  happy.  You  know 
how  beautiful  my  sister  is :  My  mother  is 
your  friend:  Come,  say  Yes,  and  all  will  b 
settled.' 

"My  mother  answered,  that  her  son  must 
answer  for  himself;  and  that  she  would  make 
no  attempt  to  influence  his  choice. 

"  Bonaparte  admitted  that  my  brother  was 
a  young  man  so  remarkable,  that,  though  he 
was  only  twenty-five  years  of  age,  he  had 
judgment  and  talents  adequate  to  any  situa- 
tion. What  Bonaparte  proposed  w'as  extreme- 
ly natural.  He  contemplated  a  marriage  be- 
tween a  girl  of  sixteen  and  a  young  man  of 
twent}--five,  who  had  L.500  a  year,  with  a 
handsome  exterior;  who  drew  as  well  as  his 
master,  Veruet ;  played  on  the  harp  much 
belter  than  his  master,  Ivromphultz ;  spoke 
English,  Italian,  and  modern  Greek,  as  well  as 
a  native,  and  had  such  talents  as  had  made 
his  official  duties  in  the  army  of  the  south  a 
matter  of  remark.  Such  was  the  person  whom 
Napoleon  asked  for  his  sister;  a  ravishing 
beauty  and  good  daughter,  it  is  true  ;  but  that 
was  all. 

"  To  this  proposal  Napoleon  added  another ; 
that  of  a  union  between  myself  and  Joseph  or 
Jerome.  '  Jerome  is  younger  than  Laurette,' 
said  my  mother,  laughing.  'In  truth,  my  dear 
Napoleon,  you  have  become  a  high-priest  to- 
day; )'ou  must  needs  marry  all  the  world,  even 
children.'  Bonaparte  laughed  also,  but  with 
an  embarrassed  air.  He  admitted  that  that 
morning,  in  rising,  a  gale  of  marriage  had 
blown  over  him,  'and  to  prove  it,' said  he, 
taking  the  hand  of  my  mother,  and  kissing  it, 
'  I  am  resolved  to  commence  the  union  of  our 
families  by  asking  you  to  marry  myself  as 
soon  as  the  forms  of  society  will  permit.' 

"  My  mother  has  frequently  told  me  that  ex- 
traordinary scene,  which  I  know  as  if  I  had 
been  present  at  it.  She  looked  at  Bonaparte 
for  some  seconds  with  an  astonishment  bor- 
dering on  stupefaction ;  then  she  began  to 
laugh  so  immoderately  that  we  all  heard  it, 
though  we  were  in  the  next  room. 

"  Napoleon  was  highly  offended  at  the  mode 
in  which  a  proposal,  which  appeared  to  him 
perfectly  natiiral,  was  received.  My  mother, 
who  perceived  what  he  felt,  hastened  to  ex- 
plain herself,  and  to  show  that  it  was  at  the 
thoughts  of  the  ridiculous  figure  which  she 
herself  M-ould  make  in  such  an  event,  that  she 
was  so  much  amused.  '  My  dear  Napoleon,' 
said  she,  when  she  had  done" laughing,  'let  us 
speak  seriously.  You  imagine  you  know  my 
age,  but  you  really  do  not :  I  M'ill  not  tell  you, 
for  I  have  a  slight  weakness  in  that  respect: 
I  will  only  say,  I  am  old  enough,  not  only  to 
be  your  motjier,  but  the  mother  of  Joseph. 
Let  us  put  an  end  to  this  pleasantry;  it 
grieves  me  when  coming  from  you.' 

"Bonaparte  told  her  that  he  was  quite  se- 
rious; that  the  age  of  his  wife  was  to  him  a 
matter  of  no  importance,  provided  she  had  not 
the  look,  like  her,  of  being  above  thirty  years 
old;  that  he  had  deliberately  considered  wha 


NAPOLEON. 


37 


he  had  just  said;  and  he  added  these  remark- 
able words  : — '  I  wish  to  marry.  My  friends 
Rrish  me  to  marry  a  lady  of  the  Faiixbourg  St. 
Germain,  who  is  charming  and  agreeable.  My 
old  friends  are  averse  to  this  connection,  and 
the  one  I  now  propose  suits  me  belter  in  many 
respects.  Reflect.'  My  mother  interrupted  the 
conversation  by  saying,  that  her  mind  was 
made  up  as  to  herself;  and  that  as  to  her  son, 
she  would  give  him  an  answer  in  a  day  or 
two.  She  gave  him  her  hand  at  parting,  and 
said,  smiling,  that,  though  she  had  not  entirely 
given  up  the  idea  of  conquests,  she  could  not 
go  just  so  far  as  to  think  of  subduing  a  heart 
of  six-and-twenty;  and  that  she  hoped  their 
friendship  would  not  be  disturbed  by  this  little 
incident.  'But  at  all  events,' said  Napoleon, 
'consider  it  AvelL' — '  Well,  I  will  consider  it,' 
said  she,  smiling  in  her  sweetest  manner,  and 
so  they  parted. 

"After  I  was  married  to  Junot,  and  he  heard 
it,  he  declared  that  it  appeared  less  surprising 
to  him  than  it  did  to  us.  Bonaparte,  at  the 
epoch  of  the  13th  Vendemiare,  was  attached 
to  the  war  committee.  His  projects,  his 
plans,  all  had  one  object,  and  that  was  the 
East-  My  mother's  name  of  Comnene,  with 
her  Grecian  descent,  had  a  great  interest  in 
his  imagination.  The  name  of  Calomeros, 
united  with  Comnene,  might  have  powerfully 
served  his  ambition  in  that  quarter.  '  The 
great  secret  of  all  these  marriages,'  said  Junot, 
■was  in  that  idea.'  1  believe  he  was  right." — 
[.  pp.  202,  203. 

All  the  proposed  marriages  came  to  nothing ; 
the  duchess's  brother  refused  Pauline,  and  she 
lierself  Joseph.  The)''  little  thought,  that  the 
one  was  refusing  the  throne  of  Charlemagne, 
the  other  that  of  Charles  V.,  and  the  third,  the 
most  beautiful  princess  in  Europe. 

The  following  picture  of  three  of  the  most 
celebrated  women  in  the  Revolution,  one  of 
whom  evidently  contributed  by  her  influence 
to  the  tall  of  Robespien-e,  shows  that  the  fair 
authoress  is  not  less  a  master  of  the  subject 
more  peculiarly  belonging  to  her  sex. 

"Madame  D.  arrived  late  in  the  ball-room. 
The  great  saloon  was  completely  filled.  Ma- 
dame D.,  who  was  well  accustomed  to  such 
situations,  looked  around  her  to  see  if  she 
could  discover  a  seat,  when  her  eyes  were 
arrested  by  the  figure  of  a  young  and  charm- 
ing person,  with  a  profusion  of  light  tresses, 
looking  around  her  with  her  fine  blue  eyes, 
with  a  timid  air,  and  offering  the  most  perfect 
image  of  a  young  sylph.  She  was  in  the  act 
of  being  led  to  her  seat  by  M.  de  Trenis,  which 
showed  that  she  was  a  beautiful  dancer ;  for 
he  honoured  no  one  with  his  hand,  but  those 
who  might  receive  the  title  of  la  belle  clanscusc. 
The  young  lad)'',  after  having  bowed  blushing 
to  the  Vestris  of  the  room,  sat  down  beside  a 
3ady  who  had  the  appearance  of  being  her 
elder  sistei,  and'ivhose  extremely  elegant  dress 
was  attracting  the  attention  of  all  around  her. 
'  Who  are  these  ladies  V  said  Madame  D.  to 
the  Count  de  Haulefort,  on  whose  arm  she 
was  leaning.  'Do  you  not  know  the  Vis- 
countess Beauharnais  a  id  her  daughter  Hor- 
tense  V 

«*MvGod!'  said  the  Count,  'who  is  that 


beautiful  woman"!'  who  at  that  moment  en* 
tered  the  room,  and  towards  whom  all  eyes 
were  immediately  turned.  That  lady  was 
of  a  stature  above  the  ordinary ;  but  the  per- 
fect harmony  in  her  proportions  prevented 
you  from  perceiving  that  she  was  above  the 
ordinary  size.  It  was  the  Venus  of  the  Capi- 
tol, but  more  beautiful  than  the  work  of  Phi- 
dias. You  saw  the  same  perfection  in  the 
arms,  neck,  and  feet,  and  the  whole  figure 
animated  by  an  expression  of  benevolence, 
which  told  at  once,  that  all  that  beauty  was 
but  the  magic  reflection  of  a  mind  animated 
only  by  the  most  benevolent  and  generous 
feelings.  Her  dress  had  no  share  in  contri- 
buting to  her  beauty ;  for  it  was  a  simple 
robe  of  Indian  muslin  arranged  in  drapery 
like  the  antique,  and  held  together  on  the 
shoulders  by  two  splendid  cameos ;  a  girdle 
of  gold,  which  encircled  her  figure,  was  ele- 
gantly clasped  in  the  same  way;  a  large  gold 
en  bracelet  ornamented  her  arm ;  her  hair 
black  and  luxuriant,  was  dressed  withou 
tresses,  a  la  Titus ;  over  her  white  and  beauti 
ful  shoulders  was  thrown  a  superb  shawl  of 
redcachemere,  a  dress  at  that  period  extremely 
rare,  and  highly  in  request.  It  was  thrown 
round  her  in  the  most  elegant  and  picturesque 
manner,  forming  thus  a  picture  of  the  most 
ravishing -beauty.  It  was  Madame  Tallien,  so 
well  known  for  her  generous  efforts  at  the 
time  of  the  fall  of  Robespierre." — I.  222. 

This  description  suggests  one  observation, 
which  must  strike  every  one  who  is  at  all  fami- 
liar with  the  numerous  French  female  memoirs 
which  have  issued  from  the  Parisian  press 
within  these  few  yeai-s.  This  is  the  extraor- 
dinary accuracy  with  which,  at  any  distance 
of  time,  they  seem  to  have  the  power  of  re- 
calling, not  only  the  whole  particulars  of  a 
ball-room  or  opera,  but  even  the  dresses  worn 
by  the  ladies  on  these  occasions.  Thus  the 
ball  here  described  took  place  in  1797.  Yet 
the  duchess  has  no  sort  of  difficulty  in  re- 
counting the  whole  particulars  both  of  the 
people  and  dresses  in  1830,  three-and-thirty 
years  after.  We  doubt  extremely  whether 
any  woman  in  England  could  give  as  accu- 
rate an  account  within  a  month  after  the 
event.  Nor  does  there  seem  to  be  any  ground 
for  the  obvious  remark  that  these  descriptions 
are  all  got  up  ex  post  facto,  without  any  foun- 
dation in  real  life ;  for  the  variety  and  accu- 
racy with  which  they  are  given  evidently 
demonstrates,  that  however  much  the  colours 
may  have  been  subsequently  added,  the  out- 
lines of  the  sketch  were  taken  from  nature. 
As  little  is  there  any  ground  for  the  suspicion, 
that  the  attention  of  the  French  women  is  ex- 
clusively occupied  with  these  matters,  to  the 
exclusion  of  more  serious  considerations ;  for 
these  pages  are  full  of  able  and  sometimes 
profound  remarks  on  politics,  events,  and 
characters,  such  as  would  have  done  credit  to 
the  clearest  head  in  Britain.  We  can  only 
suppose  that  the  vanity  which,  amidst  many 
excellencies,  is  the  undoubted  characteristic 
both  of  the  men  and  women  in  France,  is  the 
cause  of  this  extraordinary  power  in  their 
female  writers,  and  that  the  same  disposition 
which  induces  their  statesmen  and  heroes  to 


38 


ALISON'S   MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


reconl  ilailv  the  victories  of  their  diplomacy 
and  arms,  leads  their  lively  and  intelligent 
ladies  to  commit  to  paper  all  that  is  particu- 
larly rcmark-abie  in  private  life,  or  descriptive 
of  their  triumphs  in  the  field  of  love. 

Some  iiueresting  details  are  preserved,  as  to 
the  reception  of  Napoleon  in  Paris  by  the 
Directory  after  the  Revolution  of  the  18th 
Fructidor.  The  following  quotations  exhibit 
the  talent  of  the  author,  both  for  the  lighter 
and  more  ■serious  subjects  of  narrative  iu  the 
best  light: 

"  Junot  entered  at  first  into  the  famous  bat- 
talion of  volunteers  of  the  Cote  d'or.  After 
the  surrender  of  Longwy  they  were  moved  to 
Toulon  ;  it  was  the  most  terrific  period  of  the 
Revolution.  Junot  was  then  a  sergeant  of 
grenadiers,  an  honour  which  he  received  from 
the  voluniary  election  of  his  comrades  on  the 
field  of  battfc.  Often,  in  recounting  to  me  the 
first  years  of  his  adventurous  life,  he  has  de- 
clared that  nothing  ever  gave  him  such  a  de- 
lirium of  joy,  as  when  his  comrades,  all,  he 
said,  as  brave  as  himself,  named  him  sergeant 
on  the  field  of  battle,  and  he  was  elevated  on 
a  seat  formed  of  crossed  baj'onets,  still  reek- 
ing with  the  blood  of  their  enemies." 

It  was  at  that  time  that,  being  one  day, 
during  the  siege  of  Toulon,  at  his  post  at  the 
battery  of  St.  Culottes,  an  officer  of  artillery, 
who  had  recently  come  from  Paris  to  direct 
the  operations  of  the  siege,  asked  from  the 
officer  who  commanded  the  post  for  a  young 
non-commissioned  officer  who  had  at  once  in- 
telligence and  boldness.  The  officer  immedi- 
ately called  for  Junot;  the  officer  surveyed 
him  with  that  eye  which  already  began  to  take 
the  measure  of  human  capacity. 

"'You  will  change  your  dress,'  said  the 
commander,  'and  )-ou  will  go  there  to  bear 
this  order.'  He  showed  him  with  his  hand  a 
spot  at  a  distance  on  the  sarne  side.  The 
young  sergeant  blushed  up  to  the  ej^es ;  his 
eyes  kindled  with  fire.  'I  am  not  a  spy,'  said 
he,  'to  execute  their  orders;  seek  another  to 
bear  them.'  'Do  you  refuse  to  obey  V  said  the 
superiorofficer ;  '  do  you  know  to  what  punish- 
ment you  expose  yourself  in  so  doing  V  '  I 
am  ready  to  obey,'  said  Juftot,  '  but  1  will  go 
in  my  uniform,  or  not  at  all.'  The  comman- 
der smiled,  and  looked  at  him  attentively. 
♦Bht  if  you  do,  they  will  kill  j'ou.'  'What 
docs  that  signify  1'  said  Junot;  '3'ou  know 
me  little  to  imagine  I  would  be  pained  at  such 
an  occurrence,  and,  as  for  me,  it  is  all  one — 
come,  I  go  as  I  am ;  is  it  not  so  V  And  he  set 
off  singing. 

"After  he  was  gone,  the  superior  officer 
asked,  '  What  is  the  name  of  that  young  man?' 
Junot,'  replied  the  other.  The  commanding 
officer  then  wrote  his  name  in  his  pocket-book. 
'He  will  make  his  way,'  he  replied.  This 
judgment  was  already  of  decisive  importance 
to  Junot,  for  the  reader  must  readily  have 
divined  that  the  olHcer  of  artillery  was  Na- 
poleon. 

"A  few  days  after,  being  on  his  rounds  at 
the  same  battery,  Bonaparte  asked  for  some 
one  who  could  write  well.  Junot  stepped  out 
flf  the  ranks  and  presented  himself.  Bona- 
part»  recognised  him  as  the  sergeant  who  had 


already  fixed  his  attention.  He  exprescej  his 
satisfaction  at  seeing  him,  and  desired  him  to 
place  himself  so  as  to  write  under  his  dicta- 
lion.  Hardly  was  the  letter  done,  when  a 
bomb,  projected  from  the  English  batteries, 
fell  at  the  distance  of  ten  yards,  and,  exploding 
covered  all  present  with  gravel  and  dusi 
'  Well,'  said  Junot,  laughing, '  we  shall  at  leas 
not  require  sand  to  dry  the  ink.' 

"  Bonaparte  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  young  ser- 
geant ;  he  was  calm,  and  had  not  even  quivered 
at  the  explosion.  That  event  decided  his  for- 
tune. He  remained  attached  to  the  com- 
mander of  artillery,  and  returned  no  more  to 
his  corps.  At  a  subsequent  time,  when  the 
town  surrendered,  and  Bonaparte  was  ap- 
pointed General,  Junot  asked  no  other  recom- 
pense for  his  brave  conduct  during  the  siege, 
but  to  be  named  his  aid-de-camp.  He  and 
Muiron  were  the  first  who  served  him  in  that 
capacity."— L  268. 

A  singular  incident,  Avhich  is  stated  as  hav- 
ing happened  to  Junot  at  the  battle  of  Lonato, 
in  Italy,  is  recorded  in  the  following  curious 
manner: — 

"  The  evening  before  the  battle  of  Lonato, 
Junot  having  been  on  horseback  all  the  day, 
and  rode  above  20  leagues  in  canying  the 
orders  of  the  General-in-Chief,  lay  down  over- 
whelmed with  fatigue,  without  undressing, 
and  ready  to  start  up  at  the  smallest  signal. 
Hardly  was  he  asleep,  when  he  dreamed  he 
was  on  a  field  of  battle,  surrounded  by  the 
dead  and  the  dying.  Before  him  was  a  horse- 
man, clad  in  armour,  with  -whom  he  was  en- 
gaged;  that  cavalier,  instead  of  a  lance,  was 
armed  with  a  scythe,  with  which  he  struck 
Junot  several  blows,  particularly  one  on  the 
left  temple.  The  combat  was  long,  and  at 
length  they  seized  each  other  by  the  middle. 
In  the  struggle  the  vizor,  the  casque  of  the 
horseman,  fell  off",  and  Junot  perceived  that  he 
was  fighting  with  a  skeleton ;  soon  the  armour 
fell  off",  and  death  stood  before  him  armed  with 
his  scythe.  '  I  have  not  been  able  to  take  you,' 
said  he,  '  but  I  will  seize  one  of  your  best 
friends. — Beware  of  me  !' 

"  Junot  awoke,  bathed  with  sweat.  The 
morning  was  beginning  to  dawn,  and  he  could 
not  sleep  from  the  impression  he  had  received. 
He  felt  convinced  that  one  of  his  brother  aid- 
de-camps,  Muiron  or  Marmont,  would  be  slain 
in  the  approaching  fight.  In  efiect  it  was  so: 
Junot  received  two  wounds — one  on  the  left 
temple,  which  he  bore  to  his  grave,  and  the 
other  on  the  breast;  but  Muiron  was  shot 
through  the  heart."— L  270. 

The  two  last  volumes  of  this  interesting 
work,  published  a  few  weeks  ago,  are  hardly 
equal  in  point  of  importance  to  those  which 
contained  the  earlier  history  of  Napoleon,  but 
still  they  abound  with  interesting  and  curious 
details.  The  following  picture  of  the  religion 
which  grew  up  in  France  on  the  ruins  of 
Christianity,  is  singularly  instructive: — 

"  It  is  Mcll  known,  that  during  the  revolu- 
tionary troubles  of  France,  not  only  all  the 
churches  were  closed,  but  the  Catholic  and 
Protestant  worship  entirely  forbidden ,  and, 
after  the  Constitution  of  1795,  it  was  at  the 
hazard  of  one's  life  that  either  the  mass  wa« 


NAPOLEON. 


39 


heard,  or  any  religious  duty  performed.  It  is 
evident  that  Robespierre,  who  unquestionably 
had  a  design  which  is  now  generally  under- 
stood, was  desirous,  on  the  day  of  the  fete  of 
the  Supreme  Being,  to  bring  back  public 
opinion  to  the  worship  of  the  Deity.  Eight 
months  before,  we  had  seen  the  Bishop  of 
Paris,  accompanied  by  his  clergy,  appear  vo- 
luntarily at  the  bar  of  the  Convention,  to  abjure 
the  Christian  faith  and  the  Catholic  religion. 
But  it  is  not  as  generally  known,  that  at  that 
period  Robespierre  was  not  omnipotent,  and 
could  not  carry  his  desires  into  effect.  Nu- 
merous factions  then  disputed  with  him  the 
supreme  authorit}'.  It  was  not  till  the  end  of 
1 793,  and  the  beginning  of  1794,  that  his  power 
was  so  completely  established  that  he  could 
venture  to  act  up  to  his  intentions. 

"Robespierre  was  then  desirous  to  establish 
the  worship  of  the  Supreme  Being,  and  the 
belief  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul.  He  felt 
that  irreligion  is  the  soul  of  anarchy,  and  it 
was  not  anarchy  but  despotism  wdiich  he  de- 
sired ;  and  yet  the  very  day  after  that  magnifi- 
cent fete  in  honour  of  the  Supreme  Being,  a 
man  of  the  highest  celebrity  in  science,  and 
as  distinguished  for  virtue  and  probity  as 
philosophic  genius,  Lavoisier,  was  led  out  to 
the  scaffold.  On  the  day  following  that, 
Madame  Elizabeth,  that  princess  whom  the 
executioners  could  not  guillotine,  till  they  had 
turned  aside  their  eyes  from  the  sight  of  her 
angelic  visage,  stained  the  same  axe  with  her 
blood ! — And  a  month  after,  Robespierre,  who 
wished  to  restore  order  for  his  own  purposes — 
who  wished  to  still  the  bloody  waves  -which  for 
3'ears  had  inundated  the  state,  felt  that  all  his 
efforts  would  be  in  vain  if  the  masses  who 
supported  his  power  were  not  restrained  and 
directed,  because  without  order  nothing  but 
ravages  and  destruction  can  prevail.  To  en- 
sure the  government  of  the  masses,  it  was  in- 
dispensable that  morality,  religion,  and  belief 
should  be  established — and,  to  affect  the  mul- 
titude, that  religion  should  be  clothed  in  ex- 
ternal forms.  '  My  friend,'  said  Voltaire,  to 
the  atheist  Damilaville,  'after  you  have  supped 
on  well-dressed  partridges,  drank  your  spark- 
ling champagne,  and  slept  on  cushions  of 
down  in  the  arms  of  your  mistress,  I  have  no 
fear  of  you,  though  you  do  not  believe  in  God. 
But  if  you  are  perishing  of  hunger,  and  I  meet 
you  in  the  corner  of  a  wood,  I  would  rather 
dispense  with  your  company.'  But  when 
Robespierre  wished  to  bring  back  to  some- 
thing like  discipline  the  crew  of  the  vessel 
which  was  fast  driving  on  the  breakers,  he 
found  the  thing  was  not  so  easy  as  he  ima- 
gined. To  destroy  is  easy — to  rebuild  is  the 
difhculty.  He  was  omnipotent  to  do  evil;  but 
the  day  that  he  gave  the  first  sign  of  a  disposi- 
tion to  return  to  order,  the  hands  which  he 
himself  had  stained  with  blood,  marked  his 
forshead  with'the  fatal  sign  of  destruction." — 
VL  34,  35. 

After  the  fall  of  Robespierre,  a  feeble  attempt 
was  made,  under  the  Directory,  to  establish  a 
religious  system  founded  on  pure  Deism.  To 
the  faithful  believer  in  Revelation,  it  is  inte- 
resting to  trace  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  first 
attempt  in  the   history  of  the  world  to   es- 


tablish such  a  faith  as  the  basis  of  nationa. 
religion. 

"  Under  the  Directory,  that  brief  and  deplora- 
ble government,  a  new  sect  established  itself 
in  France.  Its  system  was  rather  morality 
than  religion  ;  it  affected  the  utmost  tolerance, 
recognised  all  religions,  and  had  no  other  faith 
than  a  belief  in  God.  Its  votaries  were  termed 
the  Theophilanthropists.  It  was  during  the 
year  1797  that  this  sect  arose.  I  was  once 
tempted  to  go  to  one  of  their  meetings.  Lare« 
veilliere  Lepaux,  chief  grand  priest  and  pro- 
tector of  the  sect,  was  to  deliver  a  discoiu'se. 
The  first  thing  that  struck  me  in  the  place  of 
assembly,  was  a  basket  filled  with  the  most 
magnificent  flowers  of  July,  w'hich  was  then 
the  season,  and  another  loaded  wdth  the  most 
splendid  fruits.  Every  one  knows  the  grand 
altar  of  the  church  of  St.  Nicholas  in  the 
Fields,  with  its  rich  Corinthian  freize.  I  sus- 
pect the  Theophilanthropists  had  chosen  that 
church  on  that  account  for  the  theatre  of  their 
exploits,  in  a  spirit  of  religious  coquetry.  In 
truth,  their  basket  of  flowers  produced  an  ad- 
mirable effect  on  that  altar  of  the  finest  Grecian 
form,  and  mingled  in  perfect  harmony  with  the 
figures  of  angels  which  adorned  the  walls.  The 
chief  pronounced  a  discourse,  in  which  he 
spoke  so  well,  that,  in  truth,  if  the  Gospel  had 
not  said  the  same  things  infinitely  better,  some 
seventeen  hundred  and  ninety-seven  years  be 
fore,  it  would  have  been  decidedly  preferable 
either  to  the  Paganism  of  antiquity,  or  th 
mythology  of  Egypt  or  India. 

"Napoleon  had  the  strongest  prejudice 
against  that  sect.  'They  are  comedians,'  said 
he;  and  when  some  one  replied  that  nothing 
could  be  more  admirable  than  the  conduct  of 
some  of  their  chiefs,  that  Lareveilliere  Lepaux 
was  one  of  the  most  virtuous  men  in  Paris ; 
in  fine,  that  their  morality  consisted  in  nothing 
but  virtue,  good  faith,  and  charit}',  he  replied — 

"  'To  what  purpose  is  all  that?  Every  sys- 
tem of  morality  is  admirable.  Apart  from 
certain  dogmas,  more  or  less  absurd,  which 
were  necessary  to  bring  them  down  to  the 
level  of  the  age  in  which  they  were  produced, 
what  do  you  see  in  the  morality  of  the  Wid- 
ham,  the  Koran,  the  Old  Testament,  or  Confu- 
cius 1  Everywhere  a  pure  system  of  morality, 
that  is  to  say,  you  see  protection  to  the  weak, 
respect  to  the  laws,  gratitude  to  God,  recom- 
mended and  enforced.  But  the  evangelists 
alone  exhibit  the  union  of  all  the  principles  of 
morality,  detached  from  every  kind  of  ab- 
surdity. There  is  something  admirable,  and 
not  your  common-place  sentiments  put  into 
bad  verse.  Do  3'ou  wish  to  see  what  is  sub- 
lime, you  and  }'our  friends  the  Theophilan- 
thropists? Bcpcat,  the  Lord's  Praye>:  Your  zea- 
lots,' added  he,  addressing  a  young  enthusiast 
in  that  system,  'are  desirous  of  the  palm  of 
martyrdom,  but  I  will  not  give  it  them  ;  nothing 
shall  fall  on  them  but  strokes  of  ridicule,  and 
I  little  know  the  French,  if  they  do  not  prove 
mortal.'  In  truth,  the  result  proved  how  well 
he  had  appreciated  the  French  character.  It 
perished  after  an  ephemeral  existence  of  five 
years,  and  left  not  a  trace  behind,  but  a  few 
verses,  preserved  as  a  relic  of  thai  age  0/ 
mental  aberration." — VI.  40 — 43. 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


Xhis  r>Tvsn.'<»  is  ven*  remarkable.  Here  we 
haredi  -t  intcliect  of  the  age,  Napoleon 

hill  nun?  to  the  Gospel,  and  to  the 

J..  r.  as  ihe  only  pure  system  of  re- 

f  human  com- 
.  .  ourincr.  in  the 

close  ot  his  Moody  career,  to  cement  anew  the 
fabric  of  society,  which  he  had  had  so  large  a 
share  in  destroying,  by  a  recurrence  to  reli- 
gious ii  as!  Soindi-  '\Msdevo- 
tion  to  ;  in  heart;  so  ;y  is  it  to 
the  construction  of  the  first  elcuu-nis  of  society, 
and  so  well  may  you  distinguish  the  spirit  of 
anarchy  and  revolution,  by  the  irreligious  ten- 
dency which  invariably  attends  it, and  prepares 
the  overthrow  of  ever%-  nation^  institution,  by 
S3]  I"  ever)- private  virtue. 
Tlir  -h  residents  over  all 
France,  on  the  rupture  of  the  peace  of  Amiens, 
was  one  of  the  most  cruel  and  unjustifiable 
acts  of  Napoleon's  government.  The  following 
T  :  and  the  First  Consul  on 
-ilarly  characteristic  of  the 
impetuous  fits  of  passion  to  which  that  great 
man  was  subject,  and  which  occasionally  be- 
trayed him  into  actions  so  unworthy  of  his 
general  character. 

"  On**  'Tc^rnin?,  at  five  o'clock,  when  day  was 
ju-'  ->  break, an  order  arrived  from 

the  i         '  .to  repair  instantly  to  Malmai- 

son.  He  had  been  labouring  till  four  in  the 
morning,  and  had  but  just  fallen  asleep.  He 
set  off  instantly,  and  did  not  return  till  five  in 
ing.  When  he  entered  he  was  in  great 
1 ;  his  meeting  with  him  had  been 
stormy,  and  the  conversation  long. 

"  When  Junot  arrived  at  the  First  Consul's. 
he  found  his  figure  in  disorder;  his  features 
were  contracted;  and  every  thing  announced 
one  of  those  terrible  agitations  which  made 
ever>-  one  who  approached  him  tremble. 

***  Junot,' said  he  to  his  old  aid-de-camp, '  are 
yon  still  the  friend  on  whom  I  can  rely  ?  Yes 
or  no.    No  circumlocution.* 

" '  Yes,  my  General.' 

"'Well  then,  before  an  hour  is  over,  you 
must  take  measures  instantly,  so  that  all  the 
English,  without  one  single  exception,  shall  be 
instantly  arrested.  Room  enough  for  them  will 
be  found  in  the  Temple,  the  Force,  the  Abbaye, 
•^  of  Paris;  it  is  indispen- 
uld  all  be  arrested.  We 
mil  iheir  government,  that  entrenched 

the'..- ,  are  in  their  isle,  they  can  be  reach- 
ed by  an  enemv  who  is  under  no  obligation 
to'T     ■  ■  '  •  ■      oy.— The 

'*"'"■  lenllyon 

..  and  assign  as  a 

'  '  -  --.choked  his  voice, 

and  he  was  some  time  in  r^overing  himself. 

^  "^   •  I  IS  m- 

tw  «  of 


of  .\  n  pretence  that,  since  it  was  signed, 

•^e     ;..,a  of  the  contracting  parties   had 

changed.' 


hi^ 
En 

KV 


i-' ..: 


n  for 
were 


now  handed  to  him  he  perceived  a  motive  to 
authorize  the  terrible  measure  which  Napoleon 
had  commanded.  He  would  willingly  have 
given  him  his  life,  but  now  he  was  required  to 
do  a  thing  to  the  last  degree  repugnant  to  the 
liberal  principles  in  which  he  had  been  trained. 

"  The  First  Consul  waited  for  some  time  for 
an  answer;  but  seeing  the  attitudeof  Junot, he 
proceeded,  after  a  pause  of  some  minutes,  as 
if  the  answer  had  already  been  given. 

" '  That  measure  must  be  executed  at  seven 
o'clock  this  evening.  I  am  resolved  that,  this 
evening,  not  the  most  obscure  theatre  at  Paris, 
not  the  most  miserable  restaurateur,  should 
contain  an  Englishman  within  its  walls.' 

" '  My  General,'  replied  Junot,  who  had  now 
recovered  his  composure, '  you  know  not  only 
my  attachment  to  your  person,  but  my  devotion 
in  every  thing  which  regards  yourself.  Believe 
me,  then,  it  is  nothing  but  that  devotion  whick 
makes  me  hesitate  in  obeying  yon,  before  en« 
treating  you  to  take  a  few  hours  to  reflect  en 
the  measure  which  you  have  commanded  Eie 
to  adopt.' 

"  Napoleon  contracted  his  eye-brows. 

" '  Again !'  said  he.  '  What !  is  the  scene  of 
the  other  day  so  soon  to  be  renewed  1  Lannes 
and  you  truly  give  yourselves  extraordinary 
license.  Duroc  alone,  with  his  tranquil  air, 
does  not  think  himself  entitled  to  preach  ser- 
mons to  me.  Y"ou  shall  find,  gentlemen,  by 
God,  that  I  can  square  my  hat  as  well  as  any 
man ;  Lannes  has  already  experienced  it ;  and 
I  do  not  think  he  will  enjoy  much  his  eating 
of  oranges  at  Lisbon.  As  for  you,  Junot.  do 
not  rely  too  much  on  my  friendship.  The  day 
on  which  I  doubt  of  yours,  mine  is  destroyed.' 

"'My  General,'  replied  Junot,  profoundly 
afflicted  at  being  so  much  misunderstood,  "^  it 
is  not  at  the  moment  that  I  am  giving  you  the 
strongest  proof  of  my  devotion,  that  you  should 
thus  address  me.  Ask  my  blood;  ask  my  life; 
they  belong  to  you,  and  shall  be  freely  render- 
ed ;  but  to  order  me  to  do  a  thing  which  will 
cover  us  ail  with ' 

" '  Go  on,'  he  interrupted,  '  go  on,  by  all 
means-  What  will  happen  to  me  because  I 
retaliate  on  a  perfidious  government  the  inju- 
ries which  it  has  heaped  upon  me  V 

'•  •  It  does  not  belong  to  me.'  replied  Junot, 
'  to  decide  upon  what  line  of  conduct  is  suit- 
able to  you.  Of  this,  however,  I  am  well  as- 
sured, that  if  any  thing  unworthy  of  your  glory 
is  attempted,  it  will  be  from  your  eyes  being 
fascinated  by  the  men,  who  only  disquiet  yoo 
by  their  advice,  and  incessantly  urge  you  to 
measures  of  severity.  Believe  me.  my  Gene- 
ral, these  men  do  you  infinite  mischief.' 

" '  Who  do  you  mean !'  said  Napoleon. 

"Junot  mentioned  the  names  of  several, 
and  stated  what  he  knew  of  them. 

" '  Nevertheless,  these  men  are  devoted  to 
.'  rephed  he.  '  One  of  them  said  the  other 
.,iy.  "  If  the  First  Consul  were  to  desire  me  to 
kill  my  father,  I  would  kill  him." ' 

" '  I  know  not,  my  General.'  replied  Junot, 

'  what  desree  of  attachment  to  you  it  is,  to  sup- 

-Me  of  giving  an  order  to  a  son 

his  own  father.    But  it  matters 

not ;  when  one  is  so  unfortunate  as  to  think  ia 
that  manner,  they  seldom  make  it  public' 


NAPOLEON. 


41 


"Two  }-ears  afterwards,  the  First  Consul, 
who  was  then  Emperor,  spoke  to  me  of  that 
scene,  after  mj-  return  from  Portugal,  and  told 
me  that  he  was  on  the  point  of  embracing  Ju- 
not  at  these  words :  so  much  was  he  struck 
with  these  noble  expressions  addressed  to  him, 
his  general,  his  chief,  the  man  on  whom  alone 
his  destinj- depended.  'For  in  fine,'  said  the 
Emperor,  smiling, 'I  must  own  I  am  rather 
nnreasonable  when  I  am  angry,  and  that  you 
know,  Madame  Junot.' 

"  As  for  m)-  husband,  the  conversation  which 
he  had  with  the  First  Consul  was  of  the  warm- 
est description.  He  went  the  length  of  remind- 
ing him,  that  at  the  departure  of  the  ambassa- 
dor, Lord  Whitworth,  the  most  solemn  assu- 
rances had  been  given  him  of  the  safety  of  all 
the  English  at  Paris.  'There  are,' said  he, 
*  amongst  them,  women,  children,  and  old  men ; 
there  are  numbers,  my  General,  who  night  and 
morning  pray  to  God  to  prolong  your  days. 
They  are  for  the  most  part  persons  engaged  in 
trade,  for  abnost  all  the  higher  classes  of  that  na- 
tion have  left  Paris.  The  damage  they  would 
sustain  from  being  all  imprisoned,  is  immense. 
Oh,  my  General !  it  is  not  for  j-ou  whose  noble 
and  generous  mind  so  well  comprehends  what- 
ever is  grand  in  the  creation,  to  confound  a 
generous  nation  with  a  perfidious  cabinet'  " — 
VI,  406—410. 

With  the  utmost  difiiculty,  Junot  prevailed 
on  Napoleon  to  commute  the  original  order, 
which  had  been  for  immediate  imprisonment, 
into  one  for  the  confinement  of  the  unfortu- 
nate British  subjects  in  particular  towns,  where 
it  is  well  known  most  of  them  lingered  till  de- 
livered by  the  Allies  in  1814.  But  Napoleon 
never  forgave  this  interference  with  his  wrath; 
and  shortly  after,  Junot  was  removed  from  the 
government  of  Paris,  and  sent  into  honourable 
exile  to  superintend  the  formation  of  a  corps 
of  grenadiers  at  Arras. 

The  great  change  which  has  taken  place  in 
the  national  character  of  France  since  the  Re- 
storation, has  bean  noticed  b}'  all  writers  on 
the  subject.  The  Duchess  of  Abrantes'  obser- 
vations on  the  subject  are  highly  curious. 

"Down  to  the  year  1800,  the  national  cha- 
racter had  undergone  no  material  alteration. 
That  character  overcame  all  perils,  disregard- 
ed all  dangers,  and  even  laughed  at  death  it- 
self. It  was  this  calm  in  the  victims  of  the 
Revolution  which  gave  the  executioners  their 
principal  advantage.  A  friend  of  my  acquaint- 
ance, who  accidentally  found  himself  sur- 
rounded by  the  crowd  who  were  returning  from 
witnessing  the  execution  of  Madame  du  Barri, 
heard  two  of  the  women  in  the  street  speaking 
to  each  other  on  the  subject,  and  one  said  to 
the  other,  'How  that  one  cried  out!  If  they 
all  cry  out  in  that  manner,  I  will  not  return 
again  to  the  executions.'  What  a  volume  of 
reflections  arise  from  these  few  words  spoken, 
with  all  the  unconcern  of  those  barbarous 
days  ! 

"  The  three  years  of  the  Revolution  follow- 
ing 1793,  taught  us  to  weep,  but  did  not  teach 
ns  to  cease  to  laugh.  They  laughed  under  the 
axe  yet  stained  with  blood  ; — they  laughed  as 
the  victim  slept  at  Venice  under  the  burning 
irons  which  were  to  waken  his  dreams.  Alas  ! 


how  deep  must  have  been  the  wouni^  wbicli 
have  changed  this  lightsome  character !  For 
the  joyous  Frenchman  laughs  nomoie;  and 
if  he  still  has  some  happy  days,  the  sun  of 
gaiety  has  set  for  ever.  This  change  has  taker- 
place  during  the  fifteen  years  which  have  fol 
lowed  the  Restoration;  while  the  horrors  of 
the  wars  of  religion,  the  tyrannical  reigns  of 
Louis  XI.  and  XIV.,  and  even  the  bloody  days 
of  the  Convention,  produced  no  such  efiect."— 
V.  142. 

Like  all  the  other  writers  on  the  modem 
state  of  France,  of  whatever  school  or  party 
in  politics,  Madame  Junot  is  horrified  with  the 
deterioration  of  manners,  and  increased  vul- 
garity, which  has  arisen  from  the  democratic 
invasions  of  later  times.  Listen  to  this  ardent 
supporter  of  the  revolutionary  order  of  things, 
on  this  subject : — 

"At  that  time,  (1801,)  the  habits  of  good 
company  were  not  yet  extinct  in  Paris;  of  the 
old  company  of  France,  and  not  of  what  is  now 
termed  good  company,  and  which  prevailed 
thirt}'  years  ago  only  among  postilions  and 
stable-boys.  At  that  period,  men  of  good  birth 
did  not  smoke  in  the  apartinents  of  their  wives,  be- 
cause they  felt  it  to  be  a  dirty  and  disgusting 
practice;  they  generally  washed  their  hands; 
when  they  went  out  to  dine,  or  to  pass  the 
evening  in  a  house  of  their  acquaintance,  they 
bowed  to  the  lady  at  its  head  in  entering  and  retiring, 
and  did  not  appear  so  abstracted  in  their 
thoughts  as  to  behave  as  they  -would  have 
done  in  an  hotel.  They  were  then  careful  not 
to  turn  their  back  on  those  vAih  whom  they  convastd., 
so  as  to  show  only  an  ear  or  the  point  of  a 
nose  to  those  whom  they  addressed.  They 
spoke  of  something  else,  besides  those  eternal 
politics  on  which  no  two  can  ever  agree,  and 
which  give  occasion  only  to  the  interchange 
of  bitter  expressions.  There  has  sprung  from 
these  endless  disputes,  disunion  in  families, 
the  dissolution  of  the  oldest  friendships,  and 
the  growth  of  hatred  which  wjU  continue  till 
the  grave.  Experience  proves  that  in  these 
contests  no  one  is  ever  convinced,  and  that 
each  goes  away  more  than  ever  persuaded  of 
the  truth  of  his  own  opinions. 

"  The  customs  of  the  world  now  give  me 
nothing  but  pain.  From  the  bosom  of  the  re- 
tirement where  I  have  been  secluded  for  these 
fifteen  years,  I  can  judge,  without  preposses- 
sion, of  the  extraordinaiy  revolution  in  man- 
ners which  has  lately  taken  place.  Old  im- 
pressions are  replaced,  it  is  said,  by  new  ones; 
that  is  all.  Are,  then,  the  new  ones  superior? 
I  cannot  believe  it.  Morality-  itself  is  rapidly 
undergoing  dissolution;  everi"  character  is  con- 
taminated, and  no  one  knows  from  whence 
the  poison  is  inhaled.  Young  men  now  lounge 
away  their  evenings  in  the  box  of  a  theatre,  or 
the  iJoulevards,  or  cany  on  elegant  converea- 
tion  with  a  fair  seller  of  gloves  and  perfiiniery, 
make  compliments  on  her  lily  and  vermilion 
cheeks,  and  present  her  with  a  cheap  ting.  ac« 
companied  with  a  gross  and  indelicate  compli- 
ment. Society  is  so  "disunited,  that  it  is  daily 
becoming  more  vulgar,  in  the  literal  sense  of 
the  word.  Whence  any  improvenient  is  to 
arise.  God  only  knows.'" — V.  156.  157. 

While  we  are  concluding  these  observations 


4S 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


Mother  bloody  revolt  has  occurred  at  Paris ; 
the  three  plorious  daj's  of  June  have  come  to 
crown  the  work,  and  developc  the  consequences 
of  the  three  plorious  days  of  July.*  After  a 
desperate  slrn^jf^le,  maintained  with  much 
greater  resolution  and  vigour  on  the  part  of 
the  insurgents    than    the  insurrection  whicli 

E roved  fatal  to  Charles  X.;  after  Paris  having 
een  the  theatre,  for  three  days,  of  bloodshed 
and  devastation ;  after  75,000  men  had  been 
engaged  against  the  Revolutionists;  after  the 
thunder  of  artillery  had  broken  down  the  Re- 
publican barricades,  and  showers  of  grape- 
shot  had  thinned  the  ranks  of  the  citizen-sol- 
diers, the  military  force  triumphed,  and  peace 
was  restored  to  the  trembling  cit)'.  What  has 
been  the  consequence  !  All  the  forms  of  law 
have  been  suspended;  military  commissions 
established ;  domiciliary  visits  become  univer- 
sal; several  thousand  persons  thrown  into 
prison  ;  and,  before  this,  the  fusillades  of  the 
new  heroes  of  the  Barricades  have  announced 
to  a  suflering  country  that  the  punishment  of 
their  sins  has  commenced.  The  liberty  of  the 
press  is  destroj'ed,  the  editors  delivered  over 
to  military  commissions,  the  printing  presses 
of  the  opposition  journals  thrown  into  the 
Seine,  and  all  attempts  at  insurrection,  or 
words  tending  to  excite  it,  and  all  offences  of  the 
j)r(<:s  taidiiig  to  cxrite  dissatisfaction  or  revolt, 
handed  over  to  military  commissions,  com- 
posed exclusively  of  officers !  This  is  the 
freedom  which  the  three  glorious  days  have 
procured  for  France ! 

The  soldiers  were  desperately  chagrined  and 
mortified  at  the  result  of  the  three  days  of  July ; 
and  well   they  might  be  so,  as   all  the  sub- 


sequent siilTerings  of  their  country,  and  the 
total  extinction  of  their  liberties  on  the  last 
occasion,  were  owing  to  their  vacillation  in 
the  first  revolt.  They  have  now  fought  with 
the  utmost  fury  against  the  people,  as  they  did 
at  Lyons,  and  French  blood  has  amply  stained 
their  bayonets ;  but  it  has  come  too  late  to 
wash  out  the  stain  of  their  former  treason,  or 
revive  the  liberties  w^hich  it  lost  for  their 
country. 

Polignac  is  now  completely  justified  fcT  al 
but  the  incapacity  of  commencing  a  change 
of  the  constitution  with  5000  men,  four  pieces 
of  cannon,  and  eight  rounds  of  grape-shot  to 
support  it.  The  ordinances  of  Charles  X.,  now 
adopted  with  increased  severity  by  Louis  Phi- 
lippe, were  destined  to  accomplish,  withoux 
bloodshed,  that  change  which  the  fury  of  de 
mocracy  rendered  necessary,  and  without 
which  it  has  been  found  the  Throne  of  the 
Barricades  cannot  exist.  It  is  evident  that 
the  French  do  not  know  what  freedom  is.  They 
had  it  under  the  Bourbons,  as  our  people  had 
it  under  the  old  constitution ;  but  it  M'ould  not 
content  them,  because  it  w^as  not  liberty,  but 
power,  not  freedom,  but  democracy,  not  ex- 
emption from  tyranny,  but  the  power  of  tyran- 
nizing over  others,  that  they  desired.  They  • 
gained  their  point,  they  accomplished  their 
M'ishes, — and  the  consequence  has  been,  two 
years  of  suffering,  followed  by  military  des- 
potism. We  always  predicted  the  three  glori 
ous  days  would  lead  to  this  result ;  but  the 
termination  of  the  drama  has  come  more 
rapidly  than  the  history  of  the  first  Revolution 
led  us  to  anticipate. 


BOSSUET. 


To  those  who  study  only  the  writers  of  a 
particular  period,  or  have  been  deeply  im- 
mersed in  the  literature  of  a  certain  age,  it  is 
almost  incredible  how  great  a  change  is  to  be 
found  in  the  human  mind  as  it  there  appears, 
as  compared  with  distant  times,  and  how  much 
even  the  greatest  intellects  are  govei-ned  by 
the  circumstances  in  which  they  arise,  and 
the  prevailing  tone  of  the  public  mind  with 
which  they  are  surrounded.  How  much  so- 
ever wc  may  ascribe,  and  sometimes  with 
justice  ascribe,  to  the  force  and  ascendant  of 
individual  genius,  nothing  is  more  certain 
than  that,  in  the  general  case,  it  is  external 
events  and  circumstances  which  give  a  certain 
bent  to  human  speculation,  and  that  the  most 
original  thought  is  rarely  able  to  do  much 
more  than  anticipate  by  a  few  years,  the  simul- 
taneous efforts  of  inferior  intellects.  Gene- 
rally, it  will  be  fdund  that  particular  seasons 
t-r  periods  in  the  great  year  of  nations  or  of 
the  world,  bring  forth  their  own  appropriate 
I -— 

•  Written  on  ttin  dny  wlien  tlin  nrrniiniA  of  the  dpfnat 
•jf  tlic  cri-nt  ripvolt  nt  tin-  rioiKlcr  of  Slllcri  by  Loulg 
riiillpiH:  and  Marxliul  Soult  wore  received. 


fruits  :  it  is  rarely  that  in  June  can  be  matured 
those  of  September.  The  changes  which  have 
made  the  greatest  and  most  lasting  alteration 
on  the  progress  of  science  or  the  march  of 
human  affairs — printing,  gunpowder,  steam 
navigation — Avere  brought  to  light,  it  is  hardly 
known  how,  and  by  several  different  persons, 
so  nearly  at  the  same  time,  that  it  is  difficult 
to  say  to  M-hom  the  palm  of  original  invention 
is  to  be  awarded.  The  discover)'  of  fluxions, 
awarded  by  common  consent  to  the  unap- 
proachable intellect  of  Newton,  ivas  made 
about  the  same  time  by  his  contemporaries, 
Leibnitz  and  Gregoiy;  the  honours  of  original 
thought  in  political  economy  are  divided  be- 
tween Adam  Smith  and  the  French  economists ; 
the  improvements  on  the  steam-engine  were 
made  in  the  same  age  by  Watt  and  Arkwright ; 
and  the  science  of  strategy  -was  developed 
with  equal  clearness  in  the  German  treatise 
of  the  Archduke  Charles,  as  the  contemporary 
treatises  of  Jomini  and  Napoleon.  The  great- 
est intellect  perceives  only  the  coming  light; 
the  rays  of  the  rising  sun  strike  first  upon  the 
summits  of  the  mountains,  but  his  ascending 


BOSSUET. 


43 


I  beams  will  soon  illuminate  the  slopes  on  their 
(  sides,  and  the  valleys  at  their  feet. 
'  There  is,  however,  a  considerable  variety 
t  in  the  rapidity  with  which  the  novel  and  ori- 
ginal ideas  of  different  great  men  are  com- 
municated tG  their  contempcraries  ;  and  hence 
the  extraordinary  difference  between  the  early 
celebrity  which  some  works,  destined  for  future 
immortality,  have  obtained  in  comparison  of 
others.  This  has  long  been  matter  of  familiar 
observation  to  all  persons  at  all  acquainted 
with  literary  history.  The  works  of  some  great 
men  have  at  once  stepped  into  that  celebrity 
which  was  their  destined  meed  through  every 
subsequent  age  of  the  world,  while  the  pro- 
ductions of  others  have  languished  on  through 
a  long  period  of  obscurity,  unnoticed  by  all 
save  a  few  elevated  minds,  till  the  period 
arrived  when  the  world  became  capable  of 
understanding  their  truth,  or  feeling  their 
beauty.  The  tomb  of  Euripides,  at  Athens, 
bore  that  all  Greece  mourned  at  his  obsequies. 
We  learn  from  Pliny's  Epistles,  that  even  in 
his  own  lifetime,  immortality  was  anticipated 
not  only  for  Tacitus,  but  all  who  were  noticed 
in  his  annals.  Shakspeare,  though  not  yet 
arrived  at  the  full  maturity  of  his  fame,  was 
j'et  well  known  to,  and  enthusiastically  ad- 
mired by  his  contemporaries.  Lope  dc  Vega 
amassed  a  hundred  thousand  crowns  in  the 
sixteenth  centur}^,  by  the  sale  of  his  eighteen 
hundred  plays.  GiJjbon's  early  volumes  ob- 
tained a  celebrity  in  the  outset  nearly  as  great 
as  his  elaborate  and  fascinating  work  has 
since  attained.  In  the  next  generation  after 
Adam  Smith,  his  principles  were  generally 
enibraced,  and  largely  acted  upon  by  the  legis- 
lature. The  first  edition  of  Robertson's  Scot- 
.and  sold  off  in  a  month ;  and  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
by  the  sale  of  his  novels  and  poems,  was  able, 
in  twenty  years,  besides  entertaining  all  the 
literary  society  of  Europe,  to  purchase  tlie 
large  estate,  and  rear  the  princely  fabric, 
library,  and  armory  of  Abbotsford. 

Instances,  on  the  other  hand,  exist  in  equal 
number,  and  perhaps  of  a  still  more  striking 
character,  in  whicli  the  greatest  and  most  pro- 
found works  which  the  human  mind  has  ever 
produced  have  remained,  often  for  along  time, 
unnoticed,  till  the  progress  of  social  affairs 
brought  the  views  of  others  generally  to  a  level 
with  that  of  their  authors.  Bacon  bequeathed 
his  reputation  in  his  last  testament  to  the  ge- 
neration after  the  next;  so  clearly  did  he  per- 
ceive that  more  than  one  race  of  men  must 
expire  before  the  opinions  of  others  attained 
the  level  of  his  own  far-seeing  sagacitj'.  Burke 
advanced  principles  in  his  French  Revolution 
of  which  we  are  now,  only  now,  beginning, 
after  the  lapse  of  half  a  century,  to  feel  the  full 
truth  and  importance.  Hume  met  with  so 
little  encouragement  in  the  earlier  volumes  of 
his  history,  that  but  for  the  animating  assu- 
rances of  a  few  enlightened  friends,  he  has  him- 
self told  us,  he  would  have  resigned  his  task 
in  despair.  Milton  sold  the  Paradise  Lost  for 
Ave  pounds,  and  that  immortal  work  languished 
on  with  a  very  limited  sale  till,  fifty  years  after- 
wards, it  was  brought  into  light  by  the  criti- 
cisms of  Addison.  Campbell  for  years  could 
ttot  find  a  bookseller  who  would  buy  the  Plea- 


sures of  Hope.  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth 
passed  for  little  better  than  imaginative  illu 
minati  with  the  great  bulk  of  their  contem^o 
raries. 

The  principle  which  seems  to  regulate  ihi.s 
remarkable  difference  is  this:  Where  a  work 
of  genius  either  describes  manners,  characters, 
or  scenes  with  which  the  great  bulk  of  man- 
kind are  familiar,  or  concerning  which  they 
are  generally  desirous  of  obtaining  informa- 
tion ;  or  if  it  advance  principles  which,  based 
on  the  doctrines  popular  with  the  multitude, 
lead  them  to  new  and  agreeable  results,  or 
deduces  from  them  conclusions  slightly  ii 
advance  of  the  opinions  of  the  age,  but  lyin,4 
in  the  same  direction,  it  is  almost  sure  of 
meeting  with  immediate  popularity.  Where, 
on  the  other  hand,  it  is  founded  on  principles 
which  are  adverse  to  the  prevailing  current  of 
public  opinion — where  it  sternly  asserts  the 
great  principles  of  religion  and  morality,  in 
opposition  to  the  prejudices  or  passions  of  a 
cornipted  age — when  it  advocates  the  neces- 
sity of  a  rational  and  conservative  govern- 
ment, in  the  midst  of  the  fervor  of  innovation 
or  the  passion  of  revolution — when  it  stigma- 
tizes present  vices,  or  reprobates  present 
follies,  or  portrays  the  consequences  of  present 
iniquity — when  it  appeals  to  feelings  and  vir- 
tues which  have  passed  from  the  breasts  of  the 
present  generation — the  chances  are  that  it 
will  meet  with  present  admiration  only  from  a 
few  enlightened  or  virtuous  men,  and  that  a 
different  generation  must  arise,  possibly  a  new 
race  of  mankind  become  dominant,  before  it 
attains  that  general  popularity  which  is  its 
destined  and  certain  reward.  On  this  account 
the  chances  are  much  against  the  survivance, 
for  any  considerable  period,  of  any  work, 
either  on  religion,  politics,  or  morals,  which 
has  early  attained  to  a  very  great  celebrit}', 
because  the  fact  of  its  having  done  so  is,  in 
general,  evidence  of  its  having  fallen  in,  to  an 
extent  inconsistent  with  truth,  with  the  pre- 
vailing opinions  and  prejudices  of  the  age.  In 
such  opinions  there  is  almost  always  a  consi- 
derable foundation  of  truth,  but  as  commonly 
a  large  intermixture  of  error.  Principles  are, 
by  the  irreflecting  mass,  in  general  pushed  too 
far ;  due  weight  is  not  given  to  the  considera- 
tions on  the  other  side  ;  the  concurring  influ- 
ence of  other  causes  is  either  overlooked  or 
disregarded.  This  is  more  particularly  the 
case  Avith  periods  of  general  excitement,  whe- 
ther on  religious  or  political  subjects,  inso- 
much that  there  is  hardly  an  instance  of  works 
Avhich  attained  an  early  and  extraordinary 
celebrity  at  such  eras  having  sui-vived  the 
fervour" which  gave  them  birth,  and  the  gene- 
ral concurrence  of  opinion  in  which  they  were 
cradled.  Where  are  now  the  innumerable 
polemical  writings  which  issued  both  from  the 
Catholic  and  Protestant  divines  during  the 
fervour  of  the  Reformation  ]  Where  the  forty 
thousand  tracts  which  convulsed  the  nation  in 
the  course  of  the  great  Rebellion  1  Where 
the  deluge  of  enthusiasm  and  infidelity  which 
overspread  the  world  at  the  commencement 
of  the  French  Revolution?  On  the  other 
hand,  the  works  which  have  survived  such 
periods  of  general  fervour  are  those  whose 


44 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


authors  boldly  and  firmly,  resting  on  (he  in- 
icmal  conviction  of  truth,  set  themselves  to 
oppose  the  prevailing  vices  or  follies  of  their 
age,  and  whose  works,  in  consequence  little 
esiccmod  by  their  contemporaries,  have  now 
risen  into  the  purer  regions  of  the  moral  at- 
mosphere, ami  now  shine,  far  above'  the 
changes  of  mortalit)',  as  fixed  stars  in  the 
highest  heavens.  Of  this  character  is  Bacon, 
whose  sublime  intellect,  bursting  the  fetters 
of  a  narrow-minded  age,  outstripped  by  two 
centuries  the  progress  of  the  human  mind — 
Jeremy  Taylor,  whose  ardent  soul,  loathing 
the  vices  of  his  corrupted  contemporaries, 
clothed  the  lessons  of  religion  in  the  burning 
words  of  genius — and  Burke,  whose  earlier 
career,  chained  in  the  fetters  of  party,  has  now 
been  forgotten  in  the  lustre  of  the  original  and 
independent  thoughts,  adverse  to  the  spirit  of 
the  age,  which  burst  forth  in  his  works  on  the 
French  Revolution. 

In  comparing,  on  subjectsof  political  thought 
or  social  amelioration,  the  writings  of  the  school 
of  Louis  XIV.  with  that  of  the  Revolution,  the 
progress  of  the  human  mind  appears  prodi- 
gious— and  so  it  will  speedily  appear  from  the 
quotations  which  we  shall  lay  before  our 
readers.  But,  in  the  general  comparison  of 
the  two,  there  is  one  thing  very  remarkable, 
and  which  is  exactly  the  reverse  of  what  might 
d  priori  have  been  expected,  and  what  the  ig- 
norant vulgar  or  party  writers  still  suppose  to 
be  the  case — this  is  the  superior  independence 
cf  thought,  and  bold  declamation  against  the 
vices  of  the  ruling  power  in  the  state,  which 
the  divines  and  moralists  of  the  Grande  Mo- 
narque  exhibit,  when  compared  with  the  cring- 
ing servility  and  oriental  flattery  which  the 
writers  of  the  Revolutionaiy  school,  whether 
in  France  or  England,  have  never  ceased  to 
address  to  their  democratic  patrons  and  rulers 
invested  with  supreme  authority.  We  need 
not  remind  our  readers  what  is  the  language, 
even  of  able  writers  and  profound  thinkers  of 
the  modern  democratic  school,  in  regard  to  the 
sources  of  all  abuse  in  government,  and  the 
quarter  from  whence  alone  any  social  im- 
provement can  be  expected.  It  is  kings  and 
aristocrats  who  are  the  origin  of  all  oppres- 
sion and  unhappiness;  it  is  their  abuses  and 
misgovernment  which  have  ever  been  the  real 
causes  of  public  suflering;  it  is  their  insatia- 
ble avarice,  rapacity,  and  selfishness  which 
have  in  every  age  brought  misery  and  desola- 
tion upon  the  humbler  and  more  virtuous 
members  of  society.  Where,  then,  is  ameliora- 
tion to  be  looked  fori  and  in  what  class  of 
society  is  an  antidote- to  be  found  to  the  in- 
herent vices  and  abuses  of  power  1  In  the 
middle  and  h^vcr  ranks;— it  is  their  virtue, 
inlelligcnco,  and-  patriotism  which  is  the  real 
spring  of  all  public  prosporilv— it  is  their  un- 
ceasing labour  and  industry  which  is  the 
source  of  all  public  wealth— their  unshaken 
constancy  and  courage  which  is  at  once  the 
only  durable  foundation  of  national  safety,  and 
the  prolific  fountain  of  national  glory.  I'rinccs 
may  err,  ministers  may  commit  injustice  ;  but 
the  people,  when  once  onli;,ditenod  by  educa- 
tion, and  intrusted  with  power,  arc  never 
wrong— the  masses  never  mistake  their  real 


interests  :  their  interests  are  on  the  side  of 
good  government — of  them  it  may  truly  be 
said,  J'ox  populi,  vox  Dei.  Such  is  the  language 
which  the  democratic  flatterers  of  these  times 
incessantly  address  to  the  popular  rulers  of  the 
state — to  the  masses  by  whom  popularity  and 
eminence  is  to  be  won — to  the  Government  by 
whom  patronage  and  power  is  distributed 
From  such  degrading  specimens  of  general 
servility  and  business,  let  us  refresh  our  eyes, 
and  redeem  the  honour  of  human  nature,  by 
turning  to  the  thundering  strains  in  which 
Bossuet  and  Fenelon  impressed  upon  their 
courtly  auditory  and  despotic  ruler,  the  eternal 
doctrines  of  judgment  to  come,  and  the  stern 
manner  in  which  they  traced  to  the  vices  or 
follies  of  princes  the  greater  part  of  the  evils  _ 
which  disturb  the  world.  ■ 

It  is  thus  that  Ft^nelon,  in  the  name  of  Men- 
tor, addresses  his  royal  pupil,  the  heir  of  the 
French  monarchy: — 

"  A  king  is  much  less  acquainted  than  pri 
vate  individuals  with  those  by  whom  he  is 
surrounded;  every  one  around  him  has  a 
mask  on  his  visage  ;  every  species  of  artifice 
is  exhausted  to  deceive  hini — alas !  Tele- 
maque  !  you  will  soon  experience  this  too  bit- 
terly. The  more  extensive  the  kingdom  is 
which  you  have  to  govern,  the  more  do  )'ou 
stand  in  need  of  ministers  to  assist  you  in 
your  labours,  and  the  more  are  you  exposed 
to  the  chances  of  misrepresentation.  The  ob- 
scurity of  private  life  throws  a  veil  over  our 
faults,  and  magnifies  the  idea  of  the  powers  of 
men;  but  supreme  authority  puts  the  virtues 
to  the  test,  and  unveils  even  the  most  incon- 
siderable failing; — grandeur  is  like  the  glasses 
which  magnify  all  the  objects  seen  through 
them.  The  whole  world  is  occupied  by  ob- 
serving a  single  man,  flattering  his  virtues, 
applauding  his  vices  in  his  presence,  execrat- 
ing them  in  his  absence.  Meanwhile,  the 
king  is  but  a  man;  beset  by  all  the  humours,  pas- 
sions, ajidireakiicsscs  of  tnortality ;  surrounded  by 
artful  flatterers,  who  have  all  their  objects  to 
gain  in  leading  him  into  vices.  Hardly  has 
he  redeemed  one  fault,  when  he  falls  into 
another;  such  is  the  situation  even  of  the 
most  enlightened  and  virtuous  kings;  what 
then  must  be  the  destiny  of  those  who  are  de- 
praved 1 

"  The  longest  and  best  reigns  are  frequently 
too  short  to  repair  the  mischief  done,  and  often 
without  intending  it  at  their  commencement. 
Royalty  is  born  the  heir  to  all  these  miseries; 
human  weakness  often  sinks  under  the  load 
by  which  it  is  oppressed.  Men  are  to  be  pitied 
for  being  placed  under  the  government  of  one 
as  weak  and  fallible  as  themselves  ;  the  gods 
alone  would  be  adequate  to  the  due  regulation 
of  human  aflairs.  Nor  are  kings  less  to  be 
pitied,  being  but  men  ;  that  is  to  say,  imperfect 
and  fallible  beings,  and  charged  with  the  go. 
vernment  of  an  innumerable  multitude  of  cor- 
rupted and  deceitful  men. 

"  The  countries  in  which  the  authority  of  the 
sovereign  is  most  absolute,  are  precisely  tiiose 
in  which  they  enjoy  least  real  power.  They 
lake,  they  raise  every  thing ;  they  alone  pos 
scss  the  state;  but  meanwhile  every  class  of 
society  languishes,  the  fields  are  deserted,  cities 


BOSSUET. 


45 


decline,  commerce  disappears.  The  king,  who 
cannot  engross  in  his  own  person  the  whole 
state,  and  who  cannot  increase  in  grandeur, 
but  with  the  prosperity  of  his  people,  annihi- 
lates himself  by  degrees  by  the  decay  of  riches 
and  power  in  his  subjects.  His  dominions 
become  bereaved  both  of  wealth  and  men  ;  the 
last  decline  is  irreparable.  His  absolute  power 
indeed  gives  him  as  many  slaves  as  he  has 
subjects ;  he  is  flattered,  adored,  and  his 
slightest  wish  is  a  law;  every  one  around  him 
trembles ;  but  wait  till  the  slightest  revolution 
arrives,  and  that  monstrous  power,  pushed  to 
an  extravagant  excess,  cannot  endure  ;  it  lias 
no  foundation  in  the  affections  of  the  people ; 
it  has  in"itated  all  the  members  of  the  state, 
and  constrained  them  all  to  sigh  after  a  change. 
At  the  first  stroke  which  it  receives,  the  idol 
is  overturned,  broken,  and  trampled  under  foot. 
Contempt,  hatred,  fear,  resentment,  distrust,  in 
a  word,  all  the  passions  conspire  against  so 
odious  an  authority.  The  king  who,  in  his 
vain  prosperity,  never  found  a  single  man  suf- 
ficiently bold  to  tell  him  the  truth,  will  not  find 
in  his  misfortune  a  single  person  either  to  ex- 
tenuate his  faults  or  defend  him  against  his 
enemies." — Tdemaquc,  liv.  xii.  ad  Jin. 

Passages  similar  to  this  abound  in  all  the 
great  ecclesiastical  writers  of  the  age  of  Louis 
XIV.  and  Louis  XV.  They  are  to  be  found 
profusely  scattered  through  the  works  of  Bos- 
suet,  Massilon,  Fenelon,  and  Bourdaloue.  We 
have  many  similar  passages  marked,  but  the 
pressure  of  other  matters  more  immediately 
connected  with  the  object  of  this  paper  pre- 
cludes their  insertion.  Now  this  independence 
and  boldness  of  thought  and  expVession,  in 
courtly  churchmen,  and  addressed  to  a  courtly 
auditory,  is  extremely  remarkable.  It  was  to 
the  Grande  Monarque  and  his  numerous  train 
of  princes,  dukes,  peeresses,  ladies,  and  cour- 
tiers, that  these  eternal,  but  unpalatable  truths 
were  addressed ;  it  was  the  holders  of  all  the 
church  patronage  of  France,  that  were  thus 
reminded  of  the  inevitable  result  of  misgo- 
vernment  on  the  part  of  the  ruling  power.  We 
speak  much  about  the  inci'easing  intelligence, 
spirit,  and  independence  of  the  age ;  neverthe- 
less we  should  like  to  see  the  same  masculine 
cast  of  thought,  the  same  caustic  severity  of 
expression  applied  to  the  vices  and  follies  of 
the  present  holders  of  power  by  the  expectants 
of  their  bounty,  as  was  thus  fearlessly  rung 
into  the  ears  of  the  despotic  rulers  of  France 
by  the  titled  hierarchy  who  had  been  raised  to 
greatness  by  their  support.  We  should  like 
to  see  a  candidate  for  popular  suffrage  on  ihe 
hustings  condemn,  in  equally  unmeasured 
terms,  the  vices,  follies,  and  passions  of  the 
people  ;  or  a  leading  orator  on  the  liberal  side, 
portray  in  as  vivid  colours,  from  the  Ministe- 
rial benches  in  the  House  of  Commons,  the 
inevitable  consequences  of  democratic  selfish- 
ness and  injustice ;  or  a  favourite  preacher  on 
the  Voluntary  system,  thunder,  in  no  less  for- 
cible language,  in  the  ears  of  his  astonished 
audience,  the  natural  results  of  fervour  and 
intrigue  among  popular  constituencies.  Alas  ! 
we  see  none  of  these  things ;  truth,  which  did 
venture  to  make  itself  heard,  when  sanctified 
by  the  Church,  in  the  halls  of  princes,  is  ut- 


terly banished  from  the  precincts  of  the  many 
headed  despots ;  and  i-eligion,  which  loudly 
proclaimed  the  universal  corruption  and  weak- 
ness of  humanity  in  the  ears  of  monarchs,  can- 
not summon  up  sufficient  courage  to  meet,  in 
their  strongholds  of  power,  the  equally  de- 
praved and  selfish  masses  of  the  people. 
Aristotle  has  said  that  the  courtier  and  the 
demagogue  are  not  only  nearly  allied  to  each 
other,  but  are  in  fact  the  same  men,  varying  not 
in  their  object,  but  in  the  quarter  to  which, 
according  to  the  frame  of  government,  they 
address  their  flattery;  but  this  remarkable  fact 
would  seem  to  demonstrate  that  the  latter  is  a 
more  thorougli  and  servile  courtier  than  the 
former ;  and  that  truth  will  more  rarely  be 
found  in  the  assemblies  of  the  multitude  than 
in  the  halls  of  princes. 

In  truth,  the  boldness  and  indignation  of 
language  conspicuous  in  the  gi^eat  ornament* 
of  the  French  Church  would  be  altogether  iv. 
explicable  on  merely  worldly  considerations . 
and  accordingly  it  will  never  be  found  among 
the  irreligious  and  selfish  flatterers  of  demo- 
cracy. It  is  religion  alone,  which,  inspiring 
men  with  objects  and  a  sense  of  duty  above 
this  world,  can  lead  to  that  contempt  of  pre- 
sent danger,  and  that  fearless  assertion  of 
eternal  truth,  in  the  presence  of  power,  which 
has  formed  in  every  age  the  noblest  attribute 
of  the  Christian  Church.  In  the  temporal 
courtiers  of  no  age  or  country  has- there  ever 
been  found  an  example  of  the  same  cotirage- 
ous  maintenance  of  principle  and  castigatioa 
of  crime  in  defiance  of  the  frowns  of  authority , 
these  worldly  aspirants  have  ever  been  as 
servile  and  submissive  to  kings  as  the  syco- 
phantish  flatterers  of  a  democratic  multitude 
have  been  lavish  in  the  praise  of  their  in 
tellectual  wisdom.  And  the  principle  which 
rendered  Bossuet  and  Fenelon  the  courageous 
assertors  of  eternal  truth  in  the  chapels  ant 
court  of  the  Grand  Monarque,  was  the  sam 
as  that  which  inspired  Latimer,  the  martyr  ol 
the  English  Church,  with  such  heroic  firm 
ness  in  resisting  the  tyrannic  injustice  of 
Henry  VIII.  In  the  midst  of  the  passions  and 
cruelty  of  that  blood-stained  tyrant,  the  up- 
right prelate  preached  a  sermon  in  his  pre- 
sence at  the  Chapel-Koyal,  condemning,  in  the 
strongest  terms,  the  very  crimes  to  whici? 
every  one  knew  the  monarch  was  peculiarly 
addicted.  Enraged  beyond  measure  at  the  re 
buke  thus  openly  administered  to  his  "  plea 
sant  vices,"  Henry  sent  for  Latimer,  an3 
threatened  him  with  instant  death  if  he  did 
not  on  the  next  occasion  retract  all  his  cen- 
sures as  openly  as  he  had  made  them.  The 
reproof  got  wind,  and  on  the  next  Sunday  the 
Royal  Chapel  was  crowded  with  the  courtiers, 
eager  to  hear  the  terms  in  which  the  inflexi- 
ble prelate  was  to  recant  his  censures  on  the 
voluptuous  tyrant.  But  Latimer  ascended  the 
pulpit,  and  after  a  long  pause,  fixing  his  eyes 
steadily  on  Henry,  exclaimed,  in  the  quaint 
language  of  the  time,  to  which  its  inherent 
dignity  has  communicated  eloquence — "Be- 
think thee,  Hugh  Latimer !  that  thou  art  in 
the  presence  of  thy  woridly  sovereign,  who 
hath  power  to  terminate  thy  earthly  life,  and 
cast  all  thy  worldly  goods  into  the  flames  .  iJut 


46 


ALISOX'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


bethink  thee  also,  Hn?;h  Latimer!  that  thou 
art  ill  the  presence  of  thy  Heavenly  Father, 
whose  riRht  hand  is  niigiiiy  to  dcsi'ruy  as  to 
save,  and  who  can  cast  thy  soul  into  hell  fire  ;" 
and  immediately  be.2;an,  in  terms  even  severer 
and  more  cutting  than  before,  to  castigate  the 
favourite  vices  and  crimes  of  his  indignant 
sovereign.  The  issue  of  the  tale  was  dilTercnt 
from  what  the  cruel  character  of  the  tyrant 
might  have  led  us  to  expect.  Henr)',  who, 
with  all  his  atrocity,  was  not  on  some  occa- 
sions destitute  of  generous  sentiments,  was 
penetrated  by  the  heroic  constancy  of  the 
venerable  prelate,  and  instead  of  loading  him 
with  chains,  and  sending  him,  as  every  one 
expected,  to  the  scaffold,  openly  expressed  his 
admiration  of  his  courage,  and  took  him  more 
into  favour  than  ever. 

The  philosophical  work  of  Bossuet,  which 
has  attained  to  most  general  ce!ebritj%  is  his 
"Histoire  Universe  lie ;"  and  Chateaubriand 
has  repeatedl}',  in  his  later  writings,  held  it  up 
as  an  unequalled  model  of  religious  general- 
ization. We  cannot  concur  in  these  eulogiuras; 
and  in  nothing  perhaps  does  the  vast  progress 
of  the  human  mind,  during  the  last  hundred 
and  fifty  years,  appear  more  conspicuous  than 
in  comparing  this  celebrated  treatise  with  the 
works  on  similar  subjects  of  many  men  of  in- 
ferior intellects  in  later  times.  The  design  of 
the  work  was  grand  and  imposing;  nothing 
Jess  than  a  sketch  of  the  divine  government 
of  the  world  in  past  ages,  and  an  elucidation 
of  the  hidden  designs  of  Providence  in  all  the 
past  revolutions  of  mankind.  In  this  magnifi- 
cent attempt  he  has  exhibited  a  surprising 
extent  of  erudition,  and  cast  over  the  com- 
plicated thread  of  human  affairs  the  eagle 
glance  of  genius  and  piety  ;  but  he  has  not,  in 
our  humble  apprehension,  caught  the  spirit, 
or  traced  the  real  thread  of  divine  administra- 
tion. He  was  too  deeply  read  in  the  Old  Testa- 
ment, too  strongly  imbued  M-ith  the  Fathers  of 
the  Church,  to  apprehend  the  manner  in  which 
Supreme  Wisdom,  without  any  special  or  mi- 
raculous interposition,  works  out  the  moral 
government  of  the  world,  and  develops  the 
objects  of  eternal  foresight  by  the  agency  of 
human  passions,  virtues,  and  vices.  His  His- 
toric Theology  is  all  tinged  with  the  character 
of  the  Old  Testament ;  it  is  the  God  of  Battles 
whom  he  ever  sees  giving  the  victory  to  His 
chosen  ;  it  is  His  Almighty  Arm  which  he  dis- 
cerns operating  directly  in  the  rise  and  the  fail 
of  nations.  Voltaire  said  with  truth  that  his 
"  Universal  History"  is  little  more  than  the 
History  of  the  Jews.  It  was  reserved  for  a 
future  age  to  discern,  in  the  complicated  thread 
of  human  affairs,  the  operation  not  less  certain, 
but  more  impartial,  of  general  laws;  to  see  in 
human  passions  the  moving  springs  of  social 
improvement,  and  the  hidden  instruments  of 
human  punishment;  to  discern,  in  the  rise 
and  fall  of  nations,  the  operation,  not  so  much 
of  the  active  interposition,  as  of  the  general 
tendency  of  Divine  power;  and  in  the  efi^orts 
which  the  wicked  make  for  their  own  aggran- 
dizement, or  the  scope  whirh  they  afl^ord  to 
thfir  own  passions,  the  rorlain  causes  of  ap- 
\iroach>ng  retribution.  That  Providence  cx- 
rrcibes    an    unceasing    superintendence    of 


human  affairs,  and  that  the  consequences  of 
public  actions  are  subjected  to  permanen 
laws,  the  tendency  of  which  in  national,  as  ia 
private  life,  is  to  make  the  virtues  or  vices  of 
men  as  instruments  of  their  own  reward  or 
punishment,  is  obvious  upon  the  most  cursory 
survey  of  history,  as  well  as  private  life;  am. 
though  it  cannot  be  affirmed  that  the  sequence 
is  invariable,  yet  it  is  sufficiently  frequent  to 
warrant  certain  inferences  as  to  the  general 
character  of  the  laws.  We  cannot  affirm  that 
every  day  in  summer  is  to  be  w-arm,  and  every 
day  in  winter  cold;  but  nevertheless,  the  gen- 
eral character  of  those  periods  is  such  as  to 
warrant  the  conclusion  that  the  rotation  of  the 
season  was  intended,  and  in  general  does  pro- 
duce that  variation  on  temperature,  and  the 
consequent  checking  and  development  of  the 
fruits  of  the  earth.  But,  as  far  as  we  can  dis- 
cern, the  intentions  of  the  Supreme  Being  are 
here,  as  elsewhere,  manifested  by  general  laws ; 
the  agents  employed  are  the  virtues,  vices,  and 
passions  of  men;  and  the  general  plan  of 
divine  administration  is  to  be  gathered  rather 
from  an  attentive  consideration  of  the  experi- 
enced consequences  of  human  actions,  than 
any  occasional  interposition  to  check  or  sus- 
pend the  natural  course  of  events. 

As  a  specimen  of  the  mode  in  which  Bossuet 
regards  the  course  of  events,  we  subjoin  the 
concluding  passage  of  his  Universal  History : 
— "This  long  chain  of  causes  and  effects,  on 
which  the  fate  of  empires  depends,  springs  at 
once  from  the  secrets  of  Divine  Providence. 
God  holds  on  high  the  balance  of  all  kingdoms 
— all  hearts  are  in  his  hands;  sometimes  he 
lets  loose-  the  passions — sometimes  he  re- 
strains them;  by  these  means  he  moves  the 
whole  human  race.  Does  he  Avish  to  raise  up 
a  conqueror — he  spreads  terror  before  his 
arms,  and  inspires  his  soldiers  with  invincible 
courage.  Does  he  wish  to  raise  up  legislators 
— he  pours  into  their  minds  the  spirit  of  fore- 
sight and  wisdom.  He  causes  them  to  fore- 
see the  evils  which  menace  the  state,  and  lay 
deep  in  wisdom  the  foundations  of  public  tran- 
quillity. He  knows  that  human  intellect  is 
ever  contracted  in  some  particulars.  He  then 
draws  the  film  from  its  eyes,  extends  its  views, 
and  afterwards  abandons  it  to  itself — blinds  it, 
precipitates  it  to  destruction.  Its  precautions 
become  the  snare  which  entraps  ;  its  foresight 
the  subtlety  which  destroys  it.  It  is  in  this 
way  that  God  exercises  his  redoubtable  judg- 
ments according  to  the  immutable  laws  of 
eternal  justice.  It  is  his  invisible  hand  which 
prepares  effects  in  their  most  remote  causes, 
and  strikes  the  fatal  blows,  the  very  rebound 
of  which  involves  nations  in  destruction. 
When  he  wishes  to  pour  out  the  vials  of  his 
wrath,  and  overturn  empires,  all  becomes 
weak  and  vacillating  in  their  conduct.  Egypt, 
once  so  wise,  became  intoxicated,  and  faltered 
at  every  step,  because  the  Most  High  had 
poured  the  spirit  of  madness  into  its  counsels. 
It  no  longer  knew  what  step  to  take;  it 
faltered,  it  perished.  But  let  us  not  deceive 
ourselves;  God  can  restore  when  he  pleases  the 
blinded  vision;  and  he  who  insulted  the  blind- 
ness of  others,  himself  falls  into  the  most  pro- 
found darkness,  without  any  other  cause  being 


BOSSUET. 


47 


carried  into  operation  to  overthrow  the  longest 
course  of  prosperity. 

"  It  is  thus  that  God  reigns  over  all  people. 
Let  us  no  longer  speak  of  hazard  or  fortune, 
or  speak  of  it  only  as  a  veil  to  our  weakness — 
an  excuse  to  our  ignorance.  That  which  ap- 
pears chance  to  our  uncertain  vision  is  the 
effect  of  intelligence  and  design  on  the  part  of 
the  Most  High — of  the  deliberations  of  that 
Supreme  Council  which  disposes  of  all  human 
affairs. 

"  It  is  for  this  reason  that  the  rulers  of  man- 
kind are  ever  subjected  to  a  superior  force 
which  they  cannot  control.  Their  actions  pro- 
duce greater  or  lesser  effects  than  they  in- 
tended; their  counsels  have  never  failed  to  be 
attended  by  unforeseen  consequences.  Neither 
could  they  control  the  effect  which  the  conse- 
quences of  former  revolutions  produced  upon 
their  actions,  nor  foresee  the  course  of  events 
destined  to  follow  the  measures  in  which  they 
themselves  were  actors.  He  alone  who  held 
the  thread  of  human  affairs — who  knows  what 
was,  and  is,  and  is  to  come — foresaw  and  pre- 
destined the  whole  in  his  immutable  council. 

"Alexander,  in  his  mighty  conquests,  in- 
tended neither  to  labour  for  his  generals,  nor 
to  ruin  his  royal  house  by  his  conquests. 
When  the  elder  Brutus  inspired  the  Roman 
people  Avith  an  unbounded  passion  for  free- 
dom, he  little  thought  that  he  was  implanting 
in  their  minds  the  seeds  of  that  unbridled  li- 
cense, destined  one  day  to  induce  a  tyranny 
more  grievous  than  that  of  the  Tarquins. 
When  the  Coesars  flattered  the  soldiers  with  a 
view  to  their  immediate  elevation,  they  had  no 
intention  of  rearing  up  a  militia  of  tyrants  for 
their  successors  and  the  empire.  In  a  word, 
there  is  no  human  power  which  has  not  con- 
tributed, in  spite  of  itself,  to  other  designs  than 
its  own.  God  alone  is  able  to  reduce  all  things 
to  his  own  will.  Hence  it  is  that  every  thing 
appears  surprising  when  we  regard  only  secon- 
dary causes ;  and,  nevertheless,  all  things  ad- 
vance with  a  regulated  pace.  Innumerable 
unforeseen  results  of  human  councils  con- 
ducted the  fortunes  of  Rome  from  Romulus 
to  Charlemagne." — Discours  sur  I'Hist.  Univ. 
ad  fin. 

It  is  impossible  to  dispute  the  grandeur  of 
the  glance  Avhich  the  Eagle  of  Meaux  has  cast 
over  human  affairs  in  the  ancient  world.  But 
without  contesting  many  of  his  propositions, 
and,  in  particular,  fully  conceding  the  truth  of 
the  important  observation,  that  almost  all  the 
greater  public  actions  of  men  have  been  at- 
tended in  the  end  by  consequences  different 
from,  often  the  reverse  of,  those  which  they 
intended,  we  apprehend  that  the  mode  of  Di- 
vine superintendence  and  agency  will  be  found 
to  be  more  correctly  portrayed  in  the  following 
passage  from  Blair — an  author,  the  elegance 
and  simplicity  of  whose  diction  frequently  dis- 
guises the  profoundness  of  his  thoughts,  and 
the  correctness  of  his  observations  of  human 
affairs  : — "  The  system  upon  which  the  Divine 
Government  at  present  proceeds  plainly  is, 
that  men's  own  weakness  should  be  appointed 
to  correct  them  ;  that  sinners  should  be  snared 
in  the  work  of  their  own  hand,  and  sunk  in 
the  pit  which  themselves  have  digged ;  that  the 


backslider  in  heart  should  be  filled  with  his 
own  ways.  Of  all  the  plans  which  could  be 
devised  for  the  government  of  the  world,  this 
approves  itself  to  reason  as  the  Avisest  and 
most  worthy  of  God;  so  to  frame  the  constitu- 
tion of  things,  that  the  Divine  laws  should  in 
a  manner  execute  themselves,  and  carry  their 
sanctions  in  their  own  bosom.  When  the 
vices  oi^  men  require  punishment  to  be  in- 
flicted, the  Almighty  is  at  no  loss  for  ministers 
of  justice.  A  thousand  instruments  of  ven- 
geance are  at  his  command;  innumerable 
arrows  are  always  in  his  quiver.  But  such  is 
the  profound  wisdom  of  his  plan,  that  no  pe- 
culiar interposals  of  power  are  requisite.  He 
has  no  occasion  to  step  from  his  throne,  and 
to  interrupt  the  order  of  nature.  With  the 
majesty  and  solemnity  which  befits  Omnipo- 
tence, he  pronounces,  'Ephraim  has  gone  to 
his  idols :  let  him  alone.'  He  leaves  trans- 
gressors to  their  OAvn  guilt,  and  punishment 
follows  of  course.  Their  sins  do  the  Avork  of 
justice.  They  lift  the  scourge ;  and  with  every 
stroke  which  they  inflict  on  the  criminal,  they 
mix  this  severe  admonition,  that  as  he  is  only 
reaping  the  fruit  of  his  own  actions,  he  de- 
serves all  that  he  suffers." — Blair,  iv.  268, 
Serm.  14. 

The  most  eloquent  and  original  of  Bossuet's 
writings  is  his  funeral  oration  on  Henrietta, 
Queen  of  England,  Avife  of  the  unfortunate 
Charles  I.  It  Avas  natural  that  such  an  occa- 
sion should  call  forth  all  his  powers,  pro- 
nounced as  it  was  on  a  princess  of  the  blood- 
royal  of  France,  Avho  had  undergone  unpa- 
ralleled calamities  AAdth  heroic  resignation,  the 
fruit  of  the  great  religious  revolution  of  the 
age,  against  which  the  French  prelate  had 
exerted  all  the  force  of  his  talents.  It  exhibits 
accordingly  a  splendid  specimen  of  genius 
and  capacity;  and  imbued  as  aa'c  are  in  this 
Protestant  land  Avith  the  most  favourable  im- 
pressions of  the  consequences  of  this  convul- 
sion, it  is  perhaps  not  altogether  tminstructive 
to  observe  in  what  light  it  was  regarded  by  the 
greatest  intellects  of  the  Catholic  AA'orld, — that 
betAveen  the  two  we  may  form  some  estimate 
of  the  light  in  which  it  Avill  be  viewed  by  an 
impartial  posterity. 

"  Christians  !"  says  he,  in  the  exordium  of 
his  discourse;  "it  is  not  surprising  that  the 
memory  of  a  great  Queen,  the  daughter,  the 
Avife,  the  mother  of  monarchs,  should  attract 
you  from  all  quarters  to  this  melancholy  cere- 
mony; it  will  bring  forcibly  before  your  eyes 
one  of  those  awful  examples  which  demon- 
strate to  the  world  the  vanity  of  which  it  is 
composed.  You  Avill  see  in  her  single  life  the 
extremes  of  human  things ;  felicity  without 
bounds,  miseries  without  parallel ;  a  long  and 
peaceable  enjoyment  of  one  of  the  most  noble 
croAvns  in  the  universe,  all  that  birth  and  gran- 
deur could  confer  that  Avas  glorious,  all  that 
adversity  and  suffering  could  accumulate  thai 
was  disastrous;  the  good  cause,  attended  at 
first  with  some  success,  then  involved  in  the 
most  dreadful  disasters.  Revolutions  unheard 
of,  rebellion  long  restrained— at  length  reign- 
ing triumphant;  no  curb  there  to  license,  no 
laws  in  force.  Majesty  itself  violated  by  bloody 
hands,  usurpation,  and  tyranny,  under  the  nam« 


4% 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


of  liberty — a  fugitive  Queen,  who  can  find  no 
retreat  in  her  throe  Icingiloms,  and  was  forced 
to  seek  in  her  native  countiy  a  melancholy 
exile.  Nine  sea  voj'ages  undertaken  against 
her  will  by  a  Queen,  in  spite  of  wintry  tein- 
fjcsts — a  throne  unworthily  overturned,  and 
miraculously  re-established.  Behold  the  les- 
son which  God  has  given  to  kings !  thus  docs 
He  manifest  to  the  world  the  nothingness  of 
its  pomps  and  its  grandeur!  If  our  words 
fail,  if  language  sinks  beneath  the  grandeur 
of  such  a  subject,  the  simple  narrative  is  more 
touching  than  aught  that  words  can  convey. 
The  heart  of  a  great  Queen,  formerly  elevated 
by  so  long  a  course  of  prosperity,  then  steeped 
in  all  the  bitterness  of  affliction,  will  speak  in 
sulficiently  touching  language;  and  if  it  is  not 
given  to  a  private  individual  to  teach  the 
proper  lessons  from  so  mournful  a  catastrophe, 
Uie  King  of  Israel  has  supplied  the  words— 
*  Hear !  Oh  ye  Great  of  the  Earth  !— Take  les- 
sons, ye  Rulers  of  the  World !' 

"But  the  wise  and  devout  Princess,  whose 
obsequies  we  celebrate,  has  not  merely  been  a 
spectacle  exhibited  to  the  world  in  order  that 
men  might  learn  the  counsels  of  Divine  Pro- 
vidence, and  the  fatal  revolutions  of  monar- 
chies. She  took  counsel  herself  from  the  ca- 
lamities in  -which  she  was  involved,  while 
God  was  instructing  kings  by  her  example. 
It  is  by  giving  and  withdrawing  power  that 
God  communicates  his  lessons  to  kings.  The 
Queen  we  mourn  has  equally  listened  to  the 
voice  of  these  two  opposite  monitors.  She' 
has  made  use,  like  a  Christian,  alike  of  pros- 
perous and  adverse  fortune.  In  the  first  she 
was  beneficent,  in  the  last  invincible;  as  long 
as  she  was  fortunate,  she  let  her  power  be  felt 
only  by  her  unbounded  deeds  of  goodness; 
when  wrapt  in  miser)',  she  enriched  herself 
more  than  ever  by  the  heroic  virtues  befitting 
misfortune.  For  her  own  good,  she  has  lost 
that  sovereign  power  which  she  formerly  ex- 
ercised only  for  the  blessings  of  her  subjects  ; 
and  if  her  friends — if  the  universal  chuich 
have  profited  by  her  prosperities,  she  herself 
has  profited  more  from  her  calamities  than 
from  all  her  previous  grandeur.  That  is  the 
great  lesson  to  be  drawn  from  the  ever-memo- 
rable life  of  Henrietta  Maria  of  France,  Queen 
of  Great  Britain. 

"I  need  not  dwell  on  the  illustrious  birth  of 
that  Princess ;  no  rank  on  earth  equals  it  in 
lustre.  Her  virtues  have  been  not  less  re- 
markable than  her  descent.  She  was  endowed 
with  a  generosity  truly  royal;  of  a  truth,  it 
might  be  said,  that  she  deemed  every  thing 
lost  which  was  not  given  away.  Nor  were 
her  other  virtues  less  admirable.  The  faithful 
depositary  of  many  important  complaints  and 
secrets — it  was  her  favourite  maxim  that 
princes  should  observe  the  same  silence  as 
confessors,  and  exercise  the  same  discretion. 
In  the  utmost  fury  of  the  Civil  Wars  never 
was  her  word  doubled,  or  her  clemency  called 
in  question.  Who  has  so  nobly  exercised  that 
winning  art  which  humbles  without  lowering 
•'tself,  and  confers  so  graciously  liberty,  while 
it  cotnmands  respect?  At  once  mild  yet  firm — 
condescending,  yet  dignified — she  knew  at  the 
same  time  how  to  convince  and  persuade,  and 


I  to  support  by  reason,  rather  than  enforce  by 
authority.  With  what  prudence  did  she  con« 
duct  herself  in  circumstances  the  most  ar- 
duous; if  a  skilful  hand  could  have  saved  the 
i  state,  hers  was  the  one  to  have  done  it.  Her 
!  magnanimity  can  never  be  suflicientl}'^  extolled. 
Fortune  had  no  power  over  her;  neither  the 
evils  which  she  foresaw,  nor  those  by  which 
she  was  surprised,  could  lower  her  courage. 
What  shall  I  say  to  her  immovable  fidelity  to 
the  religion  of  her  ancestors  1  She  knew  well 
that  that  attachment  constituted  the  glory  of 
her  house,  as  well  as  of  the  whole  of  France, 
sole  nation  in  the  world  which,  during  the 
twelve  centuries  of  its  existence,  has  never 
seen  on  the  throne  but  the  faithful  children  of 
the  church.  Uniformly  she  declared  that  no- 
thing should  detach  her  from  the  faith  of  St. 
Louis.  The  King,  her  husband,  has  pro- 
nounced upon  her  the  noblest  of  all  eulogiums, 
that  their  hearts  were  in  union  in  all  but  the 
matter  of  religion  ;  and  confirming  by  his  tes- 
timony the  piety  of  the  Queen,  that  enlightened 
Prince  has  made  known  to  all  the  world  at 
once  his  tenderness,  his  conjugal  attachment, 
and  the  sacred,  inviolable  fidelity  of  his  in- 
comparable spouse." 

All  the  world  must  admire  the  sustained 
dignity  of  this  noble  eulogium;  but  touching 
as  were  the  misfortunes,  heroic  the  character, 
of  the  unfortunate  Henrietta,  it  more  nearly 
concerns  us  to  attend  to  the  opinion  of  Bossuet 
on  the  great  theological  conviilsion,  in  the 
throes  of  which  she  was  swallowed  up. 

"  When  God  pennits  the  smoke  to  arise  from 
the  pits  of  the  abyss  which  darkens  the  face 
of  Heaven — that  is,  when  he  suffers  heresy  to 
arise — when,  to  punish  the  scandals  of  the 
church,  or  awaken  the  piety  of  the  people  and 
their  pastors,  He  permits  the  darkness  of  error 
to  deceive  the  most  elevated  minds,  and  to 
spread  abroad  throughout  the  world  a  haughty 
chagrin,  a  disquieted  curiosity,  a  spirit  of  re- 
volt, He  determines,  in  his  infinite  wisdom, 
the  limits  Avhich  are  to  be  imposed  to  the  pro- 
gress of  error,  the  stay  which  is  to  be  put  to 
the  sufierings  of  the  church.  I  do  not  pretend 
to  announce  to  you.  Christians,  the  destiny  of 
the  heresies  of  our  times,  nor  to  be  able  to 
assign  the  fatal  boundary  by  which  God  has 
restrained  their  course.  But  if  my  judgment 
does  not  deceive  me ;  if,  recurring  to  the  his- 
tory of  past  ages,  I  rightly  apply  their  experi- 
ence to  the  present,  I  am  led  to  the  opinion, 
and  the  wisest  of  men  concur  in  the  sentiment, 
that  the  days  of  blindness  are  past,  and  that  the 
time  is  approaching  when  the  true  light  icill  return, 

"  When  Henry  VIII.,  a  prince  in  other  re- 
spects so  accomplished,  was  seduced  by  the 
passions  which  blinded  Solomon  and  so  many 
other  kings,  and  began  to  shake  the  authority 
of  the  Church,  the  wise  Avarned  him,  that  if  he 
stirred  that  one  point,  he  would  throw  the 
whole  fabric  of  government  into  peril,  and  in- 
fuse, in  opposition  to  his  wishes,  a  frightful 
license  into  future  ages.  The  wise  forewarned 
him ;  but  when  is  passion  controlled  by  wis- 
dom ;  when  does  not  folly  smile  at  its  predic- 
tions! That,  however,  which  a  prudent  fore- 
sight could  not  persuade  to  men,  a  ruder  in- 
structor, experience,  has  compelled  them  to 


BOSSUET. 


49 


believe.  All  that  religion  has  that  is  most  sa- 
cred lias  been  sacrificed  ;  England  has  changed 
so  far  that  it  no  longer  can  recognise  itself; 
and,  more  agitated  in  its  bosom  and  on  its  own 
soil  than  even  the  ocean  which  surrounds  it, 
it  has  been  overwhelmed  by  a  frightful  inxm- 
dation  of  innumerable  absurd  sects.  Who  can 
predict  but  what,  repenting  of  its  enormous 
errors  concerning  Government,  it  may  not  ex- 
tend its  reflections  still  farther,  and  look  back 
with  fond  regret  to  the  tranquil  condition  of  re- 
ligious thought  which  preceded  the  convul- 
sions 1" 

Amidst  all  this  pomp  of  language,  and  this 
sagacious  intermixture  of  political  foresight 
with  religious  prepossession,  there  is  one  re- 
flection which  necessarily  forces  itself  upon 
the  mind.  Bossuet  conceived,  and  conceived 
justly,  that  the  frightful  atrocities  into  which 
religious  dissension  had  precipitated  the  Eng- 
lish people  would  produce  a  general  reaction 
against  the  theological  fervour  from  which 
they  had  originated;  and  that  the  days  of  ex- 
travagant fervour  were  numbered,  from  the 
very  extent  of  the  general  suffering  which  its 
aberrations  had  occasioned.  In  arriving  at 
this  conclusion,  he  correctly  reasoned  from 
the  past  to  the  present;  and  foretold  a  decline 
in  false  opinion,  from  the  woful  consequences 
which  Providence  had  attached  to  its  continu- 
ance. Yet  how  widely  did  he  err  when  he 
imagined  that  the  days  of  the  Reformation 
were  numbered,  or  that  England,  relapsing 
into  the  quiet  despotism  of  former  days,  was 
to  fall  back  again  into  the  arms  of  the  Eternal 
Church  !  At  that  very  moment  the  broad  and 
deep  foundations  of  British  freedom  were  in 
the  act  of  being  laid,  and  that  power  was  aris- 
ing, destined  in  future  ages  to  be  the  bulwark 
of  the  Protestant  faith,  the  vehicle  of  pure  un- 
defiled  religion  to  the  remotest  corners  of  the 
earth.  The  great  theological  convulsions  of 
the  sixteenth  century  were  working  out  their 
appropriate  fruits;  a  new  world  was  peopling 
by  its  energy,  and  rising  into  existence  from 
its  spirit;  and  from  the  oppressed  and  dis- 
tracted shores  of  England  those  hosts  of  emi- 
grants were  embarking  for  distant  regions, 
who  were  destined,  at  no  remote  period,  to 
spread  the  Church  of  England  and  the  Pro- 
testant faith  through  the  countless  millions  of 
the  American  race.  The  errors,  indeed  the 
passions,  the  absurdities  of  that  unhappy  pe- 
riod, as  Bossuet  rightly  conjectured,  have 
passed  away;  the  Fifth  Monarchy  men  no 
longer  disturb  the  plains  of  England;  the 
chants  of  the  Covenanters  are  no  longer  heard 
on  the  mountains  of  Scotland ;  transferred  to 
the  faithful  record  of  histoi'y  or  the  classic 
pages  of  romance,  these  relics  of  the  olden 
time  only  furnish  a  heartstirring  subject  for 
the  talents  of  the  historian  or  the  genius  of  the 
novelist.  But  the  human  mind  never  falls 
back,  though  it  often  halts  in  its  course.  Ves- 
tigia nvUa  retrorsum  is  the  law  of  social  affairs 
not  less  than  of  the  fabled  descent  to  the 
shades  below;  the  descendants  of  the  Puritans 
and  the  Covenanters  have  abjured  the  absur- 
dities of  their  fathers,  but  they  have  not  re- 
lapsed into  the  chains  of  Popery.  Purified  of 
its  corruptions  by  the  indignant  voice  of  in- 


surgent reason,  freed  from  its  absurdities  by 
the  experience  of  the  calamities  with  which 
they  were  attended,  the  fair  form  of  Catholic 
Christimnly  has  arisen  in  the  British  Isles; 
imbued  with  the  spirit  of  the  universal  Church, 
but  destitute  of  the  rancour  of  its  deluded  sec- 
taries; borrowing  from  the  religion  of  Rome 
its  charity,  adopting  from  the  Lutheran  Church 
its  morality;  sharing  with  reason  its  intellec- 
tual triumphs,  inheriting  from  faith  its  spiri- 
tual constancy,  not  disdaining  the  support  of 
ages,  and  yet  not  excluding  the  light  of  time; 
glorying  in  the  antiquity  of  its  descent,  and, 
at  the  same  time,  admitting  the  necessity  of 
recent  reformation;  it  has  approached  as  near 
as  the  weakness  of  humanity,  and  the  limited 
extent  of  our  present  vision  will  permit,  to 
that  model  of  ideal  perfection  which,  veiled  in 
the  silver  robes  of  innocence,  the  faithful  trust 
is  one  day  to  pervade  the  earth.  And  if  pi^e- 
sent  appearances  justify  any  presentiments  as 
to  future  events,  the  destinies  of  this  church 
are  worthy  of  the  mighty  collision  of  antiqui- 
ty with  revolution,  of  the  independence  of 
thought  with  the  reverence  for  authoi'ity,  from 
which  it  arose,  and  the  vast  part  assigned  to 
it  in  human  affairs.  The  glories  of  the  Eng- 
lish nation,  the  triumphs  of  the  English  navy, 
have  been  the  pioneers  of  its  progress  ;  the  in- 
fidel triumphs  of  the  French  Revolution,  the 
victorious  career  of  Napoleon,  have  minister- 
ed to  its  success;  it  is  indissolubly  wound  up 
with  the  progress  of  the  Anglo-American  race; 
it  is  spreading  over  the  wilds  of  Australia; 
slowly  but  steadily  it  is  invading  the  primeval 
deserts  of  Africa.  It  shares  the  destiny  of  the 
language  of  Milton,  Shakspeare,  and  Scott;  it 
must  grow  with  the  growth  of  a  colonial  em- 
pire which  encircles  the  earth ;  the  invention 
of  printing,  the  discovery  of  steam  navigation, 
arc  the  vehicles  of  its  mercies  to  mankind! 

"  I  have  spoken,"  says  Bossuet,  "  of  the 
license  into  which  the  human  mind  is  thrown, 
when  once  the  foundations  of  religion  are 
shaken,  and  the  ancient  landmarks  are  re- 
moved. 

"  But  as  the  subject  of  the  present  discourse 
affords  so  unique  and  memorable  an  example 
for  the  instruction  of  all  ages  of  the  lengths  to 
which  such  furious  passions  will  lead  the  peo- 
ple, I  must,  in  justice  to  vay  subject,  recur  to 
the  original  sources  of  error,  and  conduct  you, 
step  by  step,  from  the  first  contempt  and  dis- 
regard of  tire  church  to  the  final  atrocities  in 
which  it  has  plunged  mankind. 

"  The  fountain  of  the  whole  evil  is  to  be 
found  in  those  in  the  last  centurj',  who  at- 
tempted reformation  by  means  of  schism ; 
finding  the  church  an  invincible  barrier  against 
all  their  innovations,  theyfeltlhemselves  under 
the  necessity  of  overturning  it.  Thus  the 
decrees  of  the  Councils,  the  doctrines  of  the 
fathers,  the  traditions  of  the  Holy  See,  and  of 
the  Catholic  Church,  have  been  no  longer  con- 
sidered as  sacred  and  inviolable.  Every  one 
has  made  for  himself  a  tribunal,  where  he 
rendered  himself  the  arbiter  of  his  own  belief; 
and  yet  the  innovators  did  impose  some  limits 
to  the  changes  of  thought  by  restraining  them 
within  the  bounds  of  holy  writ,  as  if  the  mo- 
ment that  the  principle  is  once  admitted  tha 


50 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


every  believer  may  P"'  what  interpretations 
apoii  its  passages  he  pleases,  and  bnoy  liiin- 
eelf  up  with  the  belief  that  the  Holy  Spirit  has 
dictateil  to  him  his  own  peculiar  explanation, 
there  is  no  individual  who  may  not  at  once 
conceive  himself  authorized  to  worship  his 
own  inventions,  to  consecrate  his  thoughts, 
and  call  the  wanderings  of  his  imagination 
divine  inspiration.  From  the  moment  this 
fatal  doctrine  was  introduced,  it  was  distinctly 
foreseen  by  the  wise  that  license  of  thought 
bj:.ig  now  emancipated  from  all  control,  sects 
would  multiply  a<l  infmilvvi :  obstinacy  become 
invincible;  disputes  interminable;  and  that, 
while  some  would  give  to  their  reveries  the 
name  of  inspiration,  others,  disgusted  with 
such  extravagant  visions,  and  not  being  able 
to  reconcile  the  majesty  of  religion  with  a 
laith  torn  by  so  many  divisions,  would  seek  a 
fatal  repo•^e  in  the  indifference  of  irreligion,  or 
the  hardihood  of  atheism. 

"Such,  and  more  fatal  still,  have  been  the 
natural  effects  of  the  new  doctrine.  But,  in 
like  manner,  as  a  stream  which  has  burst  its 
hanks  does  not  everywhere  produce  the  same 
ravages,  because  its  rapidity  does  not  find 
everywhere  the  same  inclinations  and  open- 
ings, thus,  although  that  spirit  of  indocility 
ajd  indeperJence  was  generally  dilTused 
through  all  the  heresies  of  latter  times,  it  has 
not  produced  universally  the  same  eff"ects;  it 
has  n  many  quarters  been  restrained  by  fear, 
worldly  interests,  and  the  particular  humour 
of  nations,  or  by  the  Supreme  Pcrn-er,  which 
can  impose,  where  it  seems  good,  effectual 
.imits  even  to  the  utmost  extravagance  of  hu- 
iiiau  passi  m.  If  it  h'as  appeared  in  undis- 
f^ised  malignity  in  England — if  its  malignity 
has  declared  itself  without  reserve — if  its  kings 
have  perished  under  its  fury,  it  is  because  its 
kings  have  been  the  primary  causes  of  the 
;,atastrophe.  They  have  yielded  too  much  to 
the  pojiular  delusion  that  the  ancient  religion 
was  s'jjceptible  of  improvement.  Their  sub- 
jects have  in  consequence  ceased  to  revere  its 
maxims ;  they  could  have  no  respect  for  it 
•when  they  saw  them  daily  giving  place  to  the 
pat-sions  and  caprices  of  princes.  The  earth, 
too  frequently  moved,  has  become  incapable 
of  consistence;  the  mountains,  once  so  stable, 
have  fallen  on  all  sides,  and  ghastly  preci- 
pices have  started  forth  from  their  bared 
.sides.  I  apply  these  remarks  to  all  the  fright- 
ful aberrations  which  we  daily  see  rising  up 
around  us.  Be  not  deluded  with  the  idea  ihat 
ihey  are  only  a  quarrel  of  the  Episcopacy,  or 
some  disputes  of  the  English  Church,  which 
have  so  profoundly  moved  the  Commons. 
These  disputes  were  nothing  but  the  feeble 
lommencement,  slight  essays  by  which  the 
turbul'^nt  spirits  made  trial  of  their  liberty. 
Something  much  more  violent  was  stirring 
their  hearts  ;  a  secret  disj;ust  at  all  authority 
— an  ijsatiable  craving  after  innovation,  after 
they  had  once  fasted  its  delicious  sweets. 

"Thus  the  (.'alviiiists,  more  bold  than  the 
Lutherans,  have  paved  the  way  for  the  Soci- 
nians,  whose  numbers  increase  every  day. 
From  the  same  source  have  sprung  the  infinite 
f,ects  (if  the  Anabaptists,  and  from  their  opi- 
aion«,  mingled  with  the  tenets  of  Calvinism, 


have  sprung  the  Independents,  to  whose  es 
travagances  it  was  thought  no  parallel  could 
be  found  till  there  emerged  out  of  their  bosom 
a  still  more  fanatic  race,  the  Tremblers,  who 
believe  that  al'  their  reveries  are  Divine  in- 
spiration ;  and  the  Seekers,  who,  seventeen 
hundred  years  after  Christ,  still  look  for  the 
Saviour,  whom  they  have  never  yet  been  able 
to  find.  It  is  thus,  that  when  the  earth  was 
once  stirred,  ruins  fell  on  ruins  ;  when  opinion 
was  once  shaken,  sect  multiplied  upon  sect. 
In  vain  the  kings  of  England  flattered  them- 
selves that  they  would  be  able  to  arrest  the 
human  mind  on  this  perilous  declivity  by  pre- 
serving the  Episcopacy;  for  Avhat  could  the 
bishops  do,  when  they  had  themselves  urder- 
mined  their  own  authority,  and  all  the  reve- 
rence due  to  the  power  which  the)'  derived  by 
succession  from  the  apostolic  ages,  by  openly 
condemning  their  predecessors,  even  as  far 
back  as  the  origin  of  their  spiritual  authority, 
in  the  person  of  St.  Gregor}^  and  his  disciple 
St.  Augustin,  the  first  apostle  of  the  English 
nation  1  What  is  Episcopacy,  when  it  is 
severed  from  the  Church,  which  is  its  main 
sta)%  to  attach  itself,  contrary  to  its  divine  na- 
ture, to  royalty  as  its  supreme  head]  Thus 
two  powers,  of  a  character  so  essentially  dif- 
ferenl,  can  never  properly  unite;  their  func- 
tions are  so  different  that  they  mutually  impede 
each ;  and  the  majesty  of  the  kings  of  Eng- 
land would  have  remained  inviolable,  if,  con- 
tent with  its  saci-ed  rights,  it  had  not  endea- 
voured to  draw  to  itself  the  privileges  and 
prerogatives  of  the  Church.  Thus  nothing 
has  arrested  the  violence  of  the  spirit,  so  fruit- 
ful is  error;  and  God,  to  punish  the  irreligious 
irritability  of  his  people,  has  delivered  them 
over  to  the  intemperance  of  their  own  vain 
curiosity,  so  that  the  ardour  of  their  insensate 
disputes  has  become  the  most  dangerous  of 
their  maladies. 

"  Can  we  be  surprised  if  they  lost  all  respect 
for  majesty  and  the  laws,  if  they  became  fac- 
tious, rebellious,  and  obstinate,  when  such 
principles  were  instilled  into  their  minds  1  Ee- 
ligion  is  fatally  enervated  when  it  is  changed; 
the  weight  is  taken  away  which  can  alone 
restrain  mankind.  There  is  in  the  bottom  of 
every  heart  a  rebellious  spirit,  which  nevei' 
fails  to  escape  if  the  necessary  restraint  is 
taken  away ;  no  curb  is  left  Avhen  men  are 
once  taught  that  they  may  dispose  at  pleasure 
of  religion.  Thence  has  sprung  that  pretended 
reign  of  Christ,  heretofore  unknown  to  Christ- 
endom, which  was  destined  to  annihilate  roy- 
alty, and  render  all  men  equal,  under  the 
name  of  Independents;  a  seditious  dream,  an 
impious  and  sacrilegious  chimera;  but  valu- 
able as  a  proof  of  the  eternal  truth,  that  every 
thing  turns  to  sedition  and  treason,  when  once 
the  authority  of  religion  is  destroyed.  But 
M-hy  seek  for  proofs  of  a  truth,  while  the  Divine 
Spirit  has  pronounced  upon  the  subject  an 
unalterable  sentence?  God  has  himself  de- 
clared that  he  will  withdraw  from  the  people 
who  alter  the  religion  which  he  has  establish- 
ed, and  deliver  them  over  to  the  scourge  of 
civil  war.  Hear  the  prophet  Zacharias! 
'Their  souls,  saith  the  Lord,  have  swerved 
from  me,  and  I  have  said  I  will  no  longer  be 


BOSSUET. 


51 


jrour  shepherd ;  let  him  who  is  to  die  prepare 
for  death;  let  he  who  is  to  be  cut  off  perish, 
and  the  remainder  shall  prey  on  each  other's 
flesh.'  "* — Bossuet's  Orais.  Funeb.  dc  la  Reine 
d'Jnglctcrrc. 

The  character  and  the  career  of  the  triumph 
of  Cromwell  are  thus  sketched  out  by  the 
same  master-hand : — 

"  Contempt  of  the  unity  of  the  Church  was 
doubtless  the  cause  of  the  divisions  of  Eng- 
land. If  it  is  asked  how  it  happened  that  so 
many  opposite  and  irreconcilable  sects  should 
have  united  themselves  to  overthrow  the  royal 
authority  ]  the  answer  is  plain — a  man  arose 
of  an  incredible  depth  of  thought;  as  profound 
a  h)"pocrite  as  he  was  a  skilful  politician; 
capable  alike  of  vmdertaking  and  concealing 
everything;  active  and  indefatigable  equally 
in  peace  as  war;  so  vigilant  and  active,  that 
he  has  never  proved  awanting  to  any  oppor- 
tunity which  presented  itself  to  his  elevation  ; 
in  fine,  one  of  those  stirring  and  audacious 
spirits  which  seem  born  to  overturn  the  world. 
How  hazardous  the  fate  of  such  persons  is, 
sufficiently  appears  from  the  history  of  all 
ages.  But  also  what  can  they  not  accomplish 
when  it  pleases  God  to  make  use  of  them  for 
his  purposes  1  '  It  was  given  to  him  to  deceive 
the  people,  and  to  prevail  against  kings.'f 
Perceiving  that  in  that  infmite  assembly  of 
sects,  who  were  destitute  of  all  certain  rules, 
the  pleasure  of  indulging  in  their  own  dogmas 
was  the  secret  charm  which  fascinated  all 
minds,  he  contrived  to  play  upon  that  mon- 
strous propensity  so  as  to  render  that  monstrous 
assembly  a  most  formidable  body.  When  once 
the  secret  is  discovered  of  leading  the  multitude 
by  the  attractions  of  liberty,  it  foUoivs  blindly,  be- 
cause .it  hears  only  that  name.  The  people,  oc- 
cupied with  the  first  object  which  had  trans- 
ported them,  go  blindfold  on,  without  perceiving 
that  they  are  on  the  high  road  to  servitude ; 
and  their  subtle  conductor,  at  once  a  soldier, "a 
preacher,  a  combatant,  and  a  dogmatizer,  so 
enchanted  the  world,  that  he  came  to  be  re- 
garded as  a  chief  sent  by  God  to  work  out  the 
triumph  of  the  cause  of  independence.  He 
was  so;  but  it  was  for  its  punishment.  The 
design  of  the  Almighty  was  to  instruct  kings, 
by  this  great  example,  in  the  danger  of  leaving 
his  church:  He  wished  to  unfold  to  men  to 
what  lengths,  both  in  temporal  and  spiritual 
matters,  the  rebellious  spirit  of  schism  can 
lead;  and  when,  in  order  to  accomplish  this 
end,  he  has  made  choice  of  an  instrument, 
nothing  can  arrest  his  course.  '  I  am  the 
Lord,'  said  he,  by  the  moulh  of  his  prophet 
Jeremiah;  'I  made  the  earth,  and  all  that 
therein  is:  I  place  it  in  the  hands  of  whom  I 
mil.'  "—Ibid. 

It  is  curious  to  those  who  reflect  on  the  pro- 


*  Zech.  xi.  9. 


t  Rev.  xiii.  5. 


gress  of  the  human  mind  from  one  age  to 
another,  to  observe  the  large  intermixture  of 
error  with  truth  that  pervades  this  remarkable 
passage.  It  is  clear  that  the  powerful  and 
sagacious  mind  of  the  Bishop  of  Meaux  had 
penetrated  the  real  nature  of  the  revolutionary 
spirit,  whether  in  religion  or  politics  •  and,  ac- 
cordingly, there  is  a  great  deal  of  truth  in  his 
observations  on  the  English  Revolution.  But 
he  nari'ows  too  much  the  view  which  he  took 
of  it.  He  ascribes  more  than  its  due  to  the 
secession  from  the  Church  of  Rome.  No  one 
can  doubt,  indeed,  that  religious  fervour  was 
the  great  lever  which  then  moved  mankind ; 
and  that  Bossuet  was  correct  in  holding  that 
it  was  the  fervour  of  the  Reformation  running 
into  fanaticism,  Avhich,spreading  fi-om  spiritual 
to  temporal  concerns,  produced  the  horrors  of 
the  Great  Rebellion.  But,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  event  has  proved  that  it  was  no  part  of  thp 
design  of  Providence  to  compel  the  English 
by  the  experience  of  suffering,  to  fall  again 
into  the  arms  of  the  Church  of  Rome.  An 
hundred  and  seventy  years  have  elapsed  since 
Bossuet  composed  these  splendid  passages, 
and  the  Church  of  England  is  not  only  still 
undecayed,  but  it  is  flourishing  now  in  reno- 
vated youth,  and  has  spread  its  colonial  de- 
scendants through  every  part  of  the  earth. 
The  Church  of  Rome  still  holds  its  ground  in 
more  than  half  of  old  Europe ;  but  Protestant- 
ism has  spread  with  the  efforts  of  colonial  en- 
terprise, and  the  Bible  and  the  hatchet  have 
gone  hand  in  hand  in  exploring  the  wilds  of 
the  New  World.  And  the  hand  of  Providence 
is  equally  clear  in  both.  Catholicism  is  suited 
to  the  stately  monarchies,  antiquated  civiliza- 
tion, and  slavish  habits  of  Southern  Europe ; 
but  it  is  totally  unfit  to  animate  the  exertions 
and  inspire  the  spirit  of  the  dauntless  emi- 
grants who  are  to  spread  the  seeds  of  civiliza- 
tion through  the  wilderness  of  nature.  And 
one  thing  is  very  remarkable,  and  affords  a 
striking  illustration  of  that  subjection  of  human 
affairs  to  an  oven-uling  Providence  which  Bos- 
suet has  so  eloquently  asserted  in  all  parts  of 
hisAvritings.  Mr.  Hume  has  observed  that  the 
marriage  of  Qtieen  Henrietta  to  Charles  I.,  by 
the  partiality  for  the  Catholic  faith  which  it 
infused  into  his  descendants,  is  the  principal 
reason  of  their  being  at  this  moment  exiles 
from  the  British  throne!  It  was  deemed  at 
the  time  a  masterpiece  of  the  Court  of  Rome 
to  place  a  Catholic  Queen  on  the  throne  of 
England;  and  the  conversion  of  that  bright 
jewel  to  the  tiara  of  St.  Peter  Avas  confidently 
anticipated  from  its  efiects ;  and  its  ultimate 
results  have  been  not  only  to  confirm  the  Pro- 
testant faith  in  the  British  isles,  but  diffuse  its 
seed,  by  the  distraction  and  suffering  of  the 
Civil  Wars,  through  the  boundless  colonial 
empire  of  Great  Britain. 


M 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


I'Ol.ANT).* 


T«i  rrcent  cvcnln  in  Poland  have  awakened 


Ihc  French  i 

iK"    \- rill  "n:tl  .^ 


tb 


I. 
c*. 
IB 


dr 


in< 


lird  inlerestof  the 
f  ihat   inihapp)' 
■i]  ihe  I'olish 
revolutionary 
,  liail  Iheir  struj^- 
al  regeneration: 
!  s  in  this  country 
ople,  bravely 
.  e,  and  forget 
il  din<rencc  in  the  great 
freedom.    The  sympathy 
iih  ihe  Tole*.  accordingly,  is  universal.     It 
"     Tones  as  Ihc  Whigs,  with 
.quated  abuse  as  the  aspi- 
improveinent.     Political 
..    ,    ;..iine  with  generous  feeling 
•  ral  interest    And  numbers  who 
-     n  any  approach  towards 
i<\  yet  view  it  with  com- 
lestincd  to  interpose 
11  European  indepen- 
''luscovite  ambition, 
r)'  of  Poland,  however,  contains 
!s  of  interest  than  this.  It  is  fraught 
!i  as  well  as  romantic 


en  a  great  scale  the 


'S    of   that    democratic    equality 

- .1  uninformed  politicians,  is  so  much 

the  object  of  culogium.    The  French  revolu- 

'   '  sympathize  ^o  vehementlj*  with 

.  th'-irconlest  with  Russian  despot- 

■e  that  the  misfortunes  of  that 

.  ■  result  of  that  very  equality 

vhich  they  have  made  such  sacrifices  to  at- 

Uir- :  •—  '  ''lat  in  the  weakness  of  Poland  may 

be  !  the  consequences  of  the  political 

iJiich  they  consider  as  the  perfection 


1 


V)  ' 


>  ancient, possessed  ven,'much  the 

. .  dominion  of  Russia  in  Europe  in 

time*.    It  stretched  from  the  Baltic  to 

^'      'isko  to  Bohemia;  and 

in  the  whole  Scythia 

use  of  nations,  from 

i  who  so  long  pressed 

ihrew  the  Roman  empire. 

..•    in  every  age  been  cele- 

hcroic  valour :  they  twice,  in 

"I"     ■  irx,  raptured    the 

'  'Ik- pf, I, narration 

on,  were  but 

..;'il  five  centu- 

Mce  of  the  Pcdish 

M     ■       .     Placed 

'  'ion,  they 

an  inva- 

hey  ever 

whirh  they   had   to 

"' •  .the  Cossacks 

ibits  and  pre- 


wrrr 

1,  ii.^, 


ihosf 


on 

r 

or 

W  4««i«i«  tin  i'aiwii  ww. 


datory  life  disdained  the  restraints  of  regnla* 
government.  When  we  read  the  accounts  of 
the  terrible  struggles  they  maintained  with  the 
"•real  insurrection  of  these  formidable  hordes 
under  Bogdan,  in  the  17th  century,  Ave  are 
transported  to  the  days  of  Scythian  warfare, 
and  recognise  the  features  of  that  dreadful 
invasion  of  the  Sarmatian  tribes,  which  the 
genius  of  Marius  averted  from  the  Roman 
republic. 

Nor  has  the  military  spirit  of  the  people  de- 
clined in  modern  times.  The  victories  of 
Sobieski,  the  deliverance  of  Vienna,  seem 
rather  the  fiction  of  romance  than  the  records 
of  real  achievement.  No  victor}'-  so  glorious 
as  that  of  Kotzim  had  been  gained  by  Chris- 
tendom over  the  Saracens  since  the  triumphs 
of  Richard  on  the  field  of  Ascalon :  And  the 
tide  of  Mahommedan  conquest  would  have 
rolled  resistlessly  over  the  plains  of  German}-, 
even  in  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV.,  if  it  had  not 
been  arrested  by  the  Polish  hero  under  the 
walls  of  Vienna.  Napoleon  said  it  was  the 
peculiar  quality  of  the  Polanders  to  form  sol- 
diers more  rapidly  than  any  other  people. 
And  their  exploits  in  the  Italian  and  Spanish 
campaigns  justified  the  high  eulogium  and 
avowed  partiality  of  that  great  commander. 
No  swords  cut  deeper  than  theirs  in  the  Rus- 
sian ranks  during  the  campaign  of  1812,  and 
alone,  amidst  universal  defection,  they  main- 
tained their  faith  inviolate  in  the  rout  at  Leip- 
sic.  But  for  the  hesitation  of  the  French  em- 
peror in  restoring  their  independence,  the 
whole  strength  of  the  kingdom  would  have 
been  roused  on  the  invasion  of  Russia;  and 
had  this  been  done,  had  the  Polish  monarchy 
formed  the  support  of  French  ambition,  the 
history  of  the  Avorld  might  have  been  changed; 

"From  Fate's  dark  book  one  leaf  been  torn, 
And  Flodden  had  been  Bannockburn." 

How,  then,  has  it  happened  that  a  countiy 
of  such  immense  extent,  inhabited  by  so  martial 
a  people,  whose  strength  on  great  occasions 
was  equal  to  such  achievements,  should  in 
every  age  have  been  so  unfortunate,  that  their 
victories  should  have  led  to  no  result,  and 
their  valour  so  often  proved  inadequate  to 
save  their  country  from  dismemberment  1  The 
plaintive  motto,  Qunwodo  Lapsus;  Quid  feci, 
may  with  still  more  justice  be  applied  to  the 
Ibrtuncs  of  Poland  than  the  fall  of  the  Court- 
enays.  "  Always  combating,"  says  Salvandy, 
"  frequently  victorious,  they  never  gained  an 
accession  of  territory,  and  were  generally 
glad  to  terminate  a  glorious  contest  by  a 
cession  of  the  ancient  provinces  of  the  re- 
public." 

Superficial  observers  will  answer,  that  it 
was  the  elective  form  of  government;  their 
unfortunate  situation  in  the  midst  of  military 
powers,  and  the  absence  of  any  chain  of  moun« 
lains  to  form  the  refuge  of  unfortunate  patriot' 


POLAND. 


53 


tsm.  But  a  closer  examination  will  demon- 
strate that  these  causes  were  not  sufficient  to 
explain  the  phenomenon ;  and  that  the  series 
of  disasters  which  have  so  long  overwhelmed 
the  monarchy,  have  arisen  from  a  more  per- 
manent and  lasting  cause  than  either  their 
physical  situation  or  elective  government. 

The  Polish  crown  has  not  always  been 
elective.  For  two  hundred  and  twenty  years 
they  were  governed  by  the  race  of  the  Jagellons 
v/ith  as  much  regularity  as  the  Plantagenets 
of  England ;  and  yet,  dui'ing  that  dynasty,  the 
losses  of  the  republic  were  fully  as  great  as  in 
the  subsequent  periods.  Prussia  is  as  flat, 
and  incomparably  more  sterile  than  Poland, 
and,  with  not  a  third  of  the  territory,  it  is 
equally  exposed  to  the  ambition  of  its  neigh- 
bours :  Yet  Prussia,  so  far  from  being  the 
subject  of  partition,  has  steadily  increased  in 
territory  and  population,  and  now  numbers 
fifteen  millions  of  souls  in  her  dominion.  The 
fields  of  Poland,  as  rich  and  fertile  as  those  of 
Flanders,  seem  the  prey  of  every  Invader, 
while  the  patriotism  of  the  Flemings  has 
studded  their  plains  with  defensive  fortresses 
which  have  secured  their  independence,  not- 
withstanding the  vicinity  of  the  most  ambitious 
and  powerful  monarchy  in  Europe. 

The  real  cause  of  the  never-ending  disasters 
of  Poland,  is  to  be  found  in  the  democratic 
equalitij,  which,  from  the  remotest  ages,  has 
prevailed  in  the  country.  The  elective  form 
of  government  was  the  consequence  of  this 
principle  in  their  constitution,  which  has  de- 
scended to  them  from  Scythian  freedom,  and 
has  entailed  upon  the  state  disasters  worse 
than  the  whirlwind  of  Scythian  invasion. 

"It  is  a  mistake,"  says  Salvandy,  "to  sup- 
pose that  the  representative  form  of  govern- 
ment was  found  in  the  woods  of  Germany. 
What  was.  found  in  the  woods  Avas  Polish 
equality,  which  has  descended  unimpaired  in 
all  the  parts  of  that  vast  monarchy  to  the  present 
times.*  It  was  not  to  our  Scythian  ancestors, 
but  the  early  councils  of  the  Christian  church, 
that  we  are  indebted  for  the  first  example  of 
representative  assemblies."  In  these  words 
of  great  and  philosophic  importance  is  to  be 
found  the  real  origin  of  the  disasters  of  Poland. 

The  principle  of  government,  from  the  earli- 
est times  in  Poland,  was,  that  every  free  man 
had  an  equal  right  to  the  administration  of 
public  affairs,  and  that  he  was  entitled  to  ex- 
ercise this  right,  not  by  representation,  but  in 
person.  The  result  of  this  was,  that  the  whole 
freemen  of  the  country  constituted  the  real 
government;  and  the  diets  were  attended  by 
an  hundred  thousand  horsemen ;  the  great  ma- 
jority of  whom  were,  of  course,  ignorant,  and 
in  necessitous  circumstances,  while  all  were 
penetrated  with  an  equal  sense  of  their  im- 
portance as  membei's  of  the  Polish  state.  The 
convocation  of  these  tumultuous  assemblies 
was  almost  invariably  the  signal  for  murder 
and  disorder.  Thirty  or  forty  thousand  lackeys, 
in  the  service  of  the  nobles,  but  still  possess- 
ing the  rights  of  freemen,  followed  their  mas- 
ers  to  the  place  of  meeting,  and  Avere  ever 
.eady  to  support  their  ambition  by  military 

*  Salvandy,  vol.  i.  Tableau  HistDriq  le. 


violence,  while  the  unfl  tunate  natives,  eaw 
up  by  such  an  enormous  assemblage  of  armed 
men,  regarded  the  convocation  of  the  citizens 
in  the  same  light  as  the  inhabitants  of  the 
Grecian  city  did  the  invasion  of  Xerxes,  whose 
hordes  had  consumed  every  thing  eatable  in 
their  territory  at  breakfast,  Avhen  they  re- 
turned thanks  to  the  gods  that  he  had  not 
dined  in  their  neighbourhood,  or  every  living 
creature  Avould  have  perished. 

So  far  did  the  Poles  carry  this  equality 
among  all  the  free  citizens,  that  by  an  original 
and  fundamental  law,  called  the  Libcnnn  Veto, 
any  one  member  of  tlie  diet,  by  simply  inter- 
posing his  negative,  could  stop  the  election  of 
the  sovereign,  or  any  other  measure  the  most 
essential  to  the  public  Avelfare.  Of  course,  in. 
so  immense  a  multitude,  some  were  always  to 
be  found  fractious  or  venal  enough  to  exercise 
this  dangerous  power,  either  from  individual 
perversity,  the  influence  of  external  corrup- 
tion, or  internal  ambition;  and  hence  tire 
numerous  occasions  on  which  diets,  assembled 
for  the  most  important  purposes,  were  broken 
up  without  having  come  to  any  determination, 
and  the  Republic  left  a  prey  to  anarchy,  at  the 
time  when  it  stood  most  in  need  of  the  unani- 
mous support  of  its  members.  It  is  a  striking 
proof  how  easily  men  are  deluded  by  this 
phantom  of  general  equality,  when  it  is  re- 
collected that  this  ruinous  privilege  has,  not 
only  in  every  age,  been  clung  to  as  the  Magna 
CVioc/a  of  Poland,  but  that  the  native  historians, 
recounting  distant  events,  speak  of  any  in- 
fringement upon  it  as  the  most  fatal  measure 
that  could  possibly  be  figured,  to  the  liberties 
and  welfare  of  the  countrj^ 

All  human  institutions,  however,  must  be 
subject  to  some  check,  which  renders  it 
practicable  to  get  through  business  on  urgent 
occasions,  in  spite  of  individual  opposition. 
The  Poles  held  it  utterly  at  variance  with 
every  principle  of  freedom  to  bind  any  free 
man  by  a  law  to  which  he  had  not  consented. 
The  principle,  that  the  majority  could  bind  the 
minority,  seemed  to  them  inconsistent  with 
the  most  elementary  ideas  of  liberty.  To  get 
quit  of  the  difficulty,  they  commonly  massacred 
tlic  recusant ;  and  this  appeared,  in  their  eyes, 
a  much  less  serious  violation  of  freedom  than 
out-voting  him ;  because,  said  they,  instances 
of  violence  are  few,  and  do  not  go  beyond  the 
individual  sufferers  ;  but  when  once  the  rulers 
establish  that  the  majority  can  compel  the 
minority  to  yield,  no  man  has  any  security 
against  the  violation  of  his  freedom. 

Extremes  meet.  It  is  curious  to  observe 
how  exactly  the  violation  of  freedom  by  po- 
pular folly  coincides  in  its  eflect  with  its  ex- 
tinction by  despotic  power.  The  bow-string 
in  the  Seraglio,  and  assassination  at  St.  Peters- 
burg, are  the  limitations  on  arbitrary  power  in 
these  despotic  states.  Popular  murders  were 
the  means  of  restraining  the  exorbitant  liberty 
of  the  Poles  within  the  limits  necessary  lor  the 
maintenance  of  the  forms  even  of  regular 
government.  Strange,  as  Salvandy  has  well 
observed,  that  the  nation  the  most  jealous  ot 
its  liberty,  should,  at  the  same  time  adhere  to 
a  custom  of  all  others  the  most  dcsii  active  to 
freedom ;  and  that,  to  avoid  the  government 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


.if  pn*",  Ihry  should   submit  to  the  despotism 

j/ail! 
ll  mu  this  nripitijil   and  fatal  passion  for 


/ 


r 


■  n  cviTV  B^c  proved  fatal 

<• — wiiicii  has  paralyzed 

]de,  and  all  the  en- 

; — and  remlered  the 

niMion  III   Europe  the  most  un- 

J  lie  measures  of  its  government 

f  the  unstable  and  vacillating  cha- 

-'•  •    -    '  -  ■       •■  '  ' Hursts  of 

mIs  of  dejec- 

>  in  the  objects 

1  .cd   it  inipracli- 

;    ;  --lie  any  steady  object,  or  adhere, 

ill  ihe  varieties  of  fortune,  to  one  uni- 

■rm  for  the  cood  of  the  state.    Their 

'  Ii'd  the   contests   in   La 

ic  afler  Ihe  most  glorious 

■IIS  army  was  dissolved, 

..iiiJerin;^  with   a   few  fol- 

1  the  woods.  At  the  battle  of  Kotzim, 
-  nmanded  40,000  men,  the  most 
which  for  centuries  Poland  had 
I ;  at  their  head,  he  stormed 
I  nchments,  though  defended 
<  veterans,  and  300  pieces  of  cannon  ; 
1  that  michly  host,  slew  50,000  men, 
ed  the  Polish  ensisrns  in  triumph  to 
the  Danube.  But  while  Europe 
.!h  his  praises,  and  expected  the 
cr  of  the  Greek  empire  from  his 
-,  his  anny  dissolved — the  troops  re- 
lo  their  homes — and  the  invincible 
r  was  barely  able,  with  a  few  thou- 
,.  to  keep  the  field. 

on  the  ironliers  of  Europe  and  Asia, 
'•  1  rharaeter  and  history  have  partaken 

larprly  of  the  eflects  of  Ihe  institutions  of  both 

''  • nrters  of  the  globe.     Their  passion 

itv.  their  spirit  of  freedom,  their  na- 
1  ''tapes,  unite  them  to  European 

1  ■  ;    their  unstable    fortune,  per- 

p'-iutl  vacillation,  and  chequered  annals,  par- 
take of  the  character  of  Asiatic  adventure. 
While  the  Plates  by  whom  they  are  surrounded, 
have  •.harrd  in  the  steady  progress  of  Euro- 
pran  nvilization.  the   Polish  monarchy  has 
i  by  the  extraordinary  vicis- 
I         rn   story.     Elevated   to   the 
inng  periods  of  heroic  adventure,  it 
to  nothing  upon  the  death  of  a  single 
•  rppublic  which  had  recently  carried 
•  ■  the  neighl)ouring  capi- 
iig  for  its  existence  with 
;  and  the  bulwark  of 
'  '•  "as  in  the  next  razed 


i^e  of  this  vacil- 

•  Consequences 

d,  we  shall  find 

iliieh  ajipears  in 

I  y,  and  of  which  M. 

••in,ha.i  given  a  pow- 


.1 


■lire; 


»o  tr 


^t  prinei's," 

•  calumnies 

i'  Ihe  follies  of 

I  all  those  who 

iired.  in  IVdand, 

■  •I  j'loi. .  un;;  power.    Nothing 


is  more  extraordinary  than  to  hear  the  modem 
annalists  of  that  unfortunate  people,  whatevet 
their  country  or  doctrine  may  be,  mechanically 
repeal  .ill  the  national  outcry  against  what  they 
call  their  despotic  tyrants.  Facts  speak  in 
vain  against  such  prejudices.  In  the  eyes  of 
the  Poles,  nothing  was  worthy  of  preservation 
in  their  country  but  liberty  and  equality ; — a  high- 
sounding  expression,  which  the  French  Eevo- 
lution  had  not  the  glory  of  inventing,  nor  iis 
authors  the  wisdom  to  apply  more  judiciously 

"  Contrary  to  what  has  occurred  everywhere 
else  in  the  world,  the  Poles  have  never  been 
at  rest  but  under  the  rule  of  feeble  monarchs. 
Great  and  vigorous  kings  were  uniformly  the 
first  to  perish ;  they  have  always  sunk  under 
vain  attempts  to  accustom  an  independent  no- 
bility to  the  restraints  of  authority,  or  soften  to 
their  slaves  the  yoke  of  bondage.  Thus  the 
royal  authority,  -which  elsewhere  expanded  on 
the  ruins  of  the  feudal  system,  has  in  Poland 
only  become  weaker  with  the  progress  of  time. 
All  the  efforts  of  its  monarchs  to  enlarge  their 
prerogative  have  been  shattered  against  a 
compact,  independent,  courageous  body  of 
freemen,  Avho,  in  resisting  such  attempts,  have 
never  either  been  weakened  by  division  nor 
intimidated  by  menace.  In  their  passion  for 
equality,  in  their  jealous  independence,  they 
were  unwilling  even  to  admit  any  distinction 
between  each  other;  they  long  and  haughtily 
rejected  the  titles  of  honour  of  foreign  states, 
and  even  till  the  last  age,  refused  to  recognise 
those  hereditary  distinctions  and  oppressive 
privileges,  Avhich  are  now  so  fast  disappear- 
ing from  the  face  of  society.  They  even  went 
so  far  as  to  insist  that  one,  in  matters  of  de- 
liberation, should  be  equal  to  all.  The  ci'own 
was  thus  constantly  at  war  with  a  democracy 
of  nobles.  The  dynasty  of  the  Piasts  strove 
Avith  much  ability  to  create,  in  the  midst  of 
that  democracy,  a  iew  leading  families;  by 
the  side  of  those  nobles,  a  body  of  burghers. 
These  things,  difficult  in  all  states,  were  there 
impossible.  An  hereditary  dynasty,  always 
stormy  and  often  interrupted,  was  unfit  for  the 
persevering  efforts  requisite  for  such  a  revolu- 
tion. In  other  states  the  monarchs  pursued 
an  uniform  policy,  and  their  subjects  were  va- 
cillating; there  the  people  were  steady,  and 
the  crown  changeable." — L  71. 

"  In  other  states,  time  had  everyn-here  in- 
troduced the  hereditary  descent  of  honours  and 
power.  Hereditary  succession  was  established 
from  the  throne  to  the  smallest  fief,  from  the 
reciprocal  necessity  of  subduing  the  van- 
quished people,  and  securing  to  each  his  share 
in  the  conquests.  In  Poland,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  waywoods,  or  warlike  chieftains,  the 
magistrates  and  civil  authorities,  the  governors 
of  ca.stlcs  and  provinces,  so  far  from  founding 
an  aristocracy  by  establishing  the  descent  of 
their  honours  or  ofiices  in  their  families,  were 
seldom  even  nominated  by  the  king.  Their 
authority,  especially  that  of  the  Pafatins,  ex- 
citoil  equal  umbrage  in  the  sovereign  who 
shoukl  have  ruled,  as  the  nobles  Avho  should 
have  obeyed  them.  There  was  thus  authority 
ami  order  nowhere  in  the  state. 

"It  IS  not  surprising  that  such  men  should 
unite  to  the  pride  which  could  bear  nothing 


POLAND. 


above,  the  tyranny  which  conld  spai-e  nothing 
below  them.  In  the  dread  of  being  compelled 
to  share  their  power  with  their  inferiors  ele- 
vated by  riches  or  intelligence,  they  affixed  a 
stigma  on  every  useful  profession  as  a  mark 
of  servitude.  Their  maxim  was,  that  nobility 
of  blood  was  not  lost  by  indigence  or  domestic 
service,  but  totally  extinguished  by  commerce 
or  industry.  This  policy  perpetually  withheld 
from  the  great  body  of  serfs  the  use  of  arms, 
both  because  they  had  learned  to  fear,  but  still 
continued  to  despise  them.  In  fine,  jealous  of 
every  species  of  superiority  as  a  personal  out- 
rage, of  every  authority  as  an  usurpation,  of 
every  labour  as  a  degradation,  this  society 
was  at  variance  with  every  principle  of  human 
prosperity. 

"  Weakened  in  this  manner  in  their  external 
contests,  by  their  equality  not  less  than  their 
tyranny,  inferior  to  their  neighbours  in  number 
and  discipline,  the  Poles  were  the  only  warlike 
people  in  the  world  to  whom  victory  never 
gave  either  peace  or  conquest.  Incessant  con- 
tests with  the  Germans,  the  Hungarians,  the 
pirates  of  the  north,  the  Cossacks  of  the 
Ukraine,  the  Osmanlis,  occupy  their  whole 
annals ;  but  never  did  the  Polish  eagles  ad- 
vance the  frontiers  of  the  republic.  Poland 
saw  Moravia,  Brandenburg,  Pomerania,  es- 
cape from  its  rule,  as  Bohemia  and  Mecklen- 
burg had  formerly  done,  without  ever  being 
awakened  to  the  necessity  of  establishing  a  cen- 
tral government  sufficiently  strong  to  coerce 
and  protect  so  many  discordant  materials. 
She  was  destined  to  drink  to  the  last  dregs  the 
bitter  consequences  of  a  pitiless  aristocracy 
and  a  senseless  equality." 

"Vainly  did  Time,  whose  ceaseless  course, 
by  breaking  through  that  fierce  and  oppressive 
equality,  had  succeeded  where  its  monarchs 
had  failed,  strive  to  introduce  a  better  order 
of  things.  Poland  was  destined,  in  all  the 
ages  of  its  history,  to  dilfer  from  all  the  other 
European  states.  With  the  progress  of  wealth, 
a  race  of  burghers  at  length  sprung  up — an 
aristocracy  of  wealth  and  possessions  arose  ; 
but  both,  contrary  to  the  genius  of  the  people, 
perished  before  they  arrived  at  maturity.  The 
first  was  speedily  overthrown  ;  in  the  convul- 
sion consequent  upon  the  establishment  of 
the  last,  the  national  independence  was  de- 
stroyed."—I.  74. 

Of  the  practical  consequences  of  this  fatal 
passion  for  equality  in  the  legislature  and  the 
form  of  government,  our  author  gives  the  fol- 
lowing curious  account: — 

"The  extreme  difficulty  of  providing  food 
for  their  comitia  of  an  hundred  thousand  citi- 
zens on  horseback,  obliged  the  members  of 
the  diet  to  terminate  their  deliberations  in  a 
few  days,  or  rather  to  separate,  after  having 
devoured  all  the  food  in  the  country,  com- 
menced a  civil  war,  and  determined  nothing. 
The  constant  recurrence  of  such  disasters  at 
length  led  to  an  attempt  to  introduce  territorial 
deputies,  invested  with  full  power  to  carry  on 
the  ordinary  and  routine  business  of  the  state. 
But  so  adverse  was  any  delegation  of  authority 
to  the  original  nature  of  Polish  independence, 
that  this  beneficial  institution  never  was  es- 
'ablished  in  Poland  but  in  the  most  incom- 


plete manner.  Its  introduction  corrected  none 
of  the  ancient  abuses.  The  king  was  still 
the  president  of  tumultuous  assemblies  ;  sur- 
rolmded  by  obstacles  on  every  side  ;  controlled 
by  generals  and  ministeiy  not  of  his  own  se- 
lection ;  obliged  to  defend  the  acts  of  a  cabinet 
which  he  could  not  control,  against  the  crie; 
of  a  furious  diet.  And  th^\se  diets,  which 
united,  sabre  in  hand,  under  the  eye  of  the 
sovereign,  and  still  treated  of  all  the  important 
afiairs  of  the  state — of  war  and  peace,  the 
election  of  a  sovereign,  the  formation  of  laws 
— which  gave  audience  to  ambassadors,  and 
administered  justice  in  important  cases — 
were  still  the  Champs  de  Mars  of  the  northern 
tribes,  and  partook  to  the  very  last  of  all  the 
vices  of  the  savage  character.  There  was 
the  same  confusion  of  powers,  the  same  ele- 
ments of  disorder,  the  same  license  to  them- 
selves, the  same  tyranny  over  others. 

"  This  attempt  at  a  representative  govern- 
ment was  destructive  to  the  last  shadow  of  the 
royal  authority;  the  meetings  of  the  deputies 
became  fixed  and  frequent;  the  power  of  the 
sovereign  was  lost  without  any  permanent 
body  arising  to  receive  it  in  his  room.  The 
system  of  deputations  made  slow  progress ; 
and  in  several  provinces  was  never  admitted. 
General  diets,  where  the  whole  nation  as- 
sembled, became  more  rare,  and  therefore 
more  perilous;  and  as  they  were  convoked 
only  on  great  occasions,  and  to  discuss 
weighty  interests,  the  fervour  of  passion  was 
superadded  to  the  inexperience  of  business. 

"Speedily  the  representative  assemblies  be- 
came the  olDJect  of  jealousy  on  the  part  of  this 
democratic  race ;  and  the  citizens  of  the  re- 
public sought  only  to  limit  the  powers  which 
they  had  conferred  on  their  representatives. 
Often  the  jealous  multitude,  terrified  at  the 
powers  with  which  they  had  invested  the  de- 
puties, Avere  seized  -wilh  a  sudden  panic,  and 
hastened  together  from  all  quarters  with  their 
arras  in  their  hands  to  watch  over  their  pro- 
ceedings. Such  assemblies  were  styled  '  Diets 
under  the  Buckler.'  But  generally  they  re- 
stricted and  qualified  their  powers  at  the  mo- 
ment of  election.  The  electors  confined  their 
parliaments  to  a  circle  of  limited  questions: 
gave  them  obligatory  directions;  and  held,  after 
every  session,  xvhat  they  ccdlcd  post-eomilial  diets; 
the  object  of  which  was  to  exact  from  every  deputy 
a  rigid  account  of  the  execution  of  his  mandate. 
Thus  every  question  of  importance  ivas,  in  effect, 
decided  in  the  provinces  before  it  icas  debated  in  the 
yiational  assembly.  And  as  unanimity  was  still 
considered  essential  to  a  decision,  the  passing 
of  any  legislative  act  became  impossible  when 
there  was  any  variance  between  the  instruc- 
tions to  the  deputies.  Thus  the  majority  were 
compelled  to  disregard  the  protestations  of  the 
minority;  and,  to  guard  against  that  tyranny, 
the  only  remedy  seemed  to  establish,  m  iavour 
of  the  outvoted  minority,  the  right  ol  civil 
war.  Confederations  were  establisiied ;  armed 
leagues,  formed  of  discontented  nobles,  whc 
elected  a  marshal  or  prtsident,  and  oppose(^ 
decrees  to  decrees,  force  to  force,  diet  to  dici. 
tribune  to  tribune;  and  had  alternatdy  the 
king  for  its  leader  and  its  captive.  What  de- 
plorable  institutions,  which  opened  to  all  .hfl 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


dMcontrntrJ  a  Irpal  cliaiincl  for  spreading 
•narchv  ilimiish  ihiir  country  !  The  only  as- 
(  lial  ihc  valour  of  the  Polish 

I  reded  in  concealing  these 

monal  dclccu  in  their  institutions.  One 
vuuld  have  imagined  ihal  a  nation,  under 
mich  custonwi,  could  not  exist  a  year;  and  yet 
it  j.crmed  never  weary  either  of  victories  or 
fullv."— I.  116. 

.N  -  necessary  for  the  length  of 

Ihi  ;  for  they  are  not  only  iHus- 

iralivc  oi  ihe  causes  of  the  uniform  disasters 
of  Poland,  but  eminently  instructive  as  to  the 
tendency  of  democratic  institutions  all  over 
the  world. 

There  is  no  danger  that  the  inhabitants  of 
r  !  or  France  will  llork  in  person  to  the 

I ,  .....  ^  of  Parliament,  and  establish  diets  of 
two  or  three  hundred  thousand  freemen,  with 
'  -'  '  y  their  sides ;  but  there  is  a  very  great 
ihat  they  will  adopt  the  democratic 
of  their  representatives,  and  fix  them 
.  fixed  instructions  to  a  course  of  con- 
duct which  will  both  render  nugatory  all  the 
advantages  of  a  deliberative  assembly,  and 
sow  the  seeds  of  dissension,  jealousy,  and  civil 
war  between  the  different  members  of  the 
state.  This  is  the  more  to  be  apprehended, 
because  this  evil  was  felt  in  the  strongest 
manner  in  France  during  the  progress  of  the 
Revolution,  and  has  appeared  in  America  most 
remarkably  even  during  the  brief  period  of  its 
political  existence. 

The  legislators  of  America  are  not  in  any 
sense  fiaimiiicn :  they  are  merely  delegates, 
bound  to  obej'  the  directions  of  their  constitu- 
ents, and  sent  there  to  forward  the  individual 
interest  of  the  province,  district,  or  borough 
which  they  represent.  Their  debates  are  lan- 
guid and  uninteresting;  conducted  Avith  no 
idea  whatever  of  convincing,  but  merely  of 
showin?  the  constituents  of  each  member 
what  he  had  done  for  his  daily  hire  of  seven 
dollars.  The  Constituents  Assembly  met,  with 
cahicrt  or  instructions  to  the  deputies  from  all 
the  elerti.rs  ;  and  so  much  did  this  jealousy  of 
the  legislature  increase  with  the  progress  of 
the  movrmrnts  in  France,  that  the  surest  road 
(o  popularity  with  the  electors  was  soon  found 
lo  be,  the  most  abject  professions  of  submis- 
sion to  their  will.  Every  one  knows  how  long 
and  vehemently  annual  parliaments  have  been 
«!eui:iiMl.J  i,y  the  English  radicals,  in  order  to 
give  ihcin  an  opportunity  of  constantly  exer- 
cising this  surveillance  over  their  representa- 
livcs ;  and  how  many  members  of  the  present 
HouKe  of  Commons  are  under  a  positive 
•  their  constituents  on  more  than  one 
"US  question.  It  is  interesting  to  ob- 
wrvc  how  much  mankind,  under  all  varieties 
of  climale,  situation,  and  circumstances,  are 
(fovemed  bv  Ihe  same  principles;  and  to  trace 
•*"■  "f  '*ie  same  causes  in  Polish  an- 

*"■<  'h  revolutions,  American  selfish- 

ne*--,  .111(1  British  democracy. 

>N  liocver  considers  the  matter  dispassion- 
ately, and  attends  lo  ihe  lessons  of  history, 
must  arrive  nl  the  conclusion,  that  this  demo- 
crafic  spirit  cannot  co-exisi  with  n-giilar  go- 
*''"''  ii-iiK-nal  indepeiiileiire  in  ancient 

•'«'•'  II'. It  P.dish  anarchy  js  the  neces- 


sary prelude  in  all  such  communities  to  Mo* 
covite  oppression.  The  reason  is  eternal,  and 
being  founded  in  the  nature  of  things,  must  be 
the  same  in  all  ages.  When  the  true  demo- 
cratic spirit  is  once  generally  diffused,  men 
invariably  acquire  such  an  inordinate  jealousy 
of  tl>cir  ri'krs,  that  they  thwart  all  measures, 
even  of  the  most  obvious  and  undeniable  utili- 
ty; and  by  a  perpetual  change  of  governors, 
o-ratify  their  own  equalizing  spirit,  at  the  ex- 
pense of  the  best  interests  of  the  state.  This 
disposition  appears  at  present  in  France,  and 
England,  in  the  rapid  changes  of  administra- 
tion which  have  taken  place  within  the  last 
few  years,  to  the  total  destruction  of  any  uni- 
formity of  government,  or  the  prosecution  of 
any  systematic  plan  for  the  public  good:  it 
appears  in  America  in  the  execrable  system 
of  rotation  of  office,  in  other  words,  of  the  ex- 
pulsion of  every  man  from  official  situations, 
the  moment  he  becomes  qualified  to  hold  them, 
which  a  recent  able  observer  has  so  well  ex- 
posed ;*  it  appeared  in  Poland  in  the  uniform 
weakness  of  the  executive,  and  periodical  re- 
turns of  anarchy,  which  rendered  them,  in 
despite  of  their  native  valour,  unfortunate  in 
every  contest,  and  at  last  led  to  the  partition 
of  the  republic. 

Never  was  there  a  truer  observation,  than 
that  wherever  the  tendency  of  prevailing  in- 
stitutions is  hurtful,  there  is  an  tinder-current 
perpetually  flowing,  destined  to  correct  them. 
As  this  equalising  and  democratic  spirit  is 
utterly  destructive  to  the  best  interests  of  so- 
ciet}'*,  and  the  happiness  of  the  very  people 
who  indulge  in  it,  so  by  the  wisdom  of  nature, 
it  leads  rapidly  and  certainly  to  its  own  de- 
struction. The  moment  that  it  became  para- 
mount in  the  Koman  Republic,  it  led  to  the 
civil  convulsions  which  brought  on  the  despo- 
tism of  the  Ccesars  ;  its  career  w-as  rapidly  cut 
short  in  France  by  the  sword  of  Napoleon ;  it 
exterminated  Poland  from  the  book  of  nations; 
it  threatens  to  close  the  long  line  of  British 
greatness ;  it  will  convulse  or  subjugate  Ame- 
rica, the  moment  that  growing  republic  is 
brought  in  contact  with  warlike  neighbours, 
or  finds  the  safety-valve  of  the  back  settle- 
ments closed  against  the  escape  of  turbulent 
multitudes. 

The  father  of  John  Sobieski,  Avhose  estates 
lay  in  the  Ukraine,  has  left  a  curious  account 
of  the  manners  and  habits  of  the  Cossacks  in 
his  time,  which  was  about  200  years  ago. 
"The  great  majorit}',"  said  he,  "  of  these  wan- 
dering tribes,  think  of  nothing  but  the  aftairs 
of  their  little  families,  and  encamp,  as  it  were, 
in  the  midst  of  the  towns  Avhich  belong  to  the 
crown  or  the  noblesse.  They  interrupt  the 
ennui  of  repose  by  frequent  assemblies,  and 
their  comilia  are  generally  civil  wars,  often  at- 
tended by  profuse  bloodshed.  It  is  there  that 
they  choose  their  hetman,  or  chief,  by  accla- 
mation, followed  by  throwing  their  bearskin 
caps  in  the  air.  Such  is  the  inconstancy  in  the 
multitude,  that  they  frequently  destroy  their 
own  work ;  but  as  long  as  the  hetman  remains 
in  power,  he  has  the  right  of  life  and  death. 
The  town  of  Tretchmiron,  in  Kiovia,  is  the 


Captain  Hall. 


,   POLAND. 


57 


arseL  il  of  their  warlike  implements  and  their 
treasv  re.  There  is  deposited  the  booty  taken 
by  th'^  ir  pirates  in  Romelia  and  Asia  Minor; 
and  taere  are  also  preserved,  with  religious 
care,  the  immunities  granted  to  their  nation 
by  thf»  republic.  There  are  displayed  the 
standards  which  the  king  sends  them,  when- 
ever they  take  up  arms  for  the  service  of  the 
republic.  It  is  round  this  royal  standard  that 
the  nation  assemble  in  their  comitia.  The  het- 
man  there  does  not  presume  to  address  the 
multitude  but  with  his  head  uncovered,  with  a 
respeclfvil  air,  ready  to  exculpate  himself  from 
all  the  charges  brought  against  him,  and  to 
solicit  humbly  his  share  of  the  spoils  taken 
from  the  enemies.  These  fierce  peasants  are 
passionately  fond  of  war;  few  are  acquainted 
with  the  use  of  the  musket ;  the  pistol  and 
sabre  are  their  ordinary  weapons.  Thanks  to 
their  light  and  courageous  squadrons,  Poland 
can  face  the  infantry  of  the  most  powerful  na- 
tions on  earth.  They  are  as  serviceable  in  re- 
treat as  in  success ;  when  discomfited,  they 
form,  with  their  chariots  ranged  in  several 
lines  in  a  circular  form,  an  entrenched  camp, 
to  which  no  other  fortifications  can  be  com- 
pared. Behind  that  tabor,  they  defy  the  at- 
tacks of  the  most  formidable  enemy." 

Of  the  species  of  troops  who  composed  the 
Polish  army,  our  author  gives  the  following 
curious  account, — a  striking  proof  of  the  na- 
tional weakness  which  follows  the  fatal  pas- 
sion for  equality,  which  formed  their  grand 
national  characteristic : 

"  Five  different  kinds  of  soldiers  composed 
the  Polish  army.  There  was,  in  the  first  place, 
the  mercenaries,  composed  of  Hungarians, 
Wallachians,  Cossacks,  Tartars,  and  Germans, 
who  would  have  formed  the  strength  and 
nucleus  of  the  army,  had  it  not  been  that  on 
the  least  delay  in  their  payments,  they  invari- 
ably turned  their  arms  against  the  govern- 
ment :  the  national  troops,  to  M'hose  mainte- 
nance a  fourth  of  the  national  revenue  was 
devoted  :  the  volunteers,  under  which  name 
were  included  the  levies  of  the  great  nobles, 
and  the  ordinary  guards  which  they  maintained 
in  time  of  peace:  the  Pospolitc,  that  is,  the 
array  of  the  whole  free  citizens,  who,  after 
three  summonses  from  the  king,  were  obliged 
to  come  forth  under  the  banners  of  their  re- 
spective palatines,  but  only  to  remain  a  few 
months  in  the  field,  and  could  not  be  ordered 
beyond  the  frontiers.  This  last  unwieldy 
body,  however  brave,  was  totally  deficient  in 
discipline,  and  in  general  served  only  to  mani- 
fest the  weakness  of  the  republic.  It  was 
rjeldom  called  forth  but  in  civil  wars.  The 
legions  of  valets,  grooms,  and  drivers,  who 
encumbered  the  other  force,  may  be  termed  a 
fifth  branch  of  the  militai-y  force  of  Poland; 
but  these  fierce  retainers,  naturally  warlike 
and  irascible,  injured  the  army  more  by  their 
pillage  and  dissensions  than  they  assisted  it 
by  their  numbers. 

"All  these  different  troops  were  deficient  in 
equipment ;  obliged  to  provide  themselves 
with  every  thing,  and  to  collect  their  subsist- 
ence by  their  own  authority,  they  were  encum- 
bered with  an  incredible  quantity  of  baggage- 
Wagons,  destined,  for  the  most  part,  less  to 


convey  provisions  than  carrj  off  plunder 
They  had  no  corps  of  engineers;  the  artillery, 
composed  of  a  few  pieces  of  small  calibre,  had 
no  other  officers  than  a  handful  of  French 
adventurers,  upon  whose  adherence  to  the 
republic  implicit  reliance  could  not  be  placed. 
The  infantry  were  few  in  number,  composed 
entirely  of  the  mercenary  and. royal  troops, 
but  this  arm  was  regarded  with  contempt  by 
the  haughty  nobility.  The  foot  soldiers  Avere 
employed  in  digging  ditches,  throwing  bridges, 
and  cutting  down  forests,  rather  than  actual 
warfare.  Sobieski  was  exceedingly  desirous 
of  having  in  his  camp  a  considerable  force  of 
infantry ;  but  two  invincible  obstacles  pre 
vented  it, — the  prejudices  of  the  countrj-,  am 
the  penury  of  the  royal  treasury. 

"  The  whole  body  of  the  Pospolite,  the  vo- 
lunteers, the  valets  cVarmee,  and  a  large  part  of 
the  mercenaries  and  national  troops,  served 
on  horseback.  The  heavy  cavalry,  in  particu- 
lar, constituted  the  strength  of  the  armies ; 
there  were  to  be  found  united,  riches,  splen- 
dour, and  number.  They  were  divided  into 
cuirassiers  and  hussars ;  the  former  clothed 
in  steel,  man  and  horse  bearing  casque  and 
cuirass,  lance  and  sabre,  bows  and  carabines; 
the  latter  defended  only  by  a  twisted  hauberk, 
which  descended  from  the  head,  over  the 
shoulders  and  breast,  and  armed  with  a  sabre 
and  pistol.  Both  were  distinguished  by  the 
splendour  of  their  dress  and  equipage,  and  the 
number  and  costly  array  of  their  mounted  ser- 
vants, accoutred  in  the  most  bizarre  manner, 
with  huge  black  plumes,  and  skins  of  ,bears 
and  other  wild  beasts.  It  was  the  boast  of 
this  body,  that  they  were  composed  of  men, 
all  measured,  as  they  expressed  it,  by  the  same 
standard;  that  is,  equal  in  nobility,  equally 
enjoying  the  rights  to  obey  only  their  God  and 
their  swords,  and  equally  destined,  perhaps,  to 
step  one  day  into  the  throne  of  the  Piasls  and 
the  Jagellons.  The  hussars  and  cuirassiers 
were  called  Towarzir:,  that  is,  companions; 
they  called  each  other  by  that  name,  and  they 
were  designated  in  the  same  way  by  the  sove- 
reign, whose  chief  boast  would  be  Primus  inter 
pares,  the  first  among  equals." — I.  129. 

With  so  motley  and  discordant  a  force,  it  is 
not  surprising  that  Poland  was  unable  to  make 
head  against  the  steady  ambition  and  regular 
forces  of  the  military  monarchies  with  which 
it  was  surrounded.  Its  history  accordingly 
exhibits  the  usual  feature  of  all  democratic 
societies — occasional  bursts  of  patriotism,  and 
splendid  efforts  followed  by  dej.ection,  anarchy, 
and  misrule.  It  is  a  stormy  night  illuminated 
by  occasional  flashes  of  lightning,  never  by 
the  steady  radiance  of  the  morning  san. 

One  of  the  most  glorious  of  these  flashes  is 
the  victory  of  Kotzim,  the  first  great  achieve- 
ment of  John  Sobieski. 

"Kotzim  is  a  strong  castle,  situated  four 
leagues  from  Kamaniek,  on  a  rocky  projection 
which  runs  into  the  Dneiper,  impregnable 
from  the  river,  and  surrounded  on  the  other 
side  by  deep  and  rocky  ravines.  A  bridge 
thrown  over  one  of  them,  united  it  to  the  en- 
trenched camp,  Avhere  Hussein  Pacha  had 
posted  his  army.  That  camp,  defended  by 
ancient  fieldworks,  extended  along  the  banks 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


of  Ui*"  Pnriper.  ami  was  puanlcd  on  the  side 

of  M  ,  ihc  sole  nCj^-cssible  qnaitcr,  by 

prr,  >ii  in  ihc  solui  rock,  and  inipass- 

k  -s.     Tl»e  art  of  the  Ollomans  had 

me  natural  blrcngth  of  the  jiobiiion; 

,  ..viT  ulucli,  after  the  example  of  the 

I  •  V  colony  was  intended  to 

J  .1  to  a  firfat  distance  by 

canalr.  and  .inches,  whose  banks  were  .strenslh- 

enfd  by  palisades.     A  powerful  arlilieiy  de- 

ffndcl  all  the  avenues  to  the  camp,  and  there 

■:   .  ut  tents,  the  Turkish 

.     .  •  thousand  veterans, 

when  iiiry  were  ^u(ldL■llly  startled  by  the  sijrht 

of  llie  Polish  banners,  which  moved  in  splendid 

arrajr  round  their  eutrcnchments,  and  took  up 

a  position  almost  under  the  fire  of  their  ariil- 

len*. 

"I  iiimating  to  the  recollec- 

tion '    ■         111  host.    Fifty  years  be- 

for«,  James  Sobicski  had  conquered  a  glorious 
peace  under  the  walls  of  that  very  castle  :  and 
airainsl  its  ramparts,  after  the  disaster  of  the 
i:  ir  of  the  young  Sultan  Osman 

;  if  in  vain.     Now  the   sides 

were  changt-d;  the  Turks  held  the  entrenched 
camp,  and  the  army  of  the  sou  of  James  So- 
bieski  filled  the  plain. 

"The  smaller  force  had  now  to  make  the 
assault;  the  larger  army  was  entrenched  be- 
hind ramparts  better  fortified,  better  armed 
with  cannon,  than  those  which  Sultan  Osmau 
and  his  three  hundred  thousand  Mussulmen 
soutrht  in  vain  to  wrest  from  the  feeble  army 
of  Wladislaus.  The  Turks  were  now  grown 
gray  in  victories,  and  the  assailants  were 
young  troops,  for  the  most  part  ill  armed,  as- 
sembled in  haste,  destitute  of  resources,  maga- 
zines, or  provisions — worn  out  with  the  fatigues 
and  the  privations  of  a  winter  campaign.  Deep 
i'  '  '  ihc  rocky  bed  of  torrents,  precipitous 
\  rock,  composed  the  field  of  battle  on 

wiiicii  liicy  were  called  on  to  combat  an  enemj'^ 
reposing  tranquilly  under  the  laurels  of  vic- 
tor)', beneath  sumptuous  tents,  and  behind 
ramparts  defended  by  an  array  of  three  hun- 
dred pieces  of  cannon.  The  night  passed  on 
the  Polish  side  in  mortal  disquietude;  the 
mind  of  the  general,  equally  with  the  soldiers, 
was  overwhelmed  with  anxiety.    The  enter- 

Crisc  which  he  had  undertaken  seemed  above 
uman  strength;  the  army  had  no  chance  of 
J    ■  It  in  victory,  and  there  was  too  much 

:  '..  fear  that  treachery,  or  division  in 

I  ;'s,  would  snatch  it  from  his  grasp, 

.  down  his  name  with  disgrace  to 
1 

-  i'-skl  alone  was  inaccessible  to  fear. 
When  the  troops  wotp  drawn  forth  on  the  fol- 
1  '        id  Hetmau  of  Liihu- 

V   dfspcrale,  and  his 
r  n    to    retreat.      '  Hclrcal,'   cried    the 

J'  ,.  ..  iicro, 'is  impossible.  We  should  only 
find  a  disfrraccful  death  in  the  morasses  with 
^■hich  \v  "    ^  .1  frw  leagues  from 

h'"'"'-:   '  •    it  at  the  foot  of  the 

'Miircnrhnients.     Hut  what  ground  is 
'  r  apprehension!      Nothing  disquiets 

Btc  Irjt  what  I  hear  from  you.  Your  menaces 
are  mir  (.i,ly  danger.  I  am  confident  you  will 
not  eic.iiii;  ihcin.    If  Poland  is  to  be  cllaced 


from  the  book  of  nations,  you  will  m  t  allow 
our  children  to  exclaim,  that'  if  a  Paz  had  not 
lied,  they  would  not  have  wanted  a  country.' 
Vanquished  by  the  magnanimity  of  Sobieski, 
and  the  cries  of  Sapieha  and  Kadzivvik,  the 
Lithuanian  chief  promised  not  to  desert  his 
countrymen. 

"  [Sobieski  then  ranged  his  faltering  batta- 
lions in  order  of  battle,  and  the  Turks  made 
preparations  to  receive  behind  their  entrench- 
ments the  seemingly  hopeless  attack  of  the  • 
Christians.  Their  forces  were  ranged  in  a 
semicircle,  and  their  forty  field-pieces  advanced 
in  front,  battered  in  breach  the  palisades  which 
were  placed  across  the  approaches  to  the 
Turkish  palisades.  Kouski,  the  commander 
of  the  artillery,  performed  under  the  superior 
fire  of  the  enemy,  prodigies  of  valour.  The 
breaches  were  declared  practicable  in  the 
evening;  and  when  night  came,  the  Christian 
forces  of  the  tM'o  principalities  of  Walachia 
and  Moldavia  deserted  the  camp  of  the  Infi- 
dels, to  range  themselves  nnder  the  standard 
of  the  cross  ;  a  cheering  omen,  for  troops 
never  desert  but  to  the  side  which  they  ima- 
gine will  prove  successful. 

"  The  weather  was  dreadful ;  the  snow  fell 
in  great  quantities ;  the  ranks  were  obstructed 
by  its  drifts.  In  the  midst  of  that  severe  tem- 
pest, Sobieski  kept  his  troops,  under  arms  the 
whole  night.  In  the  morning  the}'  M-ere  buried 
in  the  snoAV,  exhausted  by  cold  and  sufieriug. 
Thsn  he  gave  the  signal  of  attack.  '  Com- 
panions, said  he,  in  passing  through  the  lines, 
his  clothes,  his  hair,  his  mustaches  covered 
with  icicles,  'I  deliver  to  you  an  enemy  already 
half  vanquished.  You  have  suffered,  the  Turks 
are  exhausted.  The  troops  of  Asia  can  never 
endure  the  hardships  of  the  last  twenty-four 
hours.  The  cold  has  conquered  them  to  our 
hand.  Whole  troops  of  them  are  already  sink- 
ing under  their  sufferings,  while  we,  inured  to 
the  climate,  are  only  animated  by  it  to  fresh 
exertions.  It  is  for  us  to  save  the  republic 
from  shame  and  slavery.  Soldiers  of  Poland, 
recollect  that  j^ou  fight  for  your  country,  and 
that  Jesus  Christ  combats  for  you.' 

"  Sobieski  had  thrice  heard  mass  since  the 
rising  of  the  sun.  The  day  was  the  fete  of  St. 
Martin  of  Tours.  The  chiefs  founded  great 
hopes  on  his  intercession :  the  priests,  who 
had  followed  their  masters  to  the  field  of  battle, 
traversed  the  ranks,  recounting  the  actions  of 
that  great  apostle  of  the  French,  and  all  that 
they  might  expect  from  his  known  zeal  for  the 
faith.  He  was  a  Slavonian  by  birth.  Could 
there  be  any  doubt,  then,  that  the  Christians 
would  triumph  when  his  glory  was  on  that  day 
in  so  peculiar  a  manner  interested  in  perfoim 
ing  miracles  in  their  favour] 

"An  accidental  circumstance  gave  the 
highest  appearance  of  truth  to  these  ideas 
The  Grand  Marshal,  who  had  just  completed 
his  last  rcconnoissance  of  the  enemy's  lines, 
returned  with  his  countenance  illuminated  by 
the  presage  of  victory — 'My  companions,'  he 
exclaimed, '  in  half  an  hour  Ave  shall  be  lodged 
under  these  gilded  tents.'  In  fact,  he  had  dis- 
covered that  the  point  against  which  he  in- 
tended to  direct  his  principal  attack  was  not 
defended  but  by  a  few  troops  berumbed  by  the 


POLAND. 


59 


cold.  He  immediately  made  several  feigned 
assaults  to  distract  the  attetitioii  of  the  enemy, 
and  directed  against  the  palisades,  by  which 
he  intended  to  enter,  the  fire  of  a  battery 
already  erected.  The  soldiers  immediately 
recollected  that  the  preceding  evening  they 
had  made  the  utmost  eflbrts  to  draw  the 
cannon  beyond  that  point,  but  that  a  power 
apparently  more  than  human  had  chained 
them  to  the  spot,  from  whence  now  they  easily 
beat  down  the  obstacles  to  the  army's  ad- 
vance, and  cleared  the  road  to  victory.  Who 
was  so  blind  as  not  to  see  in  that  circum- 
stance the  miraculous  intervention  of  Gregory 
of  Tours ! 

"  At  that  moment  the  army  knelt  down  to  re- 
ceive the  benediction  of  Father  Pizeborowski, 
confessor  of  the  Grand  Hetman ;  and  his 
prayer  being  concluded,  Sobieski,  dismount- 
ing from  his  horse,  ordered  his  infantry  to 
move  forward  to  the  assault  of  the  newly- 
op<;ned  breach  in  the  palisades,  he  himself. 
sw  ord  in  hand,  directing  the  way.  The  armed 
valets  followed  rapidly  in  their  footsteps.  That 
courageous  band  were  never  afraid  to  tread 
the  path  of  c'anger  in  the  hopes  of  plunder. 
In  a  moment  the  ditches  were  filled  up  and 
passed ;  with  one  bound  the  troops  arrived  at 
the  foot  of  the  rocks.  The  Grand  Hetman, 
after  that  first  success,  had  hardly  time  to  re- 
mount on  horseback,  when,  on  the  heights  of 
the  entrenched  camp,  were  seen  the  standard 
of  the  cross  and  the  eagle  of  Poland.  Petri- 
kowski  and  Denholf,  of  the  royal  race  of  the 
Piasts,  had  first  mounted  the  ramparts,  and 
raised  their  ensigns.  At  this  joyful  sight,  a 
hurrah  of  triumph  rose  from  the  Polish  ranks, 
and  rent  the  heavens  ;  the  Turks  were  seized 
with  consternation;  they  had  been  confounded 
at  that  sudden  attack,  made  at  a  time  when 
thej^  imagined  the  severity  of  the  weather  had 
made  the  Christians  renounce  their  perilous 
enterprise.  Such  was  the  confusion,  that  but 
for  the  extraordinary  strength  of  the  position, 
they  could  not  have  stood  a  moment.  At  this 
critical  juncture,  Hussein,  deceived  by  a  false 
attack  of  Czarnicki,  hastened  with  his  cavalry 
to  the  other  side  of  the  camp,  and  the  spahis, 
conceiving  that  he  was  flying,  speedily  took  to 
flight. 

"  But  the  Janizzaries  were  not  j^et  van- 
quished. Inured  to  arms,  they  rapidly  formed 
their  ranks,  and  falling  upon  the  valets,  who 
had  dispersed  in  search  of  plunder,  easily  put 
them  to  the  sword.  Fortunately,  Sobieski  had 
had  time  to  employ  his  foot  soldiers  in  level- 
ling the  ground,  and  rendering  accessible  the 
approaches  to  the  summits  of  the  hills.  The 
Polish  cavalry  came  rushing  in  with  a  noise 
like  thunder.  The  hussars,  the  cuirassiers, 
with  burning  torches  afhxed  to  their  lances, 
scaled  precipices  which  seemed  hardly  acces- 
sible to  foot  soldiers.  Inactive  till  that  mo- 
ment, Paz  now  roused  his  giant  strength. 
Ever  the  rival  of  Sobieski,  he  rushed  forward 
with  his  Lithuanian  nobles  in  the  midst  of 
every  danger,  to  endeavour  to  arrive  first  in 
the  Ottoman  camp.  It  was  too  late ; — already 
the  flaming  lances  of  the  Grand  Hetman 
gleamed  on  the  summits  of  the  entrenchments, 

i.  ever  attentive   to  the  duties  ef  a  com- 


mander, Sobieski  was  employed  in  re-forminf 
the  ranks  of  the  assailants,  disordered  by 
the  assault  and  their  success,  and  preparing 
for  a  new  battle  in  the  midst  of  that  city  of 
tents,  which,  though  surprised,  seemed  "not 
subdued. 

"  But  the  astonishment  and  confusion  of  the 
besieged,  the  cries  of  the  women,  shut  up  in 
the  Harems,  the  thundering  charges  of  the 
heavy  squadrons  clothed  in  impenetrable  steel, 
and  composed  of  impel  uous  young  men,  gave 
the  Turks  no  time  to  recover  from  their  con- 
sternation. It  was  no  longer  a  battle,  bat  a 
massacre.  Demetrius  and  the  Lithuanian  met 
at  the  same  time  in  the  invaded  camp.  A  ciy 
of  horror  now  rose  from  the  Turkish  ranks, 
and  they  rushed  in  crowds  to  the  bridge  of 
boats  which  crossed  the  Dniester,  and  formed 
the  sole  communication  between  Kotzim,  and 
the  fortified  cityof  Kamaniek.  In  the  stnjggle 
to  reach  this  sole  outlet  from  destruction,  mul- 
titudes killed  each  other.  But  Sobieski's  fore- 
sight had  deprived  the  vanquished  even  of  this 
last  resource.  His  brother-in-law,  Radziwil 
had  during  the  tumult  glided  unperceived 
through  the  bottom  of  the  ravines,  and  at  the 
critical  moment  made  himself  master  of  the 
bridge,  and  the  heights  which  commanded  it. 
The  only  resource  of  the  fugitives  was  now  to 
throw  themselves  into  the  waves.  20,000  men 
perished  at  that  fatal  point,  either  on  the  shores 
or  in  the  half-congealed  stream.  Insatiable  in 
carnage,  the  hussars  led  by  Maziniki  pursued 
them  on  horseback  into  the  bed  of  the  Dneiper, 
and  sabred  thousands  when  struggling  in  the 
stream.  40,000  dead  bodies  were  found  in  the 
precincts  of  the  camp.  The  water  of  the  river 
for  several  leagues  ran  red  with  blood,  and 
corpses  were  thrown  up  with  every  wave  on 
its  deserted  shores. 

"At  the  news  of  this  extraordinary  triumph, 
the  Captain  Pacha,  who  was  advancing  with 
a  fresh  army  to  invade  Poland,  set  fire  to  his 
camp,  and  hastened  across  the  Danube.  The 
Moldavians  and  Walachians  made  their  sub- 
mission to  the  conqueror,  and  the  Turks,  re- 
cently so  arrogant,  began  to  tremble  for  their 
capital.  Europe,  electrified  with  these  sac- 
cesses,  returned  thanks  for  the  greatest  victory 
gained  for  three  centuries  over  the  infidels. 
Christendom  quivered  with  joy,  as  if  it  had 
just  escaped  from  ignominy  and  bondage." — 
n.  130—153. 

"  But  while  Europe  was  awaiting  the  intel- 
ligence of  the  completion  of  the  overthrow  of 
the  Osmanlis,  desertion  and  flight  had  ruined 
the  Polish  army.  Whole  Palatinates  had 
abandoned  their  colours.  They  were  desirous 
to  carry  off  in  safety  the  spoils  of  the  East,  and 
to  prepare  for  that  new  field  of  battle  which 
the  election  of  the  King  of  Poland,  who  di»d 
at  this  juncture,  presented.  Sobieski  remained 
almost  alone  on  the  banks  of  the  Dniester.  At 
the  moment  when  Walachia  and  Moldavia 
were  throwing  themselves  under  the  protec- 
tion of  the  Polish  crown,  when  the  Captain 
Pacha  was  flying  to  the  foot  of  Balkan,  and 
Sobieski  was  dreaming  of  changing  the  face 
of  the  world,  his  army  dissolved.  The  Turks, 
at  this  unexpected  piece  of  fortune,  recovered 
from  their  terror;  and  the  rule  of  the  Mussul 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


■  ?r.  wan  peqw-tualcd  for  two  centuries  in  Eu- 
rope"—II.  IfiS. 

This  victory  and  the  subsequent  dissolution 
of  the  army,  so  characteristic  both  of  the  glo- 
ri,  lancy  of  Poland,  great  as  it 

»  y  the  spU'n(h>urs  of  tlic  dc- 

li\  I  \  K'lma.     The  account  of  the  pie- 

tu '.urn  of  this  preat  man  to  the  throne 

of  Poland  is  singularly  characteristic  of  Polish 
mn  liners. 

-lii-  plain  of  Volo  to  the  west  of  Warsaw 
had  1"  i-n  the  theatre,  from  the  earliest  times, 
of  the  popular  elections.  Already  the  impa- 
tient Pospolite  covered  that  vast  extent  with 
ils  waves,  like  an  army  prepared  to  commence 
an  assault  on  a  fortified  town.  The  innumera- 
ble piles  of  arms ;  the  immense  tables  round 
which  faction  united  their  supporters;  a 
thousand  jousts  with  the  javelin  or  tlic  lance; 
a  thousand  squadrons  engaged  in  mimic  war; 
a  thousand  parties  of  palatines,  governors  of 
castles,  and  other  dignified  authorities  who 
Jravcrspd  the  ranks  distributing  exhortations, 
pa  -.  and  largesses  ;  a  thousand  caval- 

Ci!  .;'ntleinen,  who  rode,  according  to 

custom,  with  their  battle-axes  by  their  sides, 
and  discussed  at  the  gallop  the  dearest  in- 
terests of  the  republic;  innumerable  quarrels, 
ori;jinating  in  drunkenness,  and  terminating 
in  blood:  Such  were  the  scenes  of  tumult, 
amusiment,  and  war, — a  faithful  mirror  of 
Poland, — which,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach, 
filled  the  plain. 

"  The  arena  was  closed  in  by  a  vast  circle 
of  tents,  which  embraced,  as  in  an  immense 
girdle,  the  plain  of  Volo.  the  shores  of  the  Vis- 
tula, and  the  spires  of  Warsaw.  The  horizon 
seemed  bounded  by  a  range  of  snowy  moun- 
tains, of  which  the  summits  were  portrayed  in 
the  hazy  distance  by  their  dazzling  whiteness. 
Their  camp  formed  another  city,  with  its 
markets,  its  gardens,  its  hotels,  and  its  monu- 
ments. There  the  great  displayed  their  Orien- 
tal magnificence;  the  nobles,  the  palatines, 
vied  with  each  other  in  the  splendour  of  their 
horses  and  equipage ;  and  the  stranger  who 
beheld  for  the  first  time  that  luxury,  worthy  of 
the  last  and  greatest  of  the  Nomade  people, 
Tras  never  weary  of  admiring  the  immense 
hotels,  the  porticoes,  the  colonnades,  the  gal- 
leries of  painted  or  gilded  stufTs,  the  castles 
of  cotton  and  silk,  with  their  draw-bridges, 
towers,  and  ditches.  Thanks  to  the  recent 
victory,  a  great  part  of  these  riches  had  been 
taken  from  the  Turks.  Judging  from  the 
mulmudc  of  stalls,  kitchens,  baths,  audience 
chambers,  the  elegance  of  the  Oriental  archi- 
Iccture,  the  taste  of  the  designs,  the  profusion 
of  (gilded  crosses,  domes,  and  pagodas,  you 
would  imau'inc  that  the  seraglio  of  some 
Easlf-rn  suiian  had  been  transported  by  en- 
chanimr'ni  to  the  banks  of  the  Vistula.  Vic- 
tory had  accomplished  this  prodigy ;  these 
m-ere  the  tmts  of  Mahomet  IV.,  taken  at  the 
bniile  of  Kotzim,  and  though  Subieski  was 
absent,  his  triumphant  arms  surmounted  the 
cr«(rcnt  of  .Mahomci. 

"The  Lithuanians  were  encamped  on  the 
opp.-Mte  shores  of  the  Vistula;  and  their  fJrand 
llriiii.nn,  Michel  P.iz.  had  bron^'hl  up  his  whole 
force  1-.  dictate  laws,  as  it  were,  to  the  Polish 


crown.     Sobieski  had  previouslj  occupied  thfl 
bridge  over  the  river  by  a  regiment  of  hussars, 
upon    M-hich    the    Lithuanians    seized    every 
house  in   the  city  which  wealth  could  com- 
mand.    These   hostile   dispositions  were   too 
significant  of  frightful  disorders.     War  soon 
ensued  in  the  midst  of  the  rejoicings  between 
Lithuania  and  Poland.     Every  time  the  oppo- 
site factions  met,  their   strife   terminated  in 
bloodshed.     The  hostilities  extended  even  to 
the  bloody  game  of  the  Klopiches,  which  was 
played  by  a  confederation  of  the  boys  in  the 
city,  or  of  pages  and  valets,  who  amused  them- 
selves by  forming  troops,  electing  a  marshal, 
choosing  a  field  of  battle,  and  fighting  there  to 
the   last  extremity.     On    this  occasion   they 
were  divided  into  corps  of  Lithuanians  and 
Poles,  who  hoisted  the  colours  of  their  respec- 
tive slates,  got  fire-arras  to  imitate  more  com- 
pletely the  habits  of  the  equestrian  order,  and 
disturbed    the    plain    everywhere    by    their 
marches,   or    terrified    it    by  their    assaults. 
Their  shock  desolated  the  plain ;  the  villages 
were  in  llames ;  the  savage  huts  of  which  the 
suburbs  of  Warsaw  were  then  composed,  were 
incessantly  invaded  and  sacked  in  that  terri- 
ble sport,  invented  apparently  to   inure   the 
youth  to  civil  war,  and  extend  even  to  the 
slaves  the  enjoyments  of  anarchy. 

"  On  the  day  of  the  elections  the  three  orders 
mounted  on  horseback.  The  princes,  the 
palatines,  the  bishops,  the  prelates,  proceeded 
towards  the  plain  of  Volo,  surrounded  by  eighty 
thousand  mounted  citizens,  any  one  of  whom 
might,  at  the  expiry  of  a  few  hours,  find  him- 
self King  of  Poland.  They  all  bore  in  their 
countenances,  even  under  the  livery  or  ban- 
ners of  a  master,  the  pride  arising  from  that 
ruinous  privilege.  The  European  dress  no- 
where appeared  on  that  solemn  occasion. 
The  children  of  the  desert  strove  to  hide  the 
furs  and  skins  in  which  they  were  clothed 
under  chains  of  gold  and  the  glitter  of  jewels. 
Their  bonnets  were  composed  of  panther-skin, 
plumes  of  eagles  or  herons  surmounted  them: 
on  their  front  were  the  most  splendid  precious 
stones.  Their  robes  of  sable  or  ermine  were 
bound  with  velvet  or  silver:  their  girdle 
studded  with  jewels;  over  all  their  furs  were 
suspended  chains  of  diamonds.  One  hand  of 
each  nobleman  wa.=  without  a  glove  ;  on  it  was 
the  splendid  ring  on  which  the  arms  of  his 
family  were  engraved ;  the  mark,  as  in  ancient 
Rome,  of  the  equestrian  order.  A  new  proof 
of  this  intimate  connection  between  th&  race, 
the  customs,  and  the  traditions  of  the  northern 
tribes,  and  the  founders  of  the  Eternal  Cit3-. 

"  But  nothing  in  this  rivalry  of  magnificence 
could  equal  the  splendour  of  their  arms. 
Double  poniards,  double  scymitars,  set  with 
brilliants;  bucklers  of  costly  wcrkraanship, 
battle-axes  enriched  in  silver,  and  glittering 
with  emeralds  and  sapphires;  bows  and  arrows 
richly  gilt,  which  were  borne  at  festivals,  in 
remembrance  of  the  ancient  customs  of  the 
country,  were  to  be  seen  on  every  side.  The 
horses  shared  in  this  melange  of  barbarism 
and  refinement;  sometimes  cased  in  iron,  at 
others  decorated  with  the  richest  colours,  they 
bent  under  the  weight  of  the  sabres,  the  lances, 
and  javelins  by  which   the  senatorial   order 


POLAND. 


61 


marked  their  rank.  The  bishops  -were  distin- 
guished by  their  gray  or  green  hats,  and  yellow 
or  red  pantaloons,  magnificently  embroidered 
with  divers  colours.  Often  they  laid  aside 
their  pastoral  habits,  and  signalized  their  ad- 
dress as  young  cavaliers,  by  the  bea'at}^  of  their 
arms,  and  the  management  of  their  horses. 
In  that  crowd  of  the  equestrian  order,  there 
was  no  gentleman  so  humble  as  not  to  try  to 
rival  this  magnificence.  Many  carried,  in  furs 
and  arms,  their  whole  fortunes  on  their  backs. 
Numbers  had  sold  their  votes  to  some  of  the 
candidates,  for  the  vanity  of  appearing  with 
some  additional  ornament  before  their  fellow- 
citizens.  And  the  people,  whose  dazzled  eyes 
beheld  all  this  magnificence,  were  almost  with- 
out clothing;  their  long  beards,  naked  legs, 
and  filth,  indicated,  even  more  strongly  than 
llieir  pale  visages  and  dejected  air,  all  the 
miseries  of  servitude." — II.  190 — 197. 

The  achievement  which  has  immortalized 
the  name  of  John  Sobieski  is  the  deliverance 
of  Vicnn^  in  1683 — of  this  glorious  achieve- 
ment M.  Salvandy  gives  the  following  interest- 
ing account: — 

"After  a  siege  of  eight  months,  and  open 
trenches  for  sixty  days,  Vienna  was  reduced 
to  the  last  extremity.  Famine,  disease,  and 
the  sword,  had  cut  off  two-thirds  of  its  garri- 
son ;  and  the  inhabitants,  depressed  by  inces- 
sant toil  for  the  last  six  months,  and  sickened 
by  long  deferred  hope,  were  given  up  to  des- 
pair. Many  breaches  were  made  in  the  walls ; 
the  massy  bastions  were  crumbling  in  ruins, 
and  entrenchments  thrown  up  in  haste  in  the 
streets,  formed  the  last  resource  of  the  German 
capital.  Stahremborg,  the  governor,  had  an- 
nounced the  necessity  of  surrendering  if  not 
relieved  in  three  days  ;  and  every  night  signals 
of  distress  from  the  summits  of  the  steeples, 
announced  the  extremities  to  which  they  were 
reduced. 

"  One  evening,  the  sentinel  who  was  on  the 
watch  at  the  top  of  the  steeple  of  St.  Stephen's, 
perceived  a  blazing  flame  on  the  summits  of 
the  Calemberg;  soon  after  an  army  was  seen 
preparing  to  descend  the  ridge.  Every  tele- 
scope was  instantly  turned  in  that  direction, 
and  from  the  brilliancy  of  their  lances,  and  the 
splendour  of  their  banners  it  was  easy  to  see 
that  it  was  the  Hussars  of  Poland,  so  redoubt- 
able to  the  Osmanlis,  who  were  approaching. 
The  Turks  were  immediately  to  be  seen  divid- 
ing their  vast  host  into  divisions,  one  destined 
to  oppose  this  new  enemy,  and  one  to  continue 
the  assaults  on  the  besieged.  At  the  sight  of 
the  terrible  conflict  which  was  appi'oaching, 
the  women  and  children  flocked  to  the 
churches,  while  Stahremborg  led  forth  all  that 
remained  of  the  men  to  the  breaches. 

"  The  Duke  of  Lorraine  had  previously  set 
forth  with  a  few  horsemen  to  join  the  King  of 
Poland,  and  learn  the  art  of  war,  as  he  ex- 
pressed it,  under  so  great  a  master.  The  two 
illustrious  commanders  soon  concerted  a  plan 
of  operations,  and  Sobieski  encamped  on  the 
Danube,  with  all  his  forces,  united  to  the 
troops  of  the  empire.  It  was  with  tears  of  joy, 
that  the  sovereigns,  generals,  and  the  soldiers 
of  the  Imperialists  received  the  illustrious 
chief  whom  heaven  had  sent  to  their  relief. 


Before  his  arrival  discord  reigned  in  their 
camp,  but  all  now  )aelded  obedience  to  the 
Polish  hero. 

"  The  Duke  of  Lorraine  had  previously  con 
structed  at  Tulin,  six  leagues  below  Vienna 
a  triple  bridge,  which  Kara  Mustapha,  the 
Turkish  commander,  allowed  to  be  formed 
without  opposition.  The  German  Electors 
nevertheless  hesitated  to  cross  the  river ;  the 
severity  of  the  weather,  long  rains,  and  roads 
now  almost  impassable,  augmented  their 
alarms.  But  the  King  of  Poland  was  a  stranger 
alike  to  hesitation  as  fear;  the  state  of  Vienna 
would  admit  of  no  delay.  The  last  despatch 
of  Stahremborg  was  simply  in  these  words: 
'  There  is  no  time  to  lose.' — '  There  is  no  re- , 
verse  to  fear,'  exclaimed  Sobieski ;  '  the  gene 
ral  who  at  the  head  of  three  hundred  thousand 
men  could  allow  that  bridge  to  be  constructed 
in  his  teeth,  cannot  fail  to  be  defeated.' 

"On  the  following  day  the  liberators  of 
Christendom  passed  in  review  before  their 
allies.  The  Poles  marched  first;  the  specta- 
tors were  astonished  at  the  magnificence  of 
their  arms,  the  splendour  of  the  dresses,  and 
the  beauty  of  the  horses.  The  infantry  was 
less  brilliant;  one  regiment  in  particular,  by 
its  battered  appearance,  hurt  the  pride  of  the 
monarch — '  Look  well  at  those  brave  men,' 
said  he  to  the  Imperialists  ;  '  it  is  an  invincible 
battalion,  who  have  sworn  never  to  renew 
their  clothing,  till  they  are  arrayed  in  the  spoils 
of  the  Turks.'  These  Avords  were  repeated  to 
the  regiments;  if  they  did  not,  says  the  annal- 
ist, clothe  them,  they  encircled  every  man 
with  a  cuirass. 

"The  Christian  army,  when  all  assembled, 
amounted  to  70,000  men,  of  whom  only  30,000 
were  infantry.  Of  these  the  Poles  were  18,000. 
— The  principal  disquietude  of  the  king  was 
on  account  of  the  absence  of  the  Cossacks, 
whom  Mynzwicki  had  promised  to  bring  up  to 
his  assistance. — He  well  knew  what  admirable 
scouts  they  formed :  the  Tartars  had  always 
found  in  them  their  most  formidable  enemies. 
Long  experience  in  the  Turkish  wars  had 
rendered  them  exceedingly  skilful  in  thi? 
species  of  warfare  :  no  other  force  was  equa. 
to  them  in  seizing  prisoners  and  gaining  in- 
telligence. They  were  promised  ten  crowns 
for  every  man  they  brought  in  after  this  man- 
ner :  they  led  their  captives  to  the  tent  of  their 
king,  where  they  got  -their  promised  reward^ 
and  went  away  saying,  'John,  I  have  touchetS 
mv  money,  God  will  repay  you.' — Bereaved  of 
these  faithful  assistants,  the  king  was  com- 
pelled to  expose  his  hussars  in  exploring  the 
dangerous  defiles  in  which  the  army  was  about 
to  engage.  The  Imperialists,  Avho  could  not 
comprehend  his  attachment  to  that  undisci- 
plined militia,  were  astonished  to  hear  him 
incessantly  exclaiming,  '  Oh  !  Mynzwicki,  Oh » 
Mynzwicki.'  " 

'A  rocky  chain,  full  of  narrow  and  precipitous 
ravines,  of  woods  and  rocks,  called  the  Calem- 
berg in  modern  times,  the  Mons  JEthis  of  the 
Romans,  separated  the  two  armies :  the  cause 
of  Christendom  from  that  of  Mahomet.  It  was 
necessary  to  scale  that  formidable  barrier;  for 
the  mountains  advanced  with  a  rocky  front 
into  the  middle  of  the  Danube.     Fortunately, 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


iho  ii*»r'''^nrc  nf  ih*  Turks  had  omitted  to 
{  •  .  where   a  few   battalions 

17  ,     :  -.1  the  Polish  army. 

\  (lid  equ.il  the  confidence  of  the 

'J"  in<"  disquietude  of  the  Imperialists. 

^  ih««  terror  impressed  by  the  vast 

I  1,  that  at  the  first  cry  of 

A  IS  took  to  llifrht.     Many 

0  .ints  were  incessantly  cnjjagcd 

It)  :•  .  !■•  roads  over  the  mountains,  or 

cuttir.  h  the  forest     The  foot  soldiers 

d  ih  their  arms,  and  were 

C'  1    llio    heavier    pieces. 

Chiefs  and  soldiers  carried  each  his  own  pro- 
visions: the  leaves  of  the  oak  formed  the  sole 
f  uhsistcnce  of  the  horses.  Some  scouts  reach- 
c!  '■  iinmit  of  the  ridfre  lon^  before  the 
r  "f  the  army,  and  from  thence  be- 

h  iless   myriads  of  the  Turkish 

t<    ■  .::  to  the  walls  of  Vienna.    Ter- 

rified at  the  sisht,  they  returned  in  dismay, 
and  a  contagious  panic  bc2;an  to  spread 
through  the  army.  The  king  had  need,  to  re- 
a-^  troops,  of  all  the  security  of  his 

C'  f.  the  gaietv  of  his  discourse,  and 

Ihe  remembrance  of  the  multitudes  of  the 
infidels  whom  he  had  dispersed  in  his  life. 
The  Janiz/arics  of  his  guard,  who  surrounded 
him  on  the  march,  were  so  many  living  monu- 
mT?*  "f  his  victories,  and  every  one  was 
e  '  that  he  ventured  to  attack  the  Mus- 

511 iih  such  an  escort.    He  offered  to 

send  them  to  the  rear,  or  even  to  giA^e  them  a 
«afe  conduct  to  the  Turkish  camp,  but  they  all 
answered  with  tears  in  their  eyes,  that  they 
«■  and  die  with  him.     His  heroism 

S'i  .  i  alike  Infidels  and  Christians,  chiefs 

and  soldiers. 

".\t  length,  on  Saturday,  September  11th, 
the  army  encamped,  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the 
forenoon,  on  the  sterile  and  inhospitable  sum- 
m't  of  the  Calemberg,  and  occupied  the  con- 
vent of  Camalddli  and  the  old  castle  of  Leo- 
poldsburg.  Far  beneath  extended  the  vast  and 
uneven  plain  of  Austria:  its  smoking  capital, 
thf  -  '  '  !  tents,  and  countless  host  of  the 
*>•  while  at  the  foot  of  the  ridge,  where 

'''  'i  sunk  into  the  plain,  the  forests 

*'  '  •^  were  occupied  by  the  advanced 

puard<i.  prepared  to  dispute  the  passage  of  the 
armv." 

There  it  was  that  they  lighted  the  fires  which 
fnr.ad  joy  and  hope  through  every  heart  at 

in  their  vast  multitudes,  the 
'  the  assault  of  Vienna  on  the 
'•  on   the  other  they  faced    the 

'.•    "^'"^  T"'"'*'^'^  vizier  counted 
I'Mir  Christian   princes  and  as 
-.    All  the  nobles  of  Ger- 
'  t  were  on    the  other  side  : 

HobiCHki  was   at   once  the  Agamemnon  and 

Arhil!--<" '  -  'id  host. 

""^^  "f  i^avoy  made  his  first 

'\  ■  'o  Sobieski  the  in- 

l*"'  III  was  commenced 

hrtwrrn  the  advanced  guards  at  the  foot  of 
th««  nd?e.  The  Christians  immediately  de- 
•rrnd.vl  the  mountains  in  five  columns  like 
"'*  '  "in  the  finest  order:  the 

•*"  !ed    at   every    hundred 


1 

one 

lib'" 

m 


paces  to  give  time  to  those  behind,  who  were 
retarded  by  the  difficulties  of  the  descent,  to 
join  them.  A  rude  parapet,  hastily  erected  by 
Ihe  Turks  to  bar  the  five  debouches  of  the 
roads  into  the  plain,  was  forced  after  a  short 
combat.  At  every  ravine,  the  Christians  ex- 
perienced fresh  obstacles  to  surmount :  the 
spahis  dismounted  to  contest  the  rocky  ascents, 
and  speedily  regaining  their  horses  w^hen  they 
were  forced,  fell  back  in  haste  to  the  next 
positions  which  were  to  be  defended.  But  the 
Mnssulmcn,  deficient  in  infantry,  could  not 
wiihstand  the  steady  advance  and  solid  masses 
of  the  Germans,  and  the  Christians  evers-where 
gained  ground.  Animated  by  the  continued 
advance  of  their  deliverers,  the  garrison  of 
Vienna  performed  miracles  on  the  breach ; 
and  Kara  Mustapha,  who  long  hesitated  which 
battle  he  should  join,  resolved  to  meet  the 
avenging  squadrons  of  the  Polish  king. 

"  By  two  o'clock  the  ravines  were  cleared, 
and  the  allies  draAvn  up  in  the  plain.  Sobieski 
ordered  the  Duke  of  Lorraine  to  halt,  to  give 
time  for  the  Poles,  who  had  been  retarded  by 
a  circuitous  maixh,  to  join  the  army.  At 
eleven  they  appeared,  and  took  their  post  on 
the  right.  The  Imperial  eagles  saluted  the 
squadrons  of  gilded  cuirasses  with  cries  of 
'Long  live  King  John  Sobieski !'  and  the  cry, 
repeated  along  the  Christian  line,  startled  the 
Mussulmen  force. 

"  Sobieski  charged  in  the  centre,  and  di- 
rected his  attack  against  the  scarlet  tent  of  the 
sultan,  surrounded  by  his  faithful  squadrons — 
distinguished  by  his  splendid  plume,  his  bow, 
and  quiver  of  gold,  which  hung  on  his  shoul- 
der— most  of  all  by  the  enthusiasm  which  his 
presence  everywhere  excited.  He  advanced, 
exclaimin?,  'Non  nobis,  Domine,  sed  tibi  sit 
gloria  !'  The  Tartars  and  the  spahis  fled  when 
they  heard  the  name  of  the  Polish  hero  re- 
peated from  one  end  to  the  other  of  the  Otto- 
man lines.  '  By  Allah,'  exclaimed  Sultan 
Gieray,  'the  king  is  with  them!'  At  this 
moment  the  moon  was  eclipsed,  and  the  Ma- 
hometans beheld  wdth  dread  the  crescent 
M-aning  in  the  heavens. 

"  At  the  same  time,  the  hussars  of  Prince 
Alexander,  who  formed  the  leading  column, 
broke  into  a  charge  amidst  the  national  cry, 
'  God  defend  Poland  !'  The  remaining  squad- 
rons, led  by  all  that  was  noblest  and  bravest  in 
the  country,  resplendent  in  arms,  buoyant  in 
courage,  followed  at  the  gallop.  They  cleared, 
without  drawing  bridle,  a  ravine,  at  which  in- 
fantry might  have  paused,  and  charged  furi- 
ously up  the  opposite  bank.  V\^iih  such 
vehemence  did  they  enter  the  enemy's  rankS; 
that  tliey  fairly  cut  the  army  in  two, — justiiy- 
ing  thus  the  celebrated  saying  of  that  haughty 
nobility  to  one  of  their  kings,  that  M-ith  their 
aid  no  reverse  was  irreparable  ;  and  that  if  the 
heaven  itself  were  to  fall,  they  would  support 
it  on  the  points  of  their  lances. 

"The  shock  was  so  violent  that  almost  all 
the  lances  were  splintered.  The  Pachas  of 
•Meppo  and  of  Silistria  were  slain  on  the  spot.- 
four  other  pachas  fell  under  the  sabres  of 
Jabh.nowski,  At  the  same  time  Charies  of 
I'orraine  had  routed  the  force  of  the  principa 
IiUcs,  and  threatened  the  Ottoman  camp.   Kara 


POLAND. 


C3 


Miistapba  fell  at  once  from  the  heights  of 
confidence  to  the  depths  of  despair.  '  Can 
you  not  aid  me  V  said  he  to  the  Kara  of  the 
Crimea.  'I  know  the  King  of  Poland,'  said 
he,  '  and  I  tell  you,  that  with  such  an  enemy 
we  have  no  chance  of  safety  but  in  flight.' 
Mustapha  in  vain  strove  to  rally  his  troops; 
all,  seized  with  a  sudden  panic,  fled,  not  daring 
to  lift  their  eyes  to  heaven.  The  cause  of 
Europe,  of  Christianity,  of  civilization,  had 
prevailed.  The  Avave  of  the  Mussulman  power 
had  retired,  and  retired  nev^er  to  return. 

"At  six  in  the  evening,  Sobieski  entered  the 
Turkish  camp.  He  arrived  first  at  the  quar- 
ters of  the  vizier.  At  the  entrance  of  that  vast 
enclosure  a  slave  met  him,  and  presented  him 
with  the  charger  and  golden  bridle  of  Musta- 
pha. He  took  the  l^ridle,  and  ordered  one  of 
his  followers  to  set  out  in  haste  for  the  Queen 
of  Poland,  and  say  that  he  who  owned  that 
bridle  was  vanquished ;  then  planted  his 
standard  in  the  midst  of  that  armed  caravan- 
sera  of  all  the  nations  of  the  East,  and  ordered 
Charles  of  Lorraine  to  drive  the  besiegers 
from  the  trenches  before  Vienna.  It  was 
already  done ;  the  Janizzaries  had  left  their 
posts  on  the  approach  of  night,  and,  after  sixty 
days  of  open  trenches,  the  imperial  city  was 
delivered. 

"  On  the  following  morning  the  magnitude 
of  the  victory  appeared.  One  hundred  and 
twenty  thousand  tents  were  still  standing,  not- 
withstanding the  attempts  at  their  destruction 
by  the  Turks ;  the  innumerable  multitude  of 
the  Orientals  had  disappeared ;  but  their  spoils, 
their  horses,  their  camels,  their  splendour, 
loaded  the  ground.  The  king  at  ten  approaclied 
Vienna.  He  passed  through  the  breach,  where- 
by but  for  him  on  that  day  the  Turks  would 
have  found  an  entrance.  At  his  approach  the 
streets  were  cleared  of  their  ruins ;  and  the 
people,  issuing  from  their  cellars  and  their 
tottering  houses,  gazed  with  enthusiasm  on 
their  deliverer.  They  followed  him  to  the 
church  of  the  Augustins,  where,  as  the  clergy 
had  not  arrived,  the  king  himself  chanted  Tc 
Deimi.  This  service  was  soon  after  performed 
with  still  greater  solemnity  in  the  cathedral  of 
St.  Stephen ;  the  king  joined  with  his  face  to 
the  ground.  It  was  there  that  the  priest  used 
the  inspired  words — 'There  was  a  man  sent 
from  heavea,  and  his  name  was  John.' " — III. 
50,  101. 


During  this  memorable  campaign,  Sobieski, 
who  through  life  Avas  a  tender  and  affectionate 
husband,  wrote  daily  to  his  wife.  At  the  age 
of  fifty-four  he  had  lost  notliing  of  the  tender- 
ness  and  enthusiasm  of  his  earlier  yeirs.  In 
one  of  them  he  says,  « I  read  all  your  letters, 
my  dear  and  incomparable  Maria,  thrice  over; 
once  when  I  receive  them,  once  when  I  retire 
to  my  tent  and  am  alone  with  my  love,  once 
when  I  sit  down  to  ansAvcr  lliem.  I  beseech 
you,  my  beloved,  do  not  ris^  so  early;  no 
health  can  stand  such  exertions;  if  you  do, 
you  will  destroy  my  health,  and  what  is  worse, 
injure  your  own,  which  is  my  sole  consola- 
tion in  this  world."  AVhen  oflered  the  throne 
of  Poland,  it  was  at  first  proposed  that  he 
should  divorce  his  wife,  and  marry  the  widow 
of  the  late  king,  to  reconcile  the  contending 
faction.  "  I  am  not  yet  a  king,"  said  he,  "  and 
have  contracted  no  obligations  towards  the 
nation :  Let  them  resume  their  gift ;  I  disdain 
the  throne  if  it  is  to  be  purchased  at  such  a 
price." 

It  is  superfluous,  after  these  quotations,  to 
say  any  thing  of  the  merits  of  M.  Salvandy's 
Avork.  It  unites,  in  a  rare  degree,  the  qualities 
of  philosophical  thought  with  brilliant  and 
vivid  description  ;  and  is  one  of  the  numerous 
instances  of  the  vast  superiority  of  the  Modern 
French  Historians  to  most  of  those  of  whom 
Great  Britain,  in  the  present  age,  can  boast. 
If  any  thing  could  reconcile  us  to  the  march 
of  revolution,  it  is  the  vast  development  of 
talent  which  has  taken  place  in  France  since 
her  political  convulsions  commenced,  and  the 
new  field  which  their  genius  has  opened  up 
in  historical  disquisitions.  On  comparing  the 
historians  of  the  two  countries  since  the  resto- 
ration, it  seems  as  if  they  were  teeming  with 
the  luxuriance  of  a  virgin  soil ;  while  we  are 
sinking  under  the  sterility  of  exhausted  cul- 
tivation. Steadily  resisting,  as  we  trust  we 
shall  ever  do,  the  fatal  march  of  French  in- 
novation, we  shall  yet  never  be  found  wanting 
in  yielding  due  praise  to  the  splendour  of 
French  talent;  and  in  the  turn  which  political 
speculation  has  recently  taken  among  the 
most  elevated  minds  in  their  active  metropolis, 
we  are  not  without  hopes  that  the  first  rays 
of  the  dawn  are  to  be  discerned,  which  is 
destined  to  compensate  to  mankind  f'>r  the 
darkness  and  blood  of  the  revolution. 


CI 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


MADAME  I)E  STAEL.' 


Amidst  ihc  deluge  of  new  and  ephemeral 
pulilicalions  under  which  the  press  l)oth  in 
France  and  England  is  groaning,  and  the 
wofui  depravity  of  public  taste,  in  all  branches 
of  literature,  which  in  the  former  country  has 
followed  the  Revolution  of  the  Three  Glorious 
Days,  it  is  not  the  least  important  part  of  the 
duty  of  all  those  who  have  any  share,  however 
inconsiderable,  in  the  direction  of  the  objects 
to  which  public  thought  is  to  be  applied,  to 
recur  from  time  to  time  to  the  great  and 
standard  works  of  a  former  age ;  and  from 
ajnid.st  the  dazzling  light  of  passing  meteors 
in  the  lower  regions  of  the  atmosphere,  to 
endeavour  to  direct  the  public  gaze  to  those 
fixed  luminaries  whose  radiance  in  the  higher 
heavenf  shines,  and  ever  will  shine,  in  im- 
perishable lustre.('  From  our  sense  of  the  im- 
portance and  utility  of  this  attempt,  we  arc 
not  to  be  deterfed  by  the  common  remark, 
that  these  authors  are  in  everybody's  hands  ; 
ihal  their  works  are  read  at  school,  and  their 
names  become  as  household  sounds.  We 
know  that  many  things  are  read  at  school 
winch  arc  forgotten  at  college;  and  many 
things  learned  at  college  which  are  unhappily 
and  permanently  discarded  in  later  years;  and 
that  there  are  many  authors  whose  names  are 
as  household  sounds,  whose  works  for  thai 
very  reason  are  as  a  strange  and  unknown 
tongue.  Every  one  has  heard  of  Kacine  and 
Molit'-re,  of  Bossuet  and  Fenelon,  of  Voltaire 
and  ltt)usseau,  of  Chateatibriand  and  Madame 
de  Stael,  of  Pascal  and  Rabelais.  We  would 
beg  to  ask  even  our  best  informed  and  most 
learned  readers,  with  how'many  of  their  works 
they  are  really  familiar ;  how  many  of  their 
felicitous  expressions  have  sunk  into  their 
recollections;  how  many  of  their  ideas  are 
engraven  on  their  memory?  Others  may 
possess  more  retentive  memories,  or  more  ex- 
t'Misive  reading  than  we  do;  but  we  confess, 
wli(-n  we  apply  such  a  question,  even  to  the 
consianl  study  of  thirty  years,  we  feel  not  a 
liiUe  mortified  at  the  time  which  has  been 
misapplied,  and  the  brilliant  ideas  once  ob- 
laihcd  from  others  which  have  now  faded 
from  till-  r<ri)lleclion,  and  should  rejoice  much 
to  obtain  IVoin  others  that  retrospect  of  past 
greatness  which  we  propose  ourselves  to  lay 
before  our  readers. 

Every  one  now  is  so  constantly  in  the  habit  of 
f'     '  publications,  of  devouring 

I'  'IIS  (if  the  press,  that  we  for- 

get the  exiiaiirdinary  superiority  of  standard 
works ;  and  arc  obliged  to  go  back  to  the 
studies  of  our  youth  for  that  superlative  en- 
joyment which  arises  from  the  perusal  of 
authors,  where  every  sentence  is  thought,  and 
'  rd  conception  ;  where  new  trains 

<  i  .      iiin  or  emotion  arc  awakened  in 

every  page,  and  the  volume  is  closed  almost 


*DlMkwood*s  Magmsinc,  Juno  1837. 


every  minute  to  meditate  on  the  novelty  oi 
justice  of  the  reflections  which  arise  from  its 
stud}'.  And  it  is  not  on  the  first  perusal  of 
these  authors  that  this  exquisite  pleasure  is 
obtained.  In  the  heyday  of  youth  and  strength; 
when  imagination  is  ardent,  and  the  world 
unknown,  it  is  the  romance  of  the  story,  or  the 
general  strain  of  the  argument  which  carries 
the  reader  on,  and  many  of  the  finest  and  most 
spiritual  reflections  are  overlooked  or  un- 
appreciated; but  in  later  years,  when  life  has 
been  experienced,  and  joy  and  sorrow  felt, 
when  the  memory  is  stored  with  recollections, 
and  the  imagination  with  images,  it  is  reflec- 
tion and  observation  which  constitute  the  chief 
attraction  in  composition.  And  judging  of  the 
changes  wrought  by  Time  in  others  from  wha* 
we  have  experienced  ourselves,  we  anticipate 
a  high  gratification,  even  in  the  best  informed 
readers,  by  a  direction  of  their  attention  to 
many  passages  in  the  great  French  writers  of 
the  age  of  Louis  XIV.  and  the  Revolution,  a 
comparison  of  their  excellences,  a  criticism 
on  their  defects,  and  an  exposition  of  the 
mighty  influence  which  the  progress  of  poli- 
tical events  has  had  upon  the  ideas  reflected, 
even  to  the  greatest  authors,  from  the  age  in 
which  they  lived,  and  the  external  events 
passing  around  them. 

The  two  great  eras  of  French  prose  litera- 
ture are  those  of  Louis  XIV.  and  the  Revo- 
lution. If  the  former  can  boast  of  Bossuet, 
the  latter  can  appeal  to  Chateaubriand:  if  the 
former  still  shine  in  the  purest  lustre  in 
Funelon,  the  latter  may  boast  the  more  fervent 
pages,  and  varied  genius  of  De  Stael ;  if  the 
former  is  supreme  in  the  tragic  and  comic 
muse,  and  can  array  Racine,  Corneille  and 
Moliere,  against  the  transient  Lilliputians  of 
the  romantic  school,  the  latter  can  show  in 
the  poetry  and  even  the  prose  of  Lamartine  a 
condensation  of  feeling,  a  depth  of  pathos  and 
energy  of  thought  which  can  never  be  reached 
but  in  an  age  which  has  undergone  the  animat- 
ing episodes,  the  heart-stirring  feelings  conse- 
quent on  social  convulsion.  In  the  branches  of 
literature  which  depend  on  the  relations  of  men 
to  each  other,  history — politics — historical  phi- 
losophy and  historical  romance,  the  superiority 
of  the  modern  school  is  so  prodigious,  that  it 
is  impossible  to  find  a  parallel  to  it  in  former 
days :  and  even  the  dignified  language  and 
eagle  glance  of  the  Bishop  of  Meaux  sinks 
into  insignificance,  compared  to  the  vast  ability 
which,  in  inferior  minds,  experience  and  actual 
suffering  have  brought  to  bear  on  the  in- 
vestigation  of  public  aflairs.  Modern  writers 
wore  for  long  at  a  loss  to  understand  the  caust 
which  had  given  such  superior  pathos,  ener- 
gy, and  practical  wisdom  to  the  historians  of 
antiquity;  but  the  French  Revolution  at  once 
explained  the  mystery.  When  modern  times 
were  brought  into  collision  with  the  passions 
and  the  suflering  consequent  on  democratio 


MADAME  DE  STAEL. 


65 


ascendency  and  social  convulsion,  they  were 
not  long  of  feeling  the  truths  which  experience 
had  taught  to  ancient  writers,  and  acquiring 
the  power  of  vivid  description  and  condensed 
yet  fervent  narrative  by  which  the  great  his- 
torians of  antiquity  are  characterized. 

At  the  head  of  the  modern  prose  writers  of 
France,  we  place  Madame  de  Stael,  Chateau- 
briand, and  Guizot :  The  general  style  of  the 
two  first  and  the  most  imaginative  of  these 
writers — De  Stael  and  Chateaubriand — is  es- 
sentially different  from  that  of  Bossuet,  Fenelon 
and  Massillon.  We  have  no  longer  either  the 
thoughts,  the  language,  or  the  images  of  these 
great  and  dignified  writers  !  With  the  pompous 
grandeur  of  the  Grande  Monarque;  with  the 
awful  splendour  of  the  palace,  and  the  irresisti- 
ble power  of  the  throne ;  with  the  superb  mag- 
nificence of  Versailles,  its  marbles,  halls,  and 
forests  of  statues,  have  passed  away  the  train 
of  thought  by  which  the  vices  and  corruption 
then  chiefly  prevalent  in  society  were  combated 
by  these  worthy  soldiers  of  the  militia  of 
Christ  Strange  to  say,  the  ideas  of  that  des- 
potic age  are  more  condemnatory  of  princes ; 
more  eulogistic  of  the  people,  more  con- 
firmatory of  the  principles  which,  if  pushed  to 
their  legitimate  consequences,  lead  to  demo- 
crac}',  than  those  of  the  age  when  the  sove- 
reignty of  the  people  was  actually  established. 
In  their  eloquent  declamations,  the  wisdom, 
justice,  and  purity  of  the  masses  are  the  con- 
stant subject  of  eulogy ;  almost  all  social  and 
political  evils  are  traced  to  the  corruptions  of 
courts  and  the  vices  of  kings.  The  applause 
of  the  people,  the  condemnation  of  rulers,  in 
Telemachus,  often  resembles  rather  the  frothy 
declamations  of  the  Tribune  in  favour  of  the 
sovereign  multitude,  than  the  severe  lessons 
addressed  by  a  courtly  prelate  to  the  heir  of  a 
despotic  throne.  With  a  fearless  courage 
worthy  of  the  highest  commendation,  and  very 
cliflerent  from  the  base  adulation  of  modern 
limes  to  the  Baal  of  popular  power,  Bossuet, 
Massillon,  and  Bourdaloue,  incessantly  rung 
in  the  ears  of  their  courtly  auditory  the  equality 
of  mankind  in  the  sight  of  heaven  and  the 
awful  words  of  judgment  to  come.  These  im- 
aginary and  Utopian  effusions  now  excite  a 
smile,  even  in  the  most  youthful  student;  and 
a  suffering  age,  taught  by  the  experienced 
evils  of  democratic  ascendency,  has  now 
learned  to  appreciate,  as  they  deserve,  the  pro- 
found and  caustic  sayings  in  which  Aristotle, 
Sallust,  and  Tacitus  have  delivered  to  future 
ages  the  condensed  wisdom,  on  the  instability 
and  t3'ranny  of  the  popular  rule,  which  ages 
of  calamity  had  brought  home  to  the  sages  of 
antiquity. 

In  Madame  de  Stael  and  Chateaubriand  we 
have  incomparably  more  originality  and  va- 
riety of  thought;  far  more  just  and  expe- 
rienced views  of  human  affairs ;  far  more 
condensed  wisdom,  which  the  statesman  and 
the  philosopher  may  treasure  in  their  memo- 
ries, than  in  the  great  writers  of  the  age  of 
Louis  XIV.  We  see  at  once  in  their  produc- 
tions that  we  are  dealing  with  those  who  speak 
from  experience  of  human  affairs ;  to  whom 
fears  of  suffering  have  brought  centuries  of 
Rf'sdom ;  and  whom  the  stern  school  of  adver- 


sity have  learned  to  abjure  both  much  of  the 
fanciful  El  Dorado  speculations  of  preceding 
philosophy,  and  the  perilous  eifusions  of  suc- 
ceeding republicanism.  Though  the  one  was 
by  birth  and  habit  an  aristocrat  of  the  ancienl 
and  now  decaying  school,  and  the  other,  a 
liberal  nursed  at  the  feet  of  the  great  Gamaliel 
of  the  Revolution,  yet  there  is  no  material  dif- 
ference in  their  political  conclusions;  so  com- 
pletely does  a  close  observation  of  the  progress 
of  a  revolution  induce  the  same  conclusions 
in  minds  of  the  highest  stamp,  with  whatever 
early  prepossessions  the  survey  may  have 
been  originally  commenced.  The  Dix  Annees 
d'Exil,  and  the  observations  on  the  French 
revolution,  might  have  been  written  by  Cha- 
teaubriand, and  Madame  de  Staiil  would  have 
little  wherefrom  to  dissent  in  the  Monarchie 
selon  la  Charte,  or  later  political  writings  of 
her  illustrious  rival. 

It  is  by  their  works  of  imagination,  taste, 
and  criticism,  however,  that  these  immortal 
writers  are  principally  celebrated,  and  it  is 
with  them  that  we  propose  to  commence  this 
critical  survey.     Their  names  are  universally 
known  :   Corinne,  Delphine,  De  I'AUemagne, 
the  Dix  Annees  d'Exil,  and  De  la  Litterature, 
are  as  familiar  in  sound,  at  least,  to  our  ears, 
as  the  Genie  de  Christianisme,  the  Itineraire, 
the  Martyrs,  Atala  et  Rene  of  the  far-travelled 
pilgrim   of    expiring  feudalism,   are    to    our 
memories.     Each   has   beauties    of  the  very 
highest  cast  in  this  department,  and  yet  their 
excellences  are  so  various,  that  we  know  not 
to  which  to  award  the  palm.    If  driven  to  dis- 
criminate between  them,  we  should  say  that' 
De  Stael  has  more  sentiment,  Chateaubriand 
more  imagination  ;  that  the  former  has  deeper 
knowledge  of  human  feelings,  and  the  latter 
more  varied  and  animated  pictures  of  human 
manners ;  that  the  charm  of  the  former  con- 
sists chiefly  in  the  just  and  profound  views  of 
life,  its  changes  and  emotions  with  which  her 
works  abound,  and  the  fa;;cination  of  the  latter 
in    the    brilliant    phantasmagoria   of   actual 
scenes,  impressions,  and   events   which    hia 
writings  exhibit.    No  one  can  exceed  Madame 
de  Stael  in  the  expression  of  the  sentiment  or 
poetry  of  nature,  or  the  development  of  the 
varied  and  storied  associations  which  histori- 
cal scenes  or  monuments  never  fail  to  awaken 
in  the  cultivated  mind;  but  in  the  delineation 
of  the   actual  features   she   exhibits,  or   the 
painting  of  the  various  and  gorgeous  scenery 
or  objects  she  presents,  she  is  greatly  inferior 
to  the  author  of  the  Genius  of  Christianity. 
She  spea!<s  emotion  to  ine  neart,  not  pictures 
to  the  eye.    Chateaubriand,  on  the  other  hand, 
has  dipped  his  pencil  in  the  fiiiest  and  most 
radiant  hues  of  nature:  with  a  skill  surpassing 
even  that  of  the  Great  Magician  of  ihe  North, 
he  depicts  all  the  most  splendid  scenes  of  both 
hemispheres;  and  seizing  with  the  ins])iration 
of  genius  on  the  really  characteristic  features 
of  the  boundless  variety  of  objects  he  has 
visited,  brings  them  before  us  with  a  force  and 
fidelity  which   it   is   impossible   to    surpass. 
After  all,  however,  on  rising  from  a  perusal 
of  the  great  works  of  these  two  autliors,  it  is 
hard  to  say  which  has  left  the  most  indeliblo 
impression  on  the  mind:  for  ii  the  one  has 


66 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


ftccninnlalcd  ft  store  of  brilliant  pictures  which 
hare  never  yet  been  rivallod,  tiie  other  has 
dmtt-n  from' the  ol>jects  on  which  she  has 
touched  nil  the  most  profound  emotions  which 
they  could  awaken;  and  if  the  first  leaves  a 
(jorpeous  scene  painted  on  the  mind,  the  latter 
has  engraved  a  durable  impression  on  tiie 
heart. 

CuRiNXE  is  not  to  be  regarded  as  a  novel. 
Boarding-school  girls,  and  youths  just  fledged 
from  college,  may  admire  it  as  such,  and  dwell 
with  admiration  on  the  sorrows  of  the  heroine 
and  the  faithlessness  of  Lord  Nevil;  but  con- 
sidered in  that  view  it  has  glaring  faults,  both 
in  respect  of  fancy,  probability,  and  story,  and 
will  bear  no  comparison  either  ^rith  the  great 
novels  of  Sir  Waller  Scott,  or  the  secondary 
productions  of  his  numerous  imitators.  The 
real  view  in  which  to  regard  it  is  as  a  picuire 
of  Italy;  its  inhabitants,  feelings,  and  recollec- 
lions;  its  cloudless  skies  and  glassy  seas;  its 
forest-clad  hills  and  sunny  vales ;  its  umbra- 
geous groves  and  mouldering  forms;  its  heart- 
inspiring  ruins  and  deathless  scenes.  As  such 
it  is  superior  to  any  work  on  that  subject  which 
has  appeared  in  any  European  language.  No- 
where else  shall  we  find  so  rich  and  glowing 
an  intermixture  of  sentiment  with  description ; 
of  deep  feeling  for  the  beauty  of  art,  with  a 
correct  perception  of  its  leading  principles ; 
of  historical  lore  with  poetical  fancy;  of  ar- 
dour in  the  cause  of  social  amelioration,  Mith 
charity  to  the  individuals  who,  under  unfortu- 
nate institutions,  are  chained  to  a  life  of  indo- 
lence and  pleasure.  Beneath  the  glowing  sun 
and  azure  skies  of  Italy  she  has  imbibed  the 
real  modern  Italian  spirit:  she  exhibits  in  the 
mouth  of  her  heroine  all  that  devotion  to  art, 
that  rapturous  regard  to  antiquit}',  that  insou- 
cianrt  in  ordinary  life,  and  constant  bcsoin  of 
fresh  excitement  by  which  that  remarkable 
people  are  distinguished  from  any  other  at 
present  in  Europe.  She  paints  them  as  they 
really  are ;  living  on  the  recollection  of  the 
past,  feeding  on  the  glories  of  their  double  set 
of  illustrious  ancestors;  at  times  exulting  in 
the  recollection  of  the  legions  which  subdued 
the  world,  a*,  others  recurring  with  pride  to 
the  glorious  though  brief  days  of  modern  art; 
mingling  the  names  of  Caesar,  Pompey,  Cicero, 
and  Viriril  with  those  of  Michael  Angelo,  Ra- 
phael, Buonarotti,  and  Corieggio;  repeating 
with  admiration  the  stanzas  of  Tasso  as  they 
glide  through  the  deserted  palaces  of  Venice, 
and  storing  ihcir  mind.>  with  the  rich  creations 
of  Ariosi.i's  fancy  as  they  gaze  on  the  stately 
monuments  of  Rome. 

Not  less  vividly  has  she  portrayed,  in  the 
language,  feelings,  and  character  of  her  he- 
roine, the  smgular  intermixture  with  these 
animating  rec<illcctions  of  all  the  frivolity 
which  has  rendered  impossible,  without  a 
Iresh  impregnation  of  northern  vigour,  the 
regeneration  of  Italian  society.  We  see  in 
her  |ia'  mess  in  real  life,  talents 

•he  ni<i  iig,  beauty  the  most  fasci- 

nating, graces  the  most  cnpiivaling,  devoted 
to  no  other  object  but  the  excitement  of  a 
transient  pa«sion;  infidelity  it-self  subjected  to 
certain  restraints,  and  boasting  of  its  fidelity 
to  one  attachment;  whole  classes  of  society 


incessantly  occupied  with  no  other  object  but 
the  gratification  of  vajUity,  the  thraldom  of  at- 
tachment, or  the  imperious  demands  of  beauty, 
and  the  strongest  propensity  of  cultivated  life, 
the  licKoin  cVaima;  inlluencing,  for  the  best  part  of 
their  lives,  the  higher  classes  of  both  sexes. 
In  such  representation  there  would  probably 
be  nothing  in  the  hands  of  an  ordinary  writer 
but  frivolous  or  possibly  pernicious  details; 
but  by  Madame  de  Stael  it  is  touched  on  so 
gently,  so  strongly  intermingled  with  senti- 
ment, and  traced  so  naturally  to  its  ultimate 
and  disastrous  effects,  that  the  picture  be- 
comes not  merely  characteristic  of  manners, 
but  purifying  in  its  tendenc)'.  / 

The  Dix  Anxees  d'Exil,  though  abounding 
with  fewer  splendid  and  enchanting  passages, 
is  written  in  a  higher  strain,  and  devoted  to 
more  elevated  objects  than  the  Italian  noveL 
It  exhibits  the  Imperial  Government  of  Napo- 
leon in  the  palmy  days  of  his  greatness  ;  when 
all  the  Continent  had  bowed  the  neck  to  his 
power,  and  from  the  rock  of  Gibraltar  to  the 
Frozen  Ocean,  not  a  voice  dared  to  be  lifted 
against  his  commands.  It  shows  the  internal 
tyranny  and  vexations  of  this  formidable 
power;  its  despicable  jealousies  and  con- 
temptible vanity ;  its  odious  restrictions  and 
tyrannizing  tendency.  AVe  see  the  censorship 
chaining  the  human  mind  to  the  night  of  the 
tenth  in  the  opening  of  the  nineteenth  century: 
the  commands  of  the  police  fettering  every 
effort  of  independent  thought  and  free  discus- 
sion ;  forty  millions  of  men  slavishly  following 
the  car  of  a  victor,  who,  in  exchange  for  all 
the  advantages  of  freedom,  hoped  but  never 
obtained  from  the  Revolution,  dazzled  them 
with  the  glitter  only  of  gilded  chains.  In  her 
subsequent  migrations  through  Tyrol,  Poland, 
Russia,  and  Sweden,  to  avoid  his  persecution 
during  the  years  which  preceded  the  Russian 
war,  Ave  have  the  noblest  picture  of  the  ele- 
vated feelings  which,  during  this  period  of 
general  oppression,  were  rising  up  in  the  na- 
tions which  yet  preserved  a  shadow  of  inde- 
pendence, as  well  as  of  the  heroic  stand  made 
by  Alexander  and  his  brave  subjects  against 
the  memorable  invasion  which  ultimately 
proved  their  oppressor's  ruin.  These  are 
animating  themes  ;  and  though  not  in  general 
inclined  to  dwell  on  description,  or  enrich  her 
work  with  picturesque  narrative,  the  scenery 
of  the  north  had  wakened  profound  emotions 
in  her  heart  which  appear  in  many  touches 
and  reflections  of  no  ordinary  sublimit}'. 

Chateaubriand  addresses  himself  much  more 
habitually  and  systematically  to  the  eye.  He 
paints  what  he  has  seen,  whether  in  nature, 
society,  manners,  or  art,  with  the  graphic  skill 
of  a  consummate  draughtsman;  and  produces 
the  emotion  he  is  desirous  of  awakening,  not  . 
by  direct  words  calculated  to  arouse  it,  but  by  i 
enabling  the  imagination  to  depict  to  itself  the 
objects  which  in  nature,  by  tlieir  felicitous  com- 
bination, produced  the  impression.  Madame 
de  Stael  does  not  paint  the  features  of  the 
scene,  but  in  a  few  words  she  portrays  the 
emotion  which  she  experienced  on  beholding 
it,  and  contrives  by  these  few  words  to  awaken 
it  in  her  readers;  Chateaubriand  enumerates 
with  a  painter's  power  all  the  features  of  the 


MADAME  DE  STAEL. 


67 


fcene,  and  by  the  vividness  of  description 
succeeds  not  merely  in  painting  it  on  the 
retina  of  the  mind,  but  in  awakening  there  the 
precise  emotion  which  he  himself  felt  on 
beholding  it.  The  one  speaks  to  the  heart 
through  the  eye,  the  other  to  the  eye  through 
the  heart.  As  we  travel  with  the  illustrious 
pilgrim  of  the  Revolution,  we  see  rising  before 
us  in  successive  clearness  the  lonely  temples, 
and  glittering  valleys,  and  storied  capes  of 
Greece ;  the  desert  plains  and  rocky  ridges 
and  sepulchral  hollows  of  Judea;  the  solitary 
palms  and  stately  monuments  of  Egypt;  the 
isolated  remains  of  Carthage,  the  deep  sohtudes 
of  America,  the  sounding  cataracts,  and  still 
lakes,  and  boundless  forests  of  the  New  World. 
Not  less  vivid  is  his  description  of  human 
scenes  and  actions,  of  which,  during  his  event- 
ful career,  he  has  seen  such  an  extraordinary 
variety;  the  Janissary,  the  Tartar,  the  Turk; 
the  Bedouins  of  the  desert  places,  the  Numi- 
dians  of  the  torrid  zone;  the  cruel  revolution- 
ists of  France ;  the  independent  savages  of 
America ;  the  ardent  mind  of  Napoleon,  the 
dauntless  intrepidity  of  Pitt.  Nothing  can 
exceed  the  variety  and  brilliancy  of  the  pictures 
which  he  leaves  engraven  on  the  imagination 
of  his  reader;  but  he  has  neither  touched  the 
heart  nor  convinced  the  judgment  like  the 
profound  hand  of  his  female  rival. 

To  illustrate  these  observations  we  have 
selected  two  of  the  most  brilliant  descriptions 
from  Chateaubriand's  Genie  de  Christianisme, 
and  placed  beside  these  two  of  the  most  in- 
spired of  Madame  de  Stael's  passages  on 
Roman  scenery.  We  shall  subjoin  two  of  the 
most  admirable  descriptions  by  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  that  the  reader  may  at  once  have  pre- 
sented to  his  view  the  masterpieces,  in  the 
descriptive  line,  of  the  three  greatest  authors 
of  the  age.  All  the  passages  are  translated  by 
ourselves ;  we  have  neither  translations  at 
hand,  nor  inclination  to  mar  so  much  elo- 
quence by  the  slovenly  dress  in  which  it  usual- 
ly appears  in  an  English  version. 

"  There  is  a  God  f  The  herbs  of  the  valley, 
the  cedars  of  the  mountain,  bless  him — the 
insect  sports  in  his  beams — the  elephant 
salutes  him  with  the  rising  orb  of  day — the 
bird  sings  him  in  the  fohage — the  thunder 
proclaims  him  in  the  heavens — the  ocean  de- 
clares his  immensity — man  alone  has  said, 
'  There  is  no  God !' 

"  Unite  in  thought,  at  the  same  instant,  the 
most  beautiful  objects  in  nature  ;  suppose  that 
you  see  at  once  all  the  hours  of  the  day,  and 
all  the  seasons  of  the  year;  a  morning  of 
spring  and  a  morning  of  autumn  ;  a  night  be- 
spangled with  stars,  and  a  night  covered  with 
clouds ;  meadows  enamelled  with  flowers, 
forests  hoary  with  snow;  fields  gilded  by  the 
tints  of  autumn;  then  alone  you  will  have  a 
just  conception  of  the  universe.  While  you 
are  gazing  on  that  sun  which  is  plunging  under 
the  vault  of  the  west,  another  observer  admires 
him  emerging  from  the  gilded  gates  of  the  east. 
By  what  unconceivable  magic  does  that  aged 
star,  which  is  sinking  fatigued  and  burning  in 
the  shades  of  the  evening,  reappear  at  the  same 
instant  fresh  and  humid  with  the  rosy  dew  of 
the  morning  1     At  every  instant  of  the  day  the 


glorious  orb  is  at  once  rising— resplendent  at 
noonday,  and  setting  in  the  west ;  or  rather 
our  senses  deceive  us,  and  there  is,  properly 
speakmg,  no  east,  or  south,  or  west,  in  the 
world.  Every  thing  reduces  itself  to  one  single 
point,  from  whence  the  King  of  Day  sends 
forth  at  once  a  triple  light  in  one  single  sub- 
stance. The  bright  splendour  is  perhaps  that 
which  nature  can  present  that  is  most  beauti- 
ful ;  for  while  it  gives  us  an  idea  of  the  per- 
petual magnificence  and  resistless  power  of 
God,  it  exhibits,  at  the  same  time,  a  shinin<^ 
image  of  the  glorious  Trinity."  *' 

Human  eloquence  probably  cannot,  in  de- 
scriplion,  go  beyond  this  inimitable  passage; 
but  it  is  equalled  in  the  pictures  left  us  by  the' 
same  author  of  two  scenes  in  the  New  World. 

"  One  evening,  when  it  was  a  profound  calm, 
we  were  sailing  through  those  lovely  seas 
which  bathe  the  coast  of  Virginia,— ^all  the 
sails  were  furled — I  was  occupied  below  when 
I  heard  the  bell  which  called  the  mariner'- 
upon  deck  to  prayers — I  hastened  to  join  my 
orisons  to  those  of  the  rest  of  the  crew.  The 
otficers  were  on  the  forecastle,  with  the  passen- 
gers ;  the  priest,  with  his  prayer-book  in  his 
hand,  stood  a  little  in  advance  ;  the  sailors  were 
scattered  here  and  there  on  the  deck;  we  were 
all  above,  with  our  faces  turned  towards>the 
prow  of  the  vessel,  which  looked  to  the  west. 

"The  globe  of  the  sun,  ready  to  plunge  into 
the  waves,  appeared  between  the  ropes  of  the 
vessel  in  the  midst  of  boundless  space.  You 
would  have  imagined,  from  the  balancing  of 
the  poop,  that  the  glorious  luminary  changed 
at  every  instant  its  horizon.  A  few  light  clouds 
were  scattered  without  order  in  the  east,  where 
the  moon  was  slowly  ascending;  all  the  rest  of 
the  sky  was  unclouded.  Towards  the  north, 
forming  a  glorious  triangle  with  the  star  of  day 
and  that  of  night,  a  glittering  cloud  arose  from 
the  sea,  resplendent  with  the  colours  of  the 
prism,  like  a  crystal  pile  supporting  the  vault 
of  heaven. 

"  He  is  much  to  be  pitied  who  could  have 
witnessed  this  scene,  without  feeling  the  beau- 
ty of  God.  Tears  involuntarily  flowed  from 
my  e3'es,  when  my  companions,  taking  oft" 
their  hats,  began  to  sing,  in  their  hoarse  strains, 
the  simple  hymn  of  Our  Lady  of  Succour. 
How  touching  was  that  prayer  of  men,  who, 
on  a  fragile  plank,  in  the  midst  of  the  ocean, 
contemplated  the  sun  setting  in  the  midst  of 
the  waves!  How  that  simple  invocation  of  the 
mariners  to  the  mother  of  woes,  went  to  the 
heart !  The  consciousness  of  our  littleness 
in  the  sight  of  Infinity — our  chants  prolonged 
afar  over  the  waves — night  approaching  with 
its  sable  wings — a  whole  crew  of  a  vessel 
filled  with  admiration  and  a  holy  fear — God 
bending  over  the  ab3'ss,  M'ith  one  hand  iclain- 
ing  the  sun  at  the  gates  of  the  west,  with  the 
other  raising  the  moon  in  the  east,  and  yet 
lending  an  attentive  ear  to  the  voice  of  prayer 
ascending  from  a  speck  in  the  immensity — all 
combined  to  form  an  assemblage  which  can 
not  be  described,  and  of  which  the  human 
heart  could  hardly  bear  the  weight. 

"The  scene  at  land  was  not  less  ravishing 
One  evening  I  had  lost  my  way  in  a  forest,  at 
a  short  distance  from  the  Falls  of  Niagara 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAVS. 


800D  the  day  f  xpircti  around  me,  and  I  tasted, 
in  all  its  solitude,  the  lovely  spectacle  of  a 
nipht  in  the  deserts  of  the  New  World. 

"  An  hour  after  sunset  the  moon  showed  it- 
»flf  above  the  branches,  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  horizon.  An  embalmed  breeze, Mhich 
the  Queen  of  Night  seemed  to  bring  with  her 
from  the  East,  preceded  her  with  its  frcshen- 
injr  calcs.  The  solitary  star  ascended  by  de- 
1  the  heavens;  sometimes  she  followed 
]y  her  azure  course,  sometimes  she 
rcpi'sfii  on  the  groups  of  clouds,  which  re- 
sembled the  summits  of  lofty  mountains  covered 
with  snow.  These  clouds,  opening  and  clos- 
ing their  sails,  now  spread  themselves  out  in 
transparent  zones  of  white  satin,  now  dis- 
persed into  light  bubl>lcs  of  foam,  or  formed 
in  the  heavens  bars  of  while  so  dazzling  and 
sweet,  that  you  could  almost  believe  you  felt 
their  snowy  surface. 

"  The  scene  on  the  earth  was  of  equal  beau- 
ty ;  the  declining  day,  and  the  light  of  the  moon, 
descended  into  the  intervals  of  the  trees,  and 
spread  a  faint  gleam  even  in  the  profonndest 
part  of  the  darkness.  The  river  which  flowed 
at  my  feet,  alternately  lost  itself  in  the  woods, 
and  reappeared  brilliant  with  the  constella- 
tions of  night  which  reposed  on  its  bosom.  In 
a  savanna  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  the 
moonbeams  slept  without  movement  on  the 
verdant  turf.  A  few  birches,  agitated  by  the 
breeze,  and  dispersed  here  and  there,  formed 
isles  of  floating  shadow  on  that  motionless  sea 
of  light.  All  would  have  been  in  profound 
repose,  but  for  the  fall  of  a  few  leaves,  the 
breath  of  a  transient  breeze,  and  the  moaning 
of  the  owl ;  while,  in  the  distance,  at  intervals 
the  deep  roar  of  Niagara  was  heard,  whichj 
prolonged  from  desert  to  desert  in  the  calm  of 
the  night,  expired  at  length  in  the  endless 
solitude  of  the  forest. 

"The  grandeur,  the  surpassing  melancholy 
of  that  scene,  can  be  expressed  by  no  human 
tongue — the  finest  nights  of  Europe  can  give 
no  conception  of  it.  In  vain,  amidst  our  cul- 
tivated fields,  does  the  imagination  seek  to  ex- 
pand—it meets  on  all  sides  the  habitations  of 
men ;  but  in  those  savage  regions  the  soul 
loves  to  shroud  itself  in  the  ocean  of  forests, 
to  hang  over  the  gulf  of  cataracts,  to  meditate 
on  the  shores  of  lakes  and  rivers,  and  feel 
itself  alone  as  it  were  with  God. 

'Prir«pnIiorcni  rnnf<piriiiiii)>  Dpiini, 
li-rn  |H-r  jiien,  rlivoKqiiL-  priiTiiptoB, 
Hiiiinritfi  inicr  aquas  ticmoruiiuiue  noctem.'  " 

We  doubt  if  any  passages  ever  were  written 
of  more  thrilling  descriptive  eloquence  than 
these;  hereafter  wc  shall  contrast  them  with 
some  (if  the  finest  of  Lamarlinc,  which  have 
equalled  but  not  exceeded  them.  But  now 
mark  the  difltrent  style  with  which  Madame 
de  SiafI  ireaU  the  heart-stirring  monuments 
of  Roman  greatness. 

"At  this  moment  8t.  Peter  arose  to  their 
Tirw  ;  the  greatest  edifice  which  man  has  ever 
raised,  for  the  Pyramids  themselves  arc  of  less 
eonsiderable  elevation.  I  would  perhaps  have 
done  better,  said  Corinne,  to  have  taken  yoii 
In  the  most  beautiful  of  our  edifices  last;  luit 
thai  i.s  n>.  my  system.  lam  convinced  that, 
to  render  one  ahve  to  Ow  charm  of  the  fine 


arts,  we  should  commence  with  those  ohjecta 
which  awaken  a  lively  and  profound  adinira* 
tion.  When  once  that  sentiment  has  oeen 
experienced,  a  new  sphere  of  ideas  is  awaken- 
ed, which  renders  us  susceptible  of  the  im- 
pression produced  by  beauties  of  an  inferior 
order;  they  reviv'e,  though  in  a  lesser  degree, 
the  first  impression  which  has  been  received. 
All  these  gradations  in  producing  emotion  are 
contrary  to  my  opinion  ;  you  do  not  arrive  at 
the  sublime  by  successive  steps;  infinite  de- 
grees separate  it  from  the  beautiful. 

"  Oswald  experienced  an  extraordinary  emo- 
tion on  arriving  in  front  of  the  facade  of  St. 
Peter's.  It  was  the  iirst  occasion  on  which  a 
work  of  human  hands  produced  on  him  the 
ejects  of  one  of  the  marvels  of  nature.  It  is 
the  only  effort  of  human  industiy  which  has 
the  grandeur  which  characterizes  the  imme- 
diate works  of  the  Creator.  Corinne  rejoiced 
in  the  astonishment  of  Oswald.  'I  have 
chosen,'  said  she,  '  a  day  when  the  sun  was 
shining  in  all  its  eclat  to  show  you  this  monu- 
ment for  the  first  time.  I  reserve  for  3'oti  a 
more  sacred  religious  enjoyment,  to  contem- 
plate it  by  the  light  of  the  moon ;  but  at  this 
moment  it  was  necessary  to  obtain  your  pre- 
sence at  the  most  brilliant  of  our  fetes,  the 
genius  of  man  decorated  by  the  magnificence 
of  nature.' 

"The  Place  of  St.  Peter  is  surrounded  by 
columns,  which  appear  light  at  a  distance,  hut 
massy  when  seen  near.  The  earth,  Avhich 
rises  gently  to  the  gate  of  the  church,  adds  to 
the  effect  it  produces.  An  obelisk  of  eighty 
feet  in  height,  which  appears  as  nothing  in 
presence  of  the  ctipola  of  St.  Peter's,  is  in  the 
middle  of  the  place.  The  form  of  obelisks 
has  something  in  it  which  is  singularly  pleas- 
ing to  the  imagination;  their  summit  loses 
itself  in  the  clouds,  and  seems  even  to  elevate 
to  the  Heavens  a  great  thought  of  man.  That 
monument,  -which  was  brought  from  Egypt  to 
adorn  the  baths  of  Caracalla,  and  Avhich  Sex- 
tus  V.  subsequently  transported  to  the  foot  of 
the  Temple  of  St.  Peter ;  that  contemporary 
of  so  many  ages  which  have  sought  in  vain  to 
decay  its  solid  frame,  inspires  respect ;  man 
feels  himself  so  fleeting,  that  he  always  expe- 
riences emotion  in  presence  of  that  which  has 
passed  imchanged  through  many  ages-  At  a 
little  distance,  on  each  side  of  the  obelisk,  are 
two  fountains,  the  waters  of  which  perpetually 
are  projected  up  and  fall  doM-n  in  cascades 
through  the  air.  That  murmur  of  waters, 
which  is  usually  heard  only  in  the  field,  pro- 
duces in  such  a  situation  a  new  sensation; 
but  one  in  harmony  with  that  which  arises 
from  the  aspect  of  so  majestic  a  temple. 

"  Painting  or  sculpture,  imitating  in  general 
the  human  figure,  or  some  object  in  external 
nature,  awaken  in  our  minds  distinct  and  posi- 
tive ideas ;  but  a  beautiful  monument  of  archi- 
tecture has  not  any  determinate  expression, 
and  the  spectator  is  seized,  on  contemplating 
it,  with  that  reverie,  without  anv  definite  ob- 
ject, which  leads  the  thoughts  so  "far  off.  The 
sound  of  the  waters  adds  to  these  vague  and 
profound  impressions;  it  is  uniform,  as  the 
edifice  is  regular. 

'  Eternal  movement  and  eternal  repose* 


MADAME  DE  STAEL. 


69 


are  thus  brought  to  combine  -with  each  other. 
It  is  here,  in  an  especial  mannei',  that  Time  is 
without  power;  it  never  dries  up  those  spark- 
ling streams  ;  it  never  shakes  those  immovable 
pillars.  The  waters,  which  spring  up  in  fan- 
like luxuriance  from  these  fountains,  are  so 
light  and  vapour}^  that,  in  a  fine  day,  the  ra3^s 
of  the  sun  produce  little  rainbows  of  the  most 
beautiful  colour. 

"  Stop  a  moment  here,  said  Corinne  to  Lord 
Nelvil,  as  he  stood  under  the  portico  of  the 
church  ;  pause  before  drawing  aside  the  cur- 
tain which  covers  the  entrance  of  the  Temple. 
Does  not  your  heart  beat  at  the  threshold  of 
that  sanctuary]  Do  you  not  feel,  on  entering 
it,  the  emotion  consequent  on  a  solemn  event  1 
At  these  words  Corinne  herself  drew  aside  the 
curtain,  and  held  it  so  as  to  let  Lord  Nelvil 
enter.  Her  attitude  was  so  beautiful  in  doing  so, 
that  for  a  moment  it  icithdrcw  the  eyes  of  her  lover 
even  from  the  majestic  interior  of  the  Temple,  But 
as  he  advanced,  its  greatness  bui-st  upon  his 
mind,  and  the  impression  which  he  received 
under  its  lofty  arches  was  so  profound,  that  the 
sentiment  of  love  was  for  a  time  eifaced.  He 
walked  slowly  beside  Corinne  ;  both  were 
silent.  Everything  enjoined  contemplation; 
the  slightest  sound  resounded  so  far,  that  no 
word  appeared  worthy  of  being  repeated  in 
those  eternal  mansions.  Prayer  alone,  the 
voice  of  misfortune  was  heard  at  intervals  in 
their  vast  vaults.  And,  when  under  those 
stupendous  domes,  you  hear  from  afar  the 
voice  of  an  old  man,  whose  trembling  steps 
totter  along  those  beautiful  marbles,  watered 
with  so  many  tears,  you  feel  that  man  is  ren- 
dered more  dignified  by  that  very  infirmity  of 
his  nature  which  exposes  his  divine  spirit  to 
so  many  kinds  of  suifering,  and  that  Chris- 
tianity, the  worship  of  grief,  contains  the  true 
secret  of  man's  sojourn  upon  earth. 

"  Corinne  interrupted  the  reverie  of  Oswald, 
and  said  to  him, 'You  have  seen  the  Gothic 
churches  of  England  and  Germany,  and  must 
have  observed  that  they  are  distinguished  by  a 
much  more  sombre  character  than  this  cathe- 
di'al.  There  is  something  mystical  in  the  Ca- 
tholicism of  these  Northern  people  ;  ours 
speaks  to  the  imagination  by  exterior  objects. 
Michael  Angelo  said,  on  beholding  the  cupola 
of  the  Pantheon,  'I  AviJl  place  it  in  the  air;' 
and,  in  truth,  St.  Peter's  is  a  temple  raised  on 
the  basement  of  a  church.  There  is  a  certain 
alliance  of  the  ancient  worship  with  Christi- 
anity in  the  efl^ect  which  the  interior  of  that 
church  produces:  I  often  go  to  walk  here 
alone,  in  order  to  restore  to  my  mind  the  tran- 
quillity it  may  have  lost.  The  sight  of  such  a 
monument  is  like  a  continual  and  fixed  music, 
awaiting  you  to  pour  its  balm  into  your  mind, 
whenever  you  approach  it ;  and  certainly, 
among  the  manj-  titles  of  this  nation  to  glory, 
we  must  number  the  patience,  courage,  and 
disinterestedness  of  the  chiefs  of  the  church, 
who  consecrated,  during  a  hundred  and  fifty 
years,  such  vast  treasures  and  boundless 
labour  to  the  prosecution  of  a  work,  of  which 
none  of  them  could  hope  to  enjoy  the  fruits.'" 
— Corinne,  vol.  i.  c.  3. 

In  this  magnificent  passage,  the  words  un- 
derlined are  an  obvious  blemish.     The  idea 


of  Oswald  turning  aside  at  the  entrance  of  St. 
Peter's  from  the  gaze  of  the  matchless  interior 
of  the  temple,  a  spectacle  unique  in  the  world, 
to  feast  his  eye  by  admiration  of  his  inamorata 
is  more  than  we,  in  the  frigid  latitudes  of  the 
north,  can  altogether  understand.  But  Ma- 
dame de  Staiil  was  a  woman,  and  a  French- 
Avoman ;  and  apparently  she  could  not  resist 
the  opportunity  of  signalizing  the  triumph  of 
her  sex,  by  portraying  the  superiority  of  female 
beauty  to  the  grandest  and  most  imposing  ob- 
ject that  the  hands  of  man  have  ever  reared. 
Abstracting  from  this  feminine  weakness,  the 
passage  is  one  of  almost  uniform  beauty,  and 
well  illustrates  the  peculiar  descriptive  style 
of  the  author;  not  painting  objects,  but  touch- 
ing the  cords  which  cause  emotions  to  vibrate. 
She  has  unconsciously  characterized  her  own 
style,  as  compared  with  that  of  Chateaiibriand, 
in  describing  the  different  characters  of  the 
cathedrals  of  the  North  and  South. — "  There  is 
something  mystical  in  the  Catholicism  of  the 
Northern  people  ;  ours  speaks  to  the  imagina- 
tion by  exterior  objects." 

As  another  specimen  of  Madame  de  Stael's 
descriptive  powers,  take  her  picture  of  the 
Appian  Way,  with,  its  long  lines  of  tombs  on 
either  side,  on  the  southern  quarter  of  Rome. 

"  She  conducted  Lord  Nelvil  beyond  the 
gates  of  the  city,  on  the  ancient  traces  of  the 
Appian  Way.  These  traces  are  marked  in 
the  middle  of  the  Campagna  of  Rome  by 
tombs,  on  the  right  and  left  of  which  the  ruins 
extend  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach  for  several 
miles  beyond  the  walls.  Cicero  says  that,  on 
leaving  the  gate,  the  first  tombs  you  meet  are 
those  of  Metellus,  the  Scipios,  and  Servillius. 
The  tomb  of  the  Scipios  has  been  discovered 
in  the  very  place  which  he  describes,  and 
transported  to  the  Vatican.  Yet  it  was,  in 
some  sort,  a  sacrilege  to  displace  these  illus- 
trious ashes ;  imagination  is  more  nearly  allied 
than  Is  generally  imagined  to  morality;  we 
must  beware  of  shocking  it.  Some  of  these 
tombs  are  so  large,  that  the  houses  of  peasants 
have  been  worked  out  in  them,  for  the  Romans 
consecrated  a  large  space  to  the  last  remains 
of  their  friends  and  their  relatives.  They 
were  strangers  to  that  arid  principle  of  utility 
which  fertilizes  a  few  corners  of  earth,  the 
more  by  devastating  the  vast  domain  of  senti- 
ment and  thought. 

"  You  see  at  a  little  distance  from  the  Ap- 
pian Way  a  temple  raised  by  the  Republic  to 
Honour  and  Virtue  ;  another  to  the  God  which 
compelled  Hannibal  to  remeasure  his  steps  • 
the  Temple  of  Egeria,  Avhere  Numa  went  to 
consult  his  tutelar  deity,  is  at  a  little  distance 
on  the  left  hand.  Around  these  tombs  the 
traces  of  virtue  alone  are  to  be  found.  No 
monument  of  the  long  ages  of  crime  which 
disgraced  the  empire  are  to  be  met  with  be- 
side the  places  where  these  illustrious  dead 
repose ;  they  rest  amongst  the  relics  of  the 
republic. 

"The  aspect  of  the  Campagna  around  Home 
has  something  in  it  singularly  remarkable. 
Doubtless  it  is  a  desert;  there  are  neither 
trees  nor  habitations;  but-the  earth  is  covered 
with  a  profusion  of  natural  flowers,  which 
the  energy  of  vegetation  lenews  incessantly 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


Tho\r  crrcpinp  plants  insinuate  themselves 

n  !  .'nu    th«*   loinbs,   decorate   the    ruins,   and 

.     ..  ...  .   i.-iy  lo  do  iKmour  to  the  dead. 

\  ^c  thai  nature  was  too  proud 

I  '  '       !  -  of  man,  since  Cin- 

.    I,  tlie   jilini-^h  which 

Iiii!  'ws  I1.S  bo^<^ln ;  il  produces  llowcrs  in 
w  iM  profu.Hion,  which  arc  of  no  sort  of  use  to 
the  oxistinR  generation.  These  vast  unculti- 
vaicd  planes  will  doubtless  have  few  altrac- 
ii.,ii<  f..r  (he  ntrriculiurist,  administrators,  and 
n  lie  on  the  earth,  wiih  a 

\  ii  ihc  riches  it  is  capable 

of  allordmR;  but  the  ihoni,'hlful  minds,  whom 
'Jeath  occupies  as  much  as  life,  arc  sincrulariy 
Attracted   by  the   aspect   of  that  Campagna, 

V  it  times  have  left  no  trace; 
!  (  heri>hes  only  tlie  dead,  and 
covers  tliem  m  its  love  with  useless  flowers — 
plants  which  creep  alons;  the  surface,  and 
never  acquire  suflicient  strength  to  separate 

V  ' . .  s  from  the  ashes,  which  they  have  the 

■e  of  caressing." — Corinne,  1.  v.  c.  1. 

Iluw  m.iny  travellers  have  traversed  the 
Appian  Way,  but  how  lew  have  felt  the  deep 
impressions  which  these  words  are  fitted  to 
prtKluce ! 

"  The  churches  of  modem  Rome,"  continues 
the  same  author,  "  are  decorated  with  the  mag- 
nillfcnce  of  antiquity,  but  there  is  something 
re  and  striking  in  the  intermingling  of 
.:.:  -:■  beautiful  marbles  with  the  ornaments 
stripped  from  the  Pagan  temples.  The  columns 
of  porphyry  and  granite  were  so  numerous  at 
Rome  that  they  ceased  to  have  any  value.  At 
8l.  John  Lateran,  that  church,  so  famous  from 
the  councils  of  which  it  was  the  theatre,  there 
were  such  a  quantity  of  marble  columns  that 
r.any  of  them  were  covered  with  plaster  to  be 
converted  into  pilasters — so  completely  had 
the  multitude  of  riches  rendered  men  indifl'er- 
ent  to  them.  Some  of  these  columns  came 
from  the  tomb  of  Adrian,  and  bear  yet  upon 
their  capitals  the  mark  of  the  geese  which 
saved  the  Itoman  people.  These  columns 
support  the  ornaments  of  Gothic  churches, 
and  some  rich  sculptures  in  the  arabesque 
order.  The  urn  of  .Agrippa  has  received  the 
ashes  of  a  ptpc,  for  the  dead  themselves  have 
yielded  their  place  to  other  dead,  and  the  tombs 
nave  chansred  tenants  nearly  as  often  as  the 
ni.iriMons  of  the  living. 

".Near  to  St.  John  Lateran  is  the  holy  stair, 
Iran'.portJ'd  from  Jerusalem.  No  one  is  per- 
rn.ii.-,!  to  go  up  it  but  on  his  knees.  In  like 
rn.ijinrr  Cirsar  and  Claudius  ascended  on  their 
kn.rs  the  Mair  which  led  to  the  temple  of  Ju- 
piter«"  •  '  iHis.  Ueside  St.  John  Lateran  is 
•he  H  ,-.  where  Constaiitine  was  bap- 

li/.-,l — III  the  middle  of  tiie  place  before  the 
church  ii  an  o»'eli>k,  perhaps  the  most  ancient 
monument  which  exists  in  the  world— an  obe- 
lisk contemp<irary  of  the  War  of  Troy— an 
i>beli>k  which  the  barbarian  Cambyses  re- 
'  '        '         '  ■  slop  for  its  beauty  the 

'  , — an  obelisk  for  which 

ft  kiiii:  put  in  piedtfe  the  life  of  his  only  son. 
The  Homans  in  a  surprising  manner  got  it 
conveyed  from  the  extremity  of  Kirypt  to  Italy 

th«»v  tnriHvl  aside  th*-  mnrsf  of  the  Nile  to 
bring  Its  waters  so  as  to  convey  it  to  the  sea. 


Even  then  that  obelisk  was  covered  with 
hieroglyphics  whose  secrets  have  been  kept 
for  so  many  ages,  and  which  still  withstand 
the  researches  of  our  most  learned  scholars- 
Possibly  the  Indians,  the  Egyptians,  the  finti- 
quity  of  antiquity,  might  be  revealed  to  us  in 
these  mysterious  signs.  The  wonderful  charm 
of  Rome  consists,  not  merely  in  the  beauty  of 
its  monuments,  but  in  the  interest  which  they 
all  awaken,  and  that  species  of  charm  increases 
daily  with  every  fresh  study." — Ibid.  c.  3. 

We  add  only  a  feeble  prosaic  translation  o' 
the  splendid  improvisalorc  ellusion  of  Corinnt 
on  the  Cape  of  Mcsinum,  surrounded  by  the 
marvels  of  the  shore  of  Baite  and  the  Phieg- 
rian  fields. 

"Poetry,  nature*,  history,  here  rival  each 
other  in  grandeur — here  you  can  embrace  in 
a  single  glance  all  the  revolutions  cf  time  and 
all  its  prodigies. 

"I  see  the  Lake  of  Avernus,  the  extin- 
guished crater  of  a  volcano,  whose  Avaters 
formerly  inspired  so  much  terror — Acheron, 
Phlegeton,  which  a  subterraneous  flame  caused 
to  boil,  are  the  rivers  of  the  infernals  visited 
by  JEneas. 

"  Fire,  that  devouring  element  Avhich  created 
the  world,  and  is  destined  to  consume  it,  was 
formerly  an  object  of  the  greater  terror  that 
its  laws  were  unknown.  Nature,  in  the  olden 
times,  revealed  its  secrets  to  poetr)'  alone. 

"  The  city  of  Cumas,  the  Cave  of  the  Sibylle, 
the  Temple  of  Apollo,  were  placed  on  that 
height.  There  grew  the  wood  whence  was 
gathered  the  golden  branch.  The  countr)'  of 
^■Eneas  is  around  you,  and  the  fictions  conse- 
crated by  genius  have  become  recollections  of 
which  we  still  seek  the  traces. 

"A  Triton  plunged  into  these  wa\'es  the 
presumptive  Trojan  Avho  dared  to  defy  the  di- 
vinities of  the  deep  by  his  songs — these  water- 
worn  and  sonorous  rocks  have  still  the  cha- 
racter which  Virgil  gave  them.  Imagination 
was  faithful  even  in  the  midst  of  its  omnipo- 
tence. The  genius  of  man  is  creative  when 
he  feels  Nature — imitative  when  he  fancies  he 
is  creating. 

"In  the  midst  of  these  terrible  masses,  gray 
witnesses  of  the  creation,  we  see  a  new  moun- 
tain which  the  volcano  has  produced.  Here 
the  earth  is  stormy  as  the  ocean,  and  does 
not,  like  it,  re-enter  peaceably  into  its  limits. 
The  heavy  element,  elevated  by  subterraneous 
fire,  fills  up  valleys,  '  rains  mountains,'  and  its 
petrified  waves  attest  the  tempests  which  once 
tore  its  entrails. 

"If  you  strike  on  this  hill  the  subterraneous 
vault  resounds — you  would  say  that  the  in- 
habited earth  is  nothing  but  a  "crust  ready  to 
open  and  swallow  us  up.  The  Campagna  of 
Naples  is  the  image  of  human  passion — sul- 
phurous, but  fruitful,  its  dangers  and  its  plea- 
sures appear  to  grow  out  of  those  glowing  . 
volcanoes  which  give  to  the  air  so  many 
charms,  and  cause  the  thunder  to  roll  beneath 
our  feet. 

"Pliny  boasted  that  his  country  was  the 
most  beautiful  in  existence — he  studied  nature 
to  be  able  to  appreciate  its  charms.  Seeking 
the  inspiration  of  science  as  a  warrior  does 
conquest,  he  set  forth  from  this  promontory  to 


MADAME   DE   STAEL, 


observe   Vesuvius   athwart    the   flames,   and 
those  flames  consumed  him. 

"Cicero  lost  his  life  near  the  promontory 
of  Gaeta,  which  is  seen  in  the  distance.  The 
Triumvirs,  regardless  of  posterity,  bereaved 
it  of  the  thoughts  which  that  great  man  had 
conceived — it  was  on  us  that  his  murder  was 
committed. 

"Cicero  sunk  beneath  the  poniards  of  ty- 
rants— Scipio,  more  unfortunate,  was  banished 
by  his  ffl.ow-citizens  while  still  in  the  enjo}'- 
ment  of  freedom.  He  terminated  his  days 
near  that  shore,  and  the  ruins  of  his  tomb  are 
still  called  the  'Tower  of  our  Country.'  What 
a  touching  allusion  to  the  last  thought  of  that 
great  spirit  I 

"  Marius  fled  into  those  marshes  not  far  from 
the  last  home  of  Scipio.  Thus  in  all  ages  the 
people  have  persecuted  the  really  great;  but 
they  are  avenged  by  their  apotheosis,  and  the 
Roman  who  conceived  their  power  extended 
even  unto  Hea,ven,  placed  Romulus,  Numa, 
and  Ccesar  in  the  firmament — new  stars  which 
confound  in  our  eyes  the  rays  of  glory  and  the 
celestial  radiance. 

"Oh,  memory!  noble  power!  thy  empire  is 
in  these  scenes !  From  age  to  age,  strange 
destiny  !  man  is  incessantly  bewailing  what 
he  has  lost!  These  remote  ages  are  the  de- 
positaries in  their  turn  of  a  greatness  which  is 
DO  more,  and  while  the  pride  of  thought,  glory- 
ing in  its  progress,  darts  into  futurity,  our  soul 
seems  still  to  regret  an  ancient  country  to 
which,  the  past  in  some  degree  brings  it 
back." — Lib.  xii.  c.  4. 

Enough  has  now  been  given  to  give  the  un- 
lettered reader  a  conception  of  the  descriptive 
character  of  these  two  great  continental 
writers — to  recall  to  the  learned  one  some  of 
the  most  delightful  moments  of  his  life.  To 
complete  the  parallel,  we  shall  now  present 
three  of  the  finest  passages  of  a  similar  cha- 
racter from  Sir  Walter  Scott,  that  our  readers 
may  be  able  to  appreciate  at  a  single  sitting 
the  varied  excellences  of  the  greatest  masters 
of  poetic  prose  who  have  appeared  in  modern 
times. 

The  first  is  the  well-known  opening  scene 
of  Ivanhoe. 

"The  sun  was  setting  upon  one  of  the  rich 
grassy  glades  of  that  forest,  which  we  have 
mentioned  in  the  beginning  of  the  chapter. 
Hundreds  of  broad-headed,  short-stemmed, 
wide-branched  oaks,  which  had  witnessed  per- 
haps the  stately  march  of  the  Roman  soldiery, 
flung  their  gnarled  arms  over  a  thick  carpet 
of  the  most  delicious  green  sward;  in  some 
places  they  were  intermingled  with  beeches, 
hollies,  and  copsewood  of  various  descrip- 
tions, so  closely  as  totally  to  intercept  the  level 
beams  of  the  sinking  sun ;  in  others  they  re- 
ceded from  each  other,  forming  those  long 
sweeping  vistas,  in  the  intricacy  of  which  the 
eye  delights  to  lose  itself,  while  imagination 
considers  them  as  the  paths  to  yet  wilder 
scenes'  of  silvan  solitude.  Here  the  red  rays 
of  the  sun  shot  a  broken  and  discoloured  light, 
that  partially  hung  upon  the  shattered  boughs 
and  mossy  trunks  of  the  trees,  and  there  they 
illuminated  in  brilliant  patches  the  portions 
cf  turf  to  which  they  made  their  way.    A  con- 


71 

siderable  open  space,  in  the  midst  of  this  glade 
seemed  formerly  to  have  been  dedicated  to  thr 
rites  of  Druulical  superstition ;  for,  on  the  »im 
mit  of  a  hillock,  so  regular  as  to  seem  artificial, 
there  still  remained  part  of  a  circle  of  rough 
unhewn  stones,  of  large  dimensions.  Seven 
stood  upright;  the  rest  had  been  di-slodged 
from  their  places,  probably  by  the  zeal°oI 
some  convert  to  Christianity,  and  lay,  some 
prostrate  near  their  Ibrmer  site,  and  others  on 
the  side  of  the  hill.  One  large  stone  only  had 
found  its  way  to  the  bottom,  and  in  stopping 
the  course  of  a  small  brook,  which  "-lider 
smoothly  round  the  footof  theemincnce,°"-ave, 
by  its  opposition, 'a  feeble  voice  of  murmur  to 
the  placid  and  elsewhere  silent  streamlet." 

The  next  is  the  equally  celebrated  descrip- 
tion of  the  churchyard  in  the  introductory 
chapter  of  Old  Mortality. 

"  Farther  up  the  narrow  valley,  and  in  a  re- 
cess which  seems  scooped  out  of  the  side  of 
the  steep  heathy  bank,  there  is  a  deserted 
burial-ground  which  the  little  cowards  are 
fearful  of  approaching  in  the  twilight.  To 
me,  however,  the  place  has  an  inexpressible 
charm.  It  has  been  long  the  favourite  termi- 
nation of  my  walks,  and,  if  my  kind  patron 
forgets  not  his  promise,  will  (and  probably  at 
no  very  distant  day)  be  my  final  resting-place 
after  my  mortal  pilgrimage. 

"It  is  a  spot  which  possesses  all  the  solera 
nity  of  feeling  attached  to  a  burial-ground, 
without  exciting  those  of  a  more  unpleasing 
description.  Having  been  very  little  used  for 
many  years,  the  few  hillocks  which  rise  above 
the  level  plain  are  covered  with  the  same 
short  velvet  turf.  The  monuments,  of  which 
there  are  not  above  seven  or  eight,  are  half 
sunk  in  the  ground  and  overgrown  with  moss. 
No  newly-erected  tomb  disturbs  the  sober  se- 
renity of  our  reflections,  by  reminding  us  of 
recent  calamity,  and  no  rank  springing  grass 
forces  upon  our  imagination  the  recollection, 
that  it  owes  its  dark  luxuriance  to  the  foul  and 
festering  remnants  of  mortality  which  ferment 
beneath.  The  daisy  which  sprinkles  the  sod, 
and  the  hair-bell  v.-hich  hangs  over  it,  derive 
their  pure  nourishmentfrom  the  dewof  Heaven, 
and  their  growth  impresses  us  with  no  degrad- 
ing or  disgusting  recollections.  Death  lias  in- 
deed been  here,  and  its  traces  are  before  us ; 
but  they  are  softened  and  deprived  of  their 
horror  by  our  distance  from  the  period  whei. 
they  have  been  first  impressed.  Those  who 
sleep  beneath  are  only  connected  with  us  by 
the  reflection,  that  they  have  once  been  what 
we  now  are,  and  that,  as  their  relics  are  now 
identified  with  their  mother  earth,  ours  shall, 
at  some  future  period, undergo  the  same  trans- 
formation." 

The  third  is  a  passage  equally  well  known, 
but  hardly  less  beautiful,  from  the  Anliqiiary. 

"The  sun  was  now  resting  his  luii,'c  di^k 
upon  the  edge  of  the  level  ocean,  and  gilded 
the  accumulation  of  towering  clouds  iluongh 
which  he  had  travelled  the  livelong  day,  and 
which  now  assembled  on  all  sides,  IiKc  mis- 
fortunes and  disasters  around  a  sinking  em- 
pire, and  falling  monarch.  Siill,  how.-vcr,  his 
dying  splendour  gave  a  sombre  magniliccnca 
to  th«»  massive  congregation  of  vapours,  fonn 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


ing  out  of  their  unsubstantial  gloom,  the  show 
of  jiyraniiiis  and  towers,  some  touched  willi 
gold,  some  with  purple,  some  with  a  hue  of 
deep  and  dark  red.  The  distant  sea,  stretched 
beneath  this  varied  and  gorgeous  canopy,  lay 
almost  portentously  still,  rellecting  back  the 
dazzliii-T  and  level  beams  of  the  descending 
luminary,  and  the  splendid  colouring  of  the 
clouds  amidst  which  he  was  silling.  Nearer 
to  the  beach,  the  tide  rippled  onward  in  waves 
of  sparkling  silver,  that  imperceptibly,  yet  ra- 
pidly, trained  upon  the  sand. 

"Wiih  a  mind  employed  in  admiration  of 
the  romantic  scene,  or  perhaps  on  some  more 
agitating  topic.  Miss  Wardour  advanced  in 
bilencc  by  her  father's  side,  whose  recently 
otlended  dignity  did  not  stoop  to  open  any 
conversation.  Following  the  windings  of  the 
beach,  they  passed  one  projecting  point  or 
headland  of  rock  after  another,  and  now  found 
themselves  under  a  huge  and  continued  extent 
of  the  precipices  by  which  that  iron-bound 
coast  is  in  most  places  defended.  Long  pro- 
jecting reefs  of  rock,  extending  under  water, 
and  onlj''  evincing  their  existence  by  here  and 
there  a  peak  entirely  bare,  or  by  the  breakers 
which  foamed  over  those  that  were  partially 
covered,  rendered  Knockwinrlock  bay  dreaded 
by  pilots  and  ship-masters.  The  crags  which 
rose  between  the  beach  and  the  mainland,  to 
the  height  of  two  or  three  hundred  feet,  af- 
forded in  their  crevices  shelter  for  unnum- 
bered sea-fowl,  in  situations  seemingly  secured 
by  their  dizzy  height  from  the  rapacity  of  man. 
Many  of  these  wild  tribes,  with  the  instinct 
which  sends  them  to  seek  the  land  before  a 
storm  arises,  were  now  winging  towards  their 
nests  with  the  shrill  and  dissonant  clang  which 
announces  disquietude  and  fear.  The  disk  of 
the  sun  became  almost  totally  obscured  ere  he 
had  altogether  sunk  below  the  horizon,  and  an 
early  ai^d  lurid  shade  of  darkness  blotted  the 
serene  twilight  of  a  summer  evening.  The 
wind  began  next  to  arise;  but  its  wild  and 
moaning  sound  was  heard  for  some  time,  and 
its  efiects  became  visible  on  the  bosom  of  the 
sea,  before  the  gale  was  felt  on  shore.  The 
mass  of  waters,  now  dark  and  threatening, 
began  to  lift  itself  in  larger  ridges,  and  sink  in 
deeper  furrows,  forming  waves  that  rose  high 
in  foam  upon  the  breakers,  or  bursting  upon 
the  beach  with  a  sound  resembling  distant 
thunder." 

Few  objects  are  less  beautiful  than  a  bare 
sheet  of  water  in  heathy  hills,  but  see  what  it 
becomes  under  the  inspiration  of  genius. 

"It  was  a  mild  summer  day;  the  beams  of 
the  sun,  as  is  not  uncommon  in  Zetland,  were 
moderated  and  shaded  by  a  silvery  haze,  which 
filled  the  atmosphere,  and, destroying  the  strong 
contrast  of  light  and  shade,  gave  even  to  noon 
tlie  sober  li'ery  of  the  evening  twilight.    The 


little  lake,  not  three-quarters  of  a  mile  in  cir- 
cuit,  lay  in  profound  quiet;  its  surface  un 
dimpled,  save  when  one  of  the  numerous 
water-fowl,  which  glided  on  its  surface,  diveu 
for  an  instant  under  it.  The  depth  of  the  water 
gave  the  whole  that  cerulean  tint  of  bluish 
green,  which  occasioned  its  being  called  the 
Green  Loch;  and  at  present,  it  formed  so  per 
feet  a  mirror  to  the  bleak  hills  by  which  it  was 
surrounded,  and  which  lay  rellected  on  its 
bosom,  that  it  was  difficult  to  distinguish  the 
water  from  the  land ;  nay,  in  the  shadowy 
uncertainty  occasioned  by  the  thin  haze,  a 
stranger  could  scarce  have  been  sensible  that 
a  sheet  of  water  lay  before  him.  A  scene  of 
more  complete  solitude,  having  all  its  pecu- 
liarities heightened  by  the  extreme  serenity  of 
the  weather,  the  quiet  gray  comi^osed  tone  of 
the  atmosphere,  and  the  perfect  silence  of  the 
elements,  could  hardly  be  imagined.  The 
very  aquatic  birds,  who  frequented  the  spot  in 
great  numbers,  forbore  their  usual  flight  and 
screams,  and  floated  in  profound  tranquillity 
upon  the  silent  -water." 

It  is  hard  to  say  to  which  of  these  mighty 
masters  of  description  the  palm  should  be 
awarded.  Scott  is  more  simple  in  his  lan- 
guage, more  graphic  in  his  details,  more 
thoroughly  imbued  with  the  character  of  the 
place  he  is  desirous  of  portraying:  Chateau- 
briand is  more  resplendent  in  the  images 
which  he  selects,  more  fastidious  in  the  fea- 
tures he  draws,  more  gorgeous  from  the  mag- 
nificence with  which  he  is  surrounded  :  Ma- 
dame de  Stael,  inferior  to  both  in  the  power 
of  delineating  nature,  is  superior  to  either  in 
rousing  the  varied  emotions  dependent  on  his- 
torical recollections  or  melancholy  impres- 
sions. It  is  remarkable  that,  though  she  is  a 
southern  writer,  and  has  thrown  into  Corinne 
all  her  own  rapture  at  the  sun  and  the  recol- 
lections of  Italy,  yet  it  is  with  a  northern  eye 
that  she  views  the  scenes  it  presents — it  is  not 
with  the  living,  but  the  mighty  dead,  that  she 
holds  communio2i — the  chords  she  loves  to 
strike  are  those  melancholy  ones  which  vi- 
brate more  strongly  in  a  northern  than  a 
southern  heart.  Chateaubriand  is  imbued 
more  largely  with  the  genuine  spirit  of  the 
south:  albeit  a  Frank  by  origin,  he  is  filled 
with  the  spirit  of  Oriental  poetr)%  His  soul 
is  steeped  in  the  cloudless  skies,  and  desultory 
life,  and  boundless  recollections  of  the  East. 
Scott  has  no  decided  locality.  He  has  struck 
his  roots  into  the  human  heart — he  has  de- 
scribed Nature  with  a  master's  hand,  under 
whatever  aspects  she  is  to  be  Seen ;  but  his 
associations  are  of  Gothic  origin ;  his  spirit  is 
of  chivalrous  descent;  the  nature  which  he 
has  in  general  drawn  is  the  sweet  gleam  of 
sunshine  in  a  northern  climate. 


NATIONAL  MONUMENTS 


73 


NATIONAL  MONUMENTS/ 


Thb  history  of  mankind,  from  its  earliest 
period  to  the  present  moment,  is  fraught  with 
proofs  of  one  general  truth,  that  it  is  in  simill 
etatcs,  and   in   consequence  of   the  emulation 
and  ardent  spirit  which  they  develop,  that  the 
human  mind  arrives  at  its  greatest  perfection, 
and  that  the  freest  scope  is  afforded  both  to  the 
grandeur  of  moral,  and  the  brilliancy  of  intel- 
lectual character.     It  is  to  the  citizens  of  small 
republics  that  we  are  indebted  both  for  the 
greatest  discoveries  which  have  improved  the 
condition  or  elevated  the  character  of  man- 
kind, and  for  the  noblest  examples  of  private 
and  public  virtue  with  which  the  page  of  his- 
tory IS  adorned.     It  was  in  the  republics  of 
ancient  Greece,  and  in   consequence  of  the 
emulation    which    was    excited    among    her 
rival  cities,  that  the  beautiful  arts  of  poetry, 
sculjiture,  and  architecture  Avere  first  brought 
to  perfection;  and  while  the  genius  of  the  hu- 
man race  Avas  slumbering  among  the  innume- 
rable  multitudes   of  the  Persian  and  Indian 
monarchies,  the  single  city  of  Athens  produced 
a  succession  of  great  men,  whose  works  have 
improved   and  delighted  the  Avorld   in  every 
succeeding  age.     While  the  vast  feudal  mo- 
narchies of  Europe  Avere  buried  in  ignorance 
and  barbarism,  the  little  states  of  Florence, 
Bologna,  Rome,  and  Venice  Avere  far  advanced 
in  the  career  of  arts  and  in  the  acquisition  of 
knoAvledge;  and  at  this  moment,  the  traA'eller 
neglects  the  boundless  but  unknoAvn  tracts  of 
Germany  and   France,  to  Adsit  the  tombs  of 
Raphael,  and  Michael  Angelo,  and  Tasso,  to 
dAvell  in  a  country  Avdiere  every  city  and  every 
landscape  reminds  him  of  the  greatness  of 
human   genius,  or   the  perfection  of  human 
taste.     It  is  from   the  same   cause   that   the 
earlier  history  of  the  Swiss  confederacy  exhi- 
bits a  firmness  and  grandeur  of  political  cha- 
racter Avhich   Ave    search  for   in  vain   in    the 
annals  of  the  great  monarchies  by  Avhich  they 
are    surrounded,   that    the   classical    pilgrim 
pauses  awhile  in  his  journey  to  the  Eternal 
City  to  do  homage  to  the  spirit  of  its  early  re- 
publics, and  sees  not  in  the  ruins  which,  at  the 
termination  of  his  pilgrimage,  surround  him, 
the  remains  of  imperial  Rome,  the  mistress 
and  the  capital  of  the  Avorld ;  but  of  Rome, 
when  struggling  with  Corioli  and  Veil ;    of 
Rome,  AA'hen  governed  by  Regulus  and  Cincin- 
natus — and  traces  the  scene  of  her  infant  Avars 
with  the  Latian  tribes,  Avith  a  pious  interest, 
which  all  the  pomp  and  magnificence  of  her 
subsequent  history  has  not  been  able  to  excite. 
Examples  of  this  kind  have  often  led  histo- 
rians  to  consider  the  situation  of  small  re- 
publics as  that  of  all  others  most  adapted  to 
the  exaltation  and  improvement  of  mankind. 


*  Blackwood's  Magazino,  .luly  1S19,  and  Edinhiirch 
Review,  August  1S23. — Written  when  the  National  Mo- 
numents in  London  and  Edinlmrsh  to  llie  late  war  were 
in  contemplation,  and  in  review  of  tl  e  Earl  of  Aber  leen'f 
Eagay  on  Grecian  arcliitecture. 


To  minds  of  an  ardent  and  enthusiaslic  cast, 
AAdio  delight  in  the  contemplation  of  humac 
genius,  or  in  the  progress  of  public  improve- 
ment, the  brilliancy  and  splendour  of  such 
little  states  form  the  most  delightful  of  all  ob- 
jects; and  accordingly,  the  greatest  of  living 
historians,in  his  history  of  theltalian  republics, 
has  expressed  a  decided  opinion  that  in  no 
other  situation  is  such  scope  afforded  to  the 
expansion  of  the  human  mind,  or  such  facility 
afibrded  to  the  2)rogressive  improvemeul  of  our 
species. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  not  to  be  concealed, 
that  such  little  dynasties  are  accompanied  by 
many  circumstances  of  continued  and  aggra- 
vated distress.  Their  small  dimensions,  and 
the  jealousies  A\diich  subsist  betAA'ixt  them,  not 
only  furnish  the  subject  of  continual  disputes, 
but  aggravate  to  an  incredible  degree  the 
miseries  and  devastations  of  Avar.  Between 
such  states,  it  is  not  conducted  Avith  the  dig- 
nity and  in  the  spirit  Avhich  characterizes  the 
efforts  of  great  monarchies,  but  rather  Avith  the 
asperity  and  rancour  Avhich  belong  to  a  civil 
contest.  While  the  frontiers  only  of  a  great 
monarchy  suffer  from  the  ca/amities  of  Avar, 
its  devastations  extend  to  the  very  heart  of 
smaller  states.  Insecurity  and  instability  fre- 
quently mark  the  internal  condition  of  these 
republics;  and  the  activity  A\-hicU  the  histo- 
rian admires  in  their  citizens,  is  too  often  em- 
ployed in  mutually  destroying  and  pillaging 
each  other,  or  in  disturbing  the  tranquillity  of 
the  state.  It  is  hence  that  the  sunny  slopes 
of  the  Apennines  are  everywhere  croAvned  by 
castellated  A-illages,  indicating  the  universality 
of  the  ravages  of  Avar  among  the  Italian  States 
in  former  times ;  and  that  the  architecture  of 
Florence  and  Genoa  still  bears  the  character 
of  that  massy  strength  Avhich  befitted  the  period 
Avhen  every  noble  palace  was  an  independent 
fortress,  and  Avhen  Avar,  tumult,  and  violence, 
reigned  for  centuries  Avithin  their  walls ; 
AAdrile  the  open  villages  and  straggUng  collages 
of  England  bespeak  the  security  Avilh  Avhich 
her  peasants  have  reposed  under  the  shadoAV 
of  her  redoubted  poAver. 

The  universality  of  this  fact  has  led  many 
wise  and  good  men  to  regard  small  states  as 
the  prolific  source  of  htunan  suficring;  aiul  to 
conclude  that  all  the  splendour,  whether  in  arts 
or  in  science,  Avith  Avhich  they  are  surrounded, 
is  dearly  bought  at  the  expense  of  the  peace 
and  tranquillity  of  the  great  body  of  the  peo- 
ple. To  such  men  it  appears,  tliat  the  pcnola 
of  history  on  Avhich  the  historian  du-olls,  or 
Avhich  have  been  marked  by  cxlniordmary 
genius,  are  not  those  in  Avhich  the  greatest 
pul)lic  happiness  has  been  enjoyed;  but  that 
it  is  to  be  found  rather  imder  the  qmct  and 
inglorious  government  of  a  groat  and  pacilic 

empire.  .  .         l-  u  -r 

Without  pretending  to  determine  which  of 

these  opinions  is  the  best  founded,  it  is  more 


74 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


important  for  our  present  purpose  to  observe, 
ihat  the  union  of  the  three  kingdoms  in  ilie 
Briti.'-h  Empire,  promises  to  combine  for  this 
cotiiitrv  ihe  mlvnnt.ifrcs  of  both  these  forms  of 
p,  t  witlinut  tlic  evils  to  which  either 

iv  .  I.     While  her  inJiular  situation,  and 

rtie  union  and  enerjry  of  her  people,  secure  for 
Great  Britain  peace  and  tranquillity  within 
her  own  bounds,  the  rivalry  of  the  diflcrcnt 
nations  of  whom  the  empire  is  composed,  pro- 
mises, if  properly  directed,  to  animate  her 
people  with  the  ardour  and  enterprise  which 
have  hitherto  been  supposed  to  spring  only 
from  the  collision  of  smaller  states. 

Towards  the  accomplishment  of  this  most 
desirable  object,  however,  it  is  indispensable 
tnat  each  nation  should  preserve  the  remem- 
brance of  its  own  d.'stinct  origin,  and  look  to 
the  glory  of  its  own  people,  with  an  anxious  and 
peculiar  care.  Il  is  quite  right  that  the  Scotch 
should  plori'  with  their  aged  sovereign  in  the 
name  of  Britain:  and  that,  when  considered 
with  reference  to  foreign  states,  Britain  should 
exhibit  a  united  whole,  intent  only  upon  up- 
holding and  extending  the  glory  of  that  empire 
which  her  united  forces  have  formed.  But  it 
is  equally  important  that  her  ancient  metro- 
polis should  not  degenerate  into  a  provincial 
town;  and  that  an  independent  nation,  once 
the  rival  of  England,  should  remember,  M^ith 
pride,  ihc  peculiar  glories  by  which  her  people 
have  been  distinguished.  Without  this,  the 
whole  good  effects  of  the  rivalry  of  the  two 
nations  will  be  entirely  lost ;  and  the  genius 
of  her  different  people,  in  place  of  emulating 
and  improving  each  other,  will  be  drawn  into 
one  centre,  where  all  that  is  original  and  cha- 
racteristic will  be  lost  in  the  overwhelming 
influence  of  prejudice  and  fashion. 

Such  an  event  would  be  an  incalculable 
ca'amity  to  the  metropolis,  and  to  the  genius 
of  this  country.  It  is  this  catastrophe  which 
Fletcher  of  Salton  so  eloquently  foretold,  when 
he  opposed  the  union  M-ith  England  in  the 
Scottish  Parliament.  Edinburgh  Mould  then 
become  like  Lyons,  or  Toulouse,  or  Venice,  a 
provincial  town,  supported  only  by  the  occa- 
sional influx  of  the  gentlemen  in  its  neighbour- 
hood, and  the  business  of  the  courts  of  law 
which  have  their  seat  within  its  walls.  The 
city  and  the  nation  which  have  produced  or 
been  adorned  by  David  Hume,  Adam  Smith, 
Robert  Burns,  Dugald  Stewart,  Principal  Ro- 
bertson, and  Waller  Scott,  would  cease  to  exist ; 
and  the  traveller  would  repair  to  her  classical 
Bcenes,  as  he  now  does  to  Venice  or  Ferrara, 
to  lament  the  decay  of  human  genius  which 
follows  the  union  of  independent  states. 

Nor  would  such  an  event  be  less  injurious 
to  the  general  progress  of  science  and  arts 
throughout  the  empire.  It  is  impossible  to 
doubt,  that  the  circumstance  of  Scotland  being 
a  separate  kingdom,  and  maintaining  a  rivaf- 
ship  with  Englaml,  has  done  incalculable  good 
to  both  counlries — that  it  has  given  rise  to  a 
succession  of  great  men,  whose  labours  have 
enli;rhtened  and  improved  mankind,  who 
woulil  not  otherwise  have  acted  upon  the 
carc<T  of  knowledge.  Who  can  say  what 
would  have  been  the  present  condition  of 
En:,-!.ind  in  philosophy  or  science,  if  she  had 


not  been  stimulated  by  the  splendid  progress 
wliich  Scotland  was  making?  and  who  can 
calculate  the  encouragement  which  Scottish 
trenius  has  derived  from  the  generous  applause 
which  England  has  always  lavished  upon  her 
works  1  As  Scotchmen,  we  rejoice  in  the  ex- 
altation and  eminence  of  our  own  country, 
but  we  rejoice  not  less  sincerely  in  the  literary 
celebrity  of  our  sister  kingdom ;  not  only  from 
the  interest  which,  as  citizens  of  the  united 
empire,  we  feel  in  the  celebrity  of  any  of  its 
members,  but  as  affording  the  secret  pledges 
of  the  continued  and  progressive  splendour  of 
our  own  country. 

It  is  impossible,  however,  to  contemplate 
the  effects  of  the  union  of  the  two  kingdoms, 
from  which  this  country  has  derived  such 
incalculable  benefits  in  its  national  wealth  and 
domestic  industry,  without  perceiving  that  in 
time,  at  least,  a  corresponding  decay  may  take 
place  in  its  literary  and  philosophic  acquire- 
ments. There  are  few  examples  in  the  history 
of  mankind,  of  an  independent  kingdom  being 
incorporated  with  another  of  greater  magni- 
tude, without  losing,  in  process  of  time,  the 
national  eminence,  whether  in  arts  or  in  arms, 
to  which  it  had  formerly  arrived.  A  rare  suc- 
cession of  great  men  in  our  universities,  in- 
deed, and  an  extraordinary  combination  of 
talents  in  the  works  of  imagination,  has 
hitherto  prevented  this  effect  from  taking 
place.  But  who  can  insure  a  continuance  of 
men  of  such  extraordinary  genius,  to  keep 
alive  the  torch  of  science  in  our  northern 
regions  1  Is  it  not  to  be  apprehended  that  the 
attractions  of  wealth,  of  power,  and  of  fashion, 
which  have  so  long  draAvn  our  nobles  and 
higher  classes  to  the  seat  of  government,  ma)', 
ere  long,  exercise  a  similar  influence  upon  our 
national  genius,  and  that  the  melancholy  ca- 
tastrophe which  Fletcher  of  Salton  described, 
with  all  its  fatal  consequences,  inay  be,  even 
now,  approaching  to  its  accomplishment  ? 

Whatever  can  arrest  this  lamentable  pro- 
gress, and  fix  down,  in  a  permanent  manner, 
the  genius  of  Scotland  to  its  own  shores,  con- 
fers not  only  an  incalculable  benefit  upon  this 
country,  but  upon  the  united  empire  of  which 
it  forms  a  part.  The  erection  of  National  Mo- 
mimcnls  in  London,  Dublin,  and  Edinburgh, 
seems  calculated,  in  a  most  remarkable  man- 
ner, to  accomplish  this  most  desirable  object. 

To  those,  indeed,  who  have  not  been  in  the 
habit  of  attending  to  the  influence  of  animating 
recollections  upon  the  development  of  every 
thing  that  is  great  or  generous  in  human  cha- 
racter, it  may  appear  that  the  effects  we  anti- 
cipate from  such  structures  are  visionary  and 
chimerical.  But  M'hen  a  train  is  read}^  laid,  a 
spark  will  set  il  in  flames.  The  Scotch  have 
always  been  a  proud  and  an  ardent  people 
and  the  spirit  which  animated  their  forefathers, 
in  this  respect,  is  not  yet  extinct.  The  Irish 
have  genius,  which,  if  properly  directed,  is 
equal  to  any  thing.  England  is  the  centre  of 
the  intellectual  progress  of  the  earth.  Upon 
people  so  disposed,  it  is  difficult  to  estimate 
the  effects  which  splendid  edifices  filled  with 
monuments  to  the  greatest  men  whom  theif 
respective  countries  can  boast,  may  ultimately 
produce. — It  will  give  stability  and  consistence 


NATIONAL  ]\rONUMENTS. 


75 


to  the  national  pride,  a  feeling  which,  when 
properly  directed,  is  the  surest  foundation  of 
national  eminence. — It  will  perpetuate  the  re- 
membrance of  the  brave  and  independent 
Scottish  nation— a  feeling,  of  all  others,  the 
best  suited  to  animate  the  exertions  of  her 
remotest  descendants.— It  will  teach  her  inha- 
bitants to  look  to  their  own  country  for  the 
scene  of  their  real  glory;  and  while  Ireland 
laments  the  absence  of  a  nobility  insensible  to 
her  fame,  and  unworthy  of  the  land  of  Burke 
and  Goldsmith,  it  will  be  the  boast  of  this 
country,  to  have  erected  on  her  own  shores  a 
monument  worthy  of  her  people's  glory,  and 
to  have  disdained  to  follow  merely  the  triumphs 
of  that  nation,  whose  ancestors  they  have  ere 
now  vanquished  in  the  field. 

Who  has  not  felt  the  sublime  impression 
which  the  interior  of  Westminster  Abbey  pro- 
duces, where  the  poets,  the  philosophers,  and 
the  statesmen  of  England,  "sleep  with  her 
kings,  and  dignify  the  scene  1"  Who  has 
viewed  the  church  of  St.  Croce  at  Florence,  and 
seen  the  tombs  of  Galileo,  and  Machiavelli, 
Michael  Angelo,  and  Alfieri,  under  one  sacred 
roof,  without  feeling  their  hearts  swell  with 
the  remembrance  of  her  ancient  glory;  and, 
among  the  multitudes  who  will  visit  the  sacred 
pile  that  is  to  perpetuate  the  memory  cf  Scot- 
tish or  Irish  greatness,  how  many  may  there 
be  whom  so  sublime  a  spectacle  may  rouse  to 
a  sense  of  their  native  powers,  and  animate 
with  the  pride  of  their  country's  renown  ;  and 
in  whom  the  reniembrance  of  the  "illustrious 
of  ancient  days"  may  awaken  the  noble  feeling 
of  Correggio,  when  he  contemplated  the  works 
of  the  Roman  masters  ;  "I  too  am  a  Painter." 

Nor  do  we  think  that  such  monuments 
could  produce  effects  of  less  importance  upon 
the  military  character  and  martial  spirit  of  the 
Scottish  people  in  future  ages.  The  memory 
of  the  glorious  achievements  of  our  age,  in- 
deed, will  never  die,  and  the  page  of  history 
will  perpetuate,  to  the  higher  orders,  the  recol- 
lection of  the  events  which  have  cast  so  unri- 
valled a  splendour  over  the  British  nation,  in 
the  commencement  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
But  the  study  of  history  has  been,  hitherto  at 
least,  confined  to  few,  comparatively  speaking, 
of  the  population  of  a  country  ;  and  the  know- 
ledge which  it  imparts  can  never  extend  uni- 
versally to  the  poorer  class,  from  whom  the 
materials  of  an  army  are  to  be  drawn.  In  the 
ruder  and  earlier  periods  of  society,  indeed, 
the  traditions  of  warlike  events  are  preserved 
for  a  series  of  years,  by  the  roinantic  ballads, 
which  are  cherished  by  a  simple  and  primitive 
people.  The  nature  of  the  occupations  in 
which  the}^  are  principally  engaged,  is  favour- 
able to  the  preservation  of  such  heroic  recol- 
lections. But  in  the  state  of  society  in  which 
we  live,  it  is  impossible  that  the  record  of  past 
events  can  be  thus  engraven  on  the  hearts  of  a 
nation.  The  uniformity  of  employments  in 
which  the  lower  orders  are  engaged — the  se- 
vere and  unremitting  toil  to  which  they  are 
exposed — the  division  of  labour  which  fixes 
them  dov/n  to  one  limited  and  unchanging  oc- 
cupation, the  pi-odigious  numbers  in  which 
they  are  drawn  to  certain  centres  of  attrac- 
tion far  from  the  recollections  of  their  early 


years,  all  contribute  tc  destroy  these  ancient 
traditions,  on  the  preservation  of  uhich  sa 
much  of  the  martial  spirit  of  a  people  depends 
The  peasantry  in  the  remoter  parts  of  Scotland 
can  still  recount  some  of  the  exploits,  and 
dwell  with  enthusifisra  on  the  adventures  of 
Bruce  or  Wallace;  but  you  will  search  in 
vain  among  the  English  poor  for  any  record 
of  the  victories  of  Cressy  or  Azincour,  of 
Blenheim  or  Ramillies.  And  even  among  the 
higlier  orders,  the  experience  of  every  day  is 
sufficient  to  convince  us  that  the  remembrance 
of  ancient  glory,  though  not  forgotten,  may 
cease  to  possess  any  material  influence  on  the 
character  of  our  people.  The  historian,  in- 
deed, may  recount  the  glorious  victories  of 
Vittoria,  Trafalgar,  and  Waterloo;  and  their 
names  may  be  familiar  to  every  car;  but  tht 
name  may  be  remembered  when  the  heart 
stirring  spirit  which  tliey  should  awaken  is  m 
longer  felt.  For  a  time,  and  during  the  life 
time  of  the  persons  who  Avere  distinguished  in 
these  events,  they  form  a  leading  subject  of 
the  public  attention ;  but  when  a  new  genera- 
tion succeeds,  and  different  cares  and  fashions 
and  events  occupy  the  attention  of  the  nation, 
the  practical  effects  of  these  triumphs  is  lost, 
how  indelibly  soever  they  may  be  recorded  in 
the  pages  of  history.  The  victories  of  Poic- 
tiers,  and  Blenheim,  and  Minden  had  long  ago 
demonstrated  the  superiority  of  the  English 
over  the  French  troops ;  but  though  this  fact 
appeared  unquestionable  to  those  who  studied 
the  history  of  past  events,  ever>'body  knows 
with  what  serious  apprehension  a  French  in- 
vasion was  contemplated  in  this  country, 
within  our  own  recolleclion. 

It  is  of  incalculable  importance,  tnerefore, 
that  some  means  should  be  taken  to  preserve 
alive  the  martial  spirit  which  the  recent 
triumphs  have  awakened;  and  to  do  this,  in 
so  prominent  a  way  as  may  attract  the  atten 
tion  of  the  most  thoughtless,  and  force  them 
on  the  observation  of  the  most  inconsiderate. 
It  is  from  men  of  this  description — from  the 
young,  the  gay,  and  the  active,  that  our  armies 
are  filled;  and  it  is  on  the  spirit  with  which 
they  are  animated  that  the  national  safety  de- 
pends. Unless  they  are  impressed  with  the 
recollection  of  past  achievements,  and  a  sense 
of  the  glories  of  that  country  which  they  are 
to  defend,  it  will  little  avail  us  in  the  moment 
of  danger,  that  the  victories  on  which  every 
one  now  dwells  with  exultation,  are  faithfully 
recorded  in  history,  and  Avell  known  to  the 
sedentary  and  pacific  part  of  our  population. 

It  is  upon  the  preservation  of  this  spirit  that 
the  safety  of  every  nation  must  depend.— It  is 
in  vain  that  it  may  be  encircled  with  fortressrs, 
or  defended  by  mountains,  or  begirt  by  «he 
ocean;  its  real  security  is  to  be  found  in  the 
spirit  and  the  valour  of  its  pecplc.  The  army 
which  enters  the  field  in  the  conviction  Hi  at  it 
is  to  conquer,  has  already  gained  the  day.  1  h«» 
people,  who  recollect  with  pride  the  achieve 
ments  of  their  forefathers,  will  not  provc  im 
worthy  of  them  in  the  field  of  bnlile.  The 
remembrance  of  their  heroic  actions  preserved 
the  independence  of  the  Swiss  repuMics.  amulsl 
the  powerful  empires  by  which  they  were  sur- 
rounded;  and  the  glory  of  her  arnucs,  jomed 


ro 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


to  ihe  lermr  of  hrr  name,  xiphcld  the  Roman 
empire  for  rcninrics  afier  the  warlike  spirit 
of  ihc  people  was  extinct.  It  is  this  which 
constitutes  Ihc  strength  and  multiplies  the 
Iri-  r  veteran  soldiers;   and  it  is  this 

ui  '  r<  the  qualiiics'of  military  valour 

ai>  teditary  in  a  nation. 

L  ,      ,■,  aoeordiiigly,  whose  achicve- 

inrnl<t  are  memorable  in  past  history,  have 
fell  Ihc  influence  of  these  national  rccoUcc- 
lions.  and  received  them  as  the  most  valuable 
in)  from  their  forefathers.   The  slates- 

m-  i.ns,  when  they  wished  to  rouse  that 

fickle  people  to  any  great  or  heroic  action,  re- 
minded them  of  the  national  glory  of  their 
ancestors,  and  pointed  to  the  Acropolis  crown- 
c«l  ^  '  •  monuments  of  their  valour;  De- 
in.  u  the  most  heart-stirring  apostro- 

phe of  iiiiinniiiy  invoked  Ihc  shades  of  those 
who  died  at  Marathon  and  Plata>a,  to  sanctify 
ihc  cause  in  which  they  were  to  be  engaged. 
The  Swiss  peasants,  for  five  hundred  years 
after  ilx-  establishment  of  their  independence, 
assembled  on  the  fields  of  Morgarten  and  Lau- 
pon,  and  spread  garlands  over  the  graves  of 
the  fallen  warriors,  and  prayed  for  the  souls 
cf  those  who  had  died  for  their  country's  free- 
dom. The  Romans  attached  a  superstitious 
reverence  to  the  rock  of  the  capitol,  and  loaded 
lt«  leinplcs  with  the  spoils  of  the  world,  and 
looked  back  with  a  mixture  of  veneration  and 
pride,  to  the  struggles  which  it  had  witnessed, 
and  the  triumphs  which  it  had  won. 

"  Capitoli  immobile  saxum." 

.*^"  ■  !s  Manlius  remained  in  sight  of  the 
caj  enemies  found  it  impossible  to  ob- 

tain a  conviction  of  the  charges  against  him. 
When  Scipio  Africanus  was  accused  by  a  fac- 
tion ia  the  forum,  in  place  of  answering  the 
charge,  he  turned  to  the  capitol,  and  invited 
ihe  people  to  accompany  him  to  the  temple  of 
Jupiter,  and  return  thanks  for  the  defeat  of  the 
C'arthagenians.  Such  was  the  influence  of 
local  associations  on  that  severe  people  ;  and 
so  natural  is  it  for  the  human  mind  to  imbody 
its  recollections  in  some  external  object ;  and 
60  important  an  eflect  are  these  recollections 
fitted  to  have,  when  they  are  perpetually 
brought  back  to  the  public  mind  by  the  sight  of 
the  objects  to  which  they  have  been  attached. 

The  erection  of  a  national  monument,  on  a 
*^'-'-  1  to  the  greatness  of  the  events  it  is 

••>'  'onimemorate, seems  better  calcu- 

laied  ili;ui  any  other  measure  to  perpetuate  the 
spirit  which  the  events  of  our  times  have 
awakened  in  this  country.  It  will  force  itself 
on  the  observation  of  the  most  thoughtless, 
and  recall  the  recollection  of  danger  and  glory, 
<*"'  ^'•r  of  peaceful  life.  Thousands 

«b-  '1  otherwise  have  cast  a  thought 

opon  the  glory  of  their  countrj',  will  by  it  be 
awakened  to  a  sense  of  what  befits  the  de- 
HcendanLs  of  those  j?reat  men  who  have  died 
in  the  cause  of  national  freedom.  While  it 
will  lesiify  Ihc  ffratitude  of  the  nation  to  de- 
parted wdih,  it  will  serve  at  Ihe  same  time  to 
mark  the  distinction  which  similar  victories 
may  win.  Like  the  Roman  capitol,  it  will 
Mand  at  once  the  monument  of  former  great- 
new,  and  the  pledge  of  future  glory. 


Nor  is  it  to  be  imagined  that  the  national 
monument  in  London  is  sufficient  for  this  pur« 
pose,  and  that  the  commencement  of  a  siniilaf 
undertaking  in  Edinburgh  or  Dublin  is  an  un- 
necessary or  superfluous  proceeding.  It  is 
quite  proper,  that  in  the  metropolis  of  the 
United  Empire,  the  trophies  of  its  common 
triumphs  should  be  found,  and  that  the  na- 
tional funds  should  there  be  devoted  to  the 
formation  of  a  monument,  worthy  of  the 
splendid  achievements  which  her  united  forces 
have  performed.  But  the  whole  benefits  of 
the  emulation  between  the  two  nations,  from 
which  our  armies  have  already  derived  such 
signal  advantage,  would  be  lost,  if  Scotland 
were  to  participate  only  in  the  triumphs  of 
her  sister  kingdom,  without  distinctly  mark- 
ing its  own  peculiar  and  national  pride,  in  the 
glory  of  her  own  people.  The  valour  of  the 
Scottish  regiments  is  known  and  celebrated 
from  one  end  of  Europe  to  the  other;  and  this 
circumstance,  joined  to  the  celebrity  of  the 
poems  of  Ossian,  has  given  a  distinction  to 
our  soldiers,  to  Avhich,  for  so  small  a  body  of 
men,  there  is  no  parallel  in  the  histor)'  of  the 
present  age.  Would  it  not- be  a  subject  of  re- 
proach to  this  country,  if  the  only  land  in 
Avhich  no  record  of  their  gallantry  is  to  be 
found,  was  the  land  which  gave  them  birth; 
and  that  the  traveller  who  has  seen  the  tartan 
hailed  with  enthusiasm  on  every  theatre  of 
Europe,  should  find  it  forgotten  only  in  the 
metropolis  of  that  kingdom  which  owes  its 
salvation  to  the  bravery  by  which  it  has  been 
distinguished  ? 

The  animating  effects,  moreover,  which  the 
sight  of  a  national  trophy  is  fitted  to  have  on 
a  martial  people,  would  be  entirely  lost  in  this 
country,  if  no  other  monument  to  Scottish  or 
Irish  valour  existed  than  the  monument  in 
London. — There  is  not  a  hundredth  part  of 
our  population  who  have  ever  an  opportunity 
of  going  to  that  cit}';  or  to  whom  the  existence 
even  of  such  a  record  of  their  triumph  could 
be  known.  Even  upon  those  who  may  see  it, 
the  peculiar  and  salutaiy  effect  of  a  national 
monument  would  be  entirely  lost.  It  Avould 
be  regarded  as  a  trophy  of  English  glory ;  and 
however  much  it  might  animate  our  descend- 
ants to  maintain  the  character  of  Britain  on 
the  field  of  European  warfare,  it  would  leave 
wholly  untouched  those  feelings  of  generous 
emulation  by  which  the  rival  nations  of  Eng 
land  and  Scotland  have  hitherto  been  animated 
towards  each  other,  and  to  the  existence  of 
which,  so  much  of  their  common  triumphs 
have  been  owinsr. 

T  ■  ■ 

It  IS  in  the  preservation  of  this  feeling  of 
rivalry  that  \vc  anticipate  the  most  important 
effects  of  a  national  monument  in  this  me- 
tropolis. There  is  no  danger  that  the  ancient 
animosity  of  the  two  nations  will  ever  revive, 
or  that  the  emulation  of  our  armies  will  lead 
them  to  prove  unfaithful  to  the  common  cause 
in  which  they  must  hereafter  be  engaged.  The 
stern  feelings  of  feudal  hatred  with  which  the 
armies  of  England  and  Scotland  formerly  met 
at  Flodden  or  Bannockburn,  have  now  yielded 
to  the  emulation  and  friendship  which  fornj 
the  surest  basis  of  their  common  prosperity 
But  it  is  of  the  last  importance  that  these  feci- 


NATIONAL  MONUMENTS. 


77 


ings  of  national  rivalry  should  not  be  extin- 
guished. In  every  part  of  the  world  the  good 
effects  of.  this  emulation  have  been  expe- 
rienced. It  is  recorded,  that  at  the  siege  of 
Namur,  when  the  German  troops  were  re- 
pulsed from  the  breach,  King  William  ordered 
his  English  guards  to  advance  ;  and  the  veteran 
warrior  was  so  much  affected  with  the  devoted 
gallantry  with  which  they  pressed  on  to  the 
assault,  that,  bursting  into  tears,  he  exclaimed, 
"See  how  my  brave  English  fight."  At  the 
storm  of  Bhurtpoor,  when  one  of  the  British 
regiments  was  forced  back  by  the  dreadful 
fire  that  played  on  the  breach,  one  of  the  na- 
tive regiments  was  ordered  to  advance,  and 
these  brave  men  cheered  as  they  passed  the 
British  troops,  who  lay  trembling  in  the 
trenches.  Everybody  knows  the  distinguished 
gallantry  Avith  which  the  Scottish  and  Irish  re- 
giments, in  all  the  actions  of  the  present  war, 
have  sought  to  maintain  their  ancient  reputa- 
tion ;  and  it  is  not  to  be  forgotten,  that  the  first 
occasion  on  which  the  steady  columns  of 
France  were  broken  by  a  charge  of  cavalry, 
when  the  leading  regiments  of  England,  Scot- 
land, and  Ireland,  bore  down  with  rival  valour 
on  their  columns ;  and  in  the  enthusiastic  cry 
cf  the  Grays,  "Scotland  for  ever,"  we  may 
perceive  the  value  of  those  national  recollec- 
tions which  it  is  the  object  of  the  present  edi- 
fice to  reward  and  perpetuate. 

If  this  spirit  shall  live  in  her  armies  ;  if  the 
rival  valour  which  was  formerly  excited  in 
their  fatal  wars  against  each  other,  shall  thus 
continue  to  animate  them  Mdien  fighting  against 
their  common  enemies,  and  if  the  remem- 
brance of  former  division  is  preserved  only  to 
cement  the  bond  of  present  union,  Britain  and 
Ireland  may  well,  like  the  Douglas  and  Percy, 
both  together  "be  confident  against  the  world 
in  arms." 

Foreign  foe  or  false  beguiling, 
Shall  our  union  ne'er  divide, 
Hand  in  hand,  while  peace  is  smiling, 
And  in  battle  side  by  side. 

There  is  no  fact  more  certain  than  that  a 
due  appreciation  of  the  grand  or  the  beautiful 
in  architectural  design  is  not  inherent  in  any 
individual  or  in  any  people  ;  and  that  towards 
the  formation  of  a  correct  public  taste,  the  ex- 
istence of  fine  models  is  absolutely  essential.  It 
is  this  which  gives  men  who  have  travelled  in 
Italy  or  Greece  so  evident  a  superiority  in 
considering  the  merits  of  the  works  of  art  in 
this  country  over  those  who  have  not  had 
similar  advantages ;  and  it  is  this  which  renders 
taste  hereditary  among  a  people  who  have  the 
models  of  ancient  excellence  continually  be- 
fore their  eyes.  The  taste  of  Athens  continued 
to  distinguish  its  people  long  after  they  had 
ceased  to  be  remarkable  for  any  other  and 
more  honourable  quality ;  and  Rome  itself,  in 
the  days  of  its  imperial  splendour,  was  com- 
pelled to  borrow,  from  a  people  whom  she  had 
vanquished,  the  trophies  by  which  her  victories 
were  to  be  commemorated.  To  this  day  the 
lovers  of  art  flock  from  the  most  distant  parts 
of  the  world  to  the  Acropolis,  and  dwell  with 
rapture  on  its  unrivalled  beauties,  and  seek  to 
inhale,  amid  the  ruins  that  surround  them,  a 
portion  of  the  spirit  by  which  they  were  con- 


ceived. The  remains  of  ancient  Rome  stil 
serve  as  the  model  of  everything  that  is  great 
m  the  designs  of  modern  architects ;  and  in 
the  Parthenon  and  the  Coliseum  we  find  the 
originals  on  which  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's  and 
the  piazza  St.  Marco  have  been  formed.  It  is 
a  matter  of  general  observation,  accordingly, 
that  the  inhabitants  of  Italy  possess  a  degree 
of  taste  both  in  sculpture,  architccturc.'and 
painting,  which  few  persons  of  the  most  culti- 
vated understanding  in  transalpine  countries 
can  acquire.  So  true  it  is,  that  the  existence 
of  fine  models  lays  the  only  foundation  of  a 
correct  public  taste  ;  and  that  the  transference 
of  the  model  of  ancient  excellence  to  this 
country  is  the  only  means  of  giving  to  our 
people  the  taste  by  which  similar  excellence 
is  to  be  produced. 

Now  it  has  unfortunately  happened  that  the 
Doric  architecture,  to  which  so  much  of  the 
beauty  of  Greece  and  Italy  is  owing,  has  been 
hitherto  little  understood,  and  still  less  put  in 
practice  in  this  country.  We  meet  with  few 
persons  who  have  not  visited  the  remains  of 
classical  antiquity,  who  can  conceive  the 
matchless  beauties  of  the  temples  of  Minerva 
at  Athens,  or  of  Neptune  at  Paestum.  And, 
indeed,  if  our  conceptions  of  the  Doric  be  taken 
from  the  few  attempts  at  imitation  of  it  which 
are  here  to  be  met  with,  they  would  fall  very 
far  short,  indeed,  of  what  the  originals  are 
fitted  to  excite. 

We  are  far  from  underrating  the  genius  of 
modern  architects,  and  it  would  be  ungrateful 
to  insinuate,  that  sufiicient  ability  for  the 
formation  of  an  original  design  is  not  to  be 
found.  But  in  the  choice  of  designs  for  a 
building  which  is  to  stand  for  centuries,  and 
from  which  the  taste  of  the  metropolis  in 
future  ages  is  in  a  greater  measure  to  be 
formed,  it  is  absolutely  essential  to  fix  upon 
some  model  of  known  and  approved  excellence. 
The  erection  of  a  monument  in  had  taste,  or 
even  of  doubtful  beautj',  might  destroy  the 
just  conceptions  on  this  subject,  which  are 
beginning  to  prevail,  and  throw  the  national 
taste  a  century  back  at  the  time  when  it  is 
making  the  most  rapid  advances  towards  pcr- 
lection.  It  is  in  vain  to  expect  that  human 
genius  can  ever  make  any  thing  more  beauti- 
ful than  the  Parthenon,  'it  is  lolly,  therefore, 
to  tempt  fortune,  when  certainty  is  in  our 
hands. 

There  are  many  reasons  besides,  which 
seem  in  a  peculiar  manner  to  recommend  the 
Doric  temple  for  the  proposed  monumems.  By 
the  habits  of  modern  times,  a  different  species 
of  architecture  has  been  devoted  to  the  differ' 
ent  purposes  to  which  buildings  may  he  ap- 
plied ;  and  it  is  difficult  to  avoid  believni;:, 
that  there  is  something  in  the  separate  .styles 
which  is  peculiarly  adapted  to  the  dilferonl 
emotions  they  are  intended  to  excite.  I  l>e 
light  tracery,  and  lofty  roof,  and  airy  pillars 
of  the  Gothic,  seem  to  accord  well  with  the 
sublime  feelings  and  spiritual  fervour  of  re- 
ligion. The  massy  wall,  and  gloomy  character 
of  the  castle,  bespeak  the  abode  ol  feudal 
power  and  the  pageantry  of  barbaric  nia;;ni. 
ficence.  The  beautiful  porticoes,  and  cnlumiijv, 
and  rich  cornices  of  the  Ionic  or  Corinlhiai., 


78 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


Sfem  well  a(lapteil  for  the  public  edifices  in  a 
groat  city ;  for  those  which  are  dcstirted  for 
amusement,  or  to  serve  for  the  purpose  of 
public  ornament.  The  I'alladian  style  is  that 
of  all  others  best  adapted  for  the  magnificence 
of  private  dwellinirs,  and  overwhelms  the 
spectator  by  a  flood  of  beauty,  aj^ainst  which 
the  rules  of  criticism  arc  unalilc  to  withstand. 
*If  any  of  these  styles  of  architecture  were  to 
be  transferred  from  buildinijs  destined  for  one 
purpose  to  those  destined  for  another,  the  im- 
propriety of  the  chan!:re  would  appear  very 
conspicuous.  The  iior^reous  s]ilendonr  of  tiie 
Palladian  front  would  he  entirely  misplaced, 
in  an  edifice  destined  for  the  purpose  of  rc- 
lifrion ;  and  the  rich  pinnacles  and  gloomy 
aisles  of  the  Gothic,  would  accord  ill  with  the 
scene  of  modern  amusement  or  festivity. 

Now  a  National  Monument  is  an  edifice  of 
a  very  sinjjnlar  kind,  and  such  as  to  require  a 
style  of  architecture  peculiar  to  itself.  The 
Grecian  Doric,  as  it  is  exhibited  in  the  Par- 
thenon, appears  singularly  well  adapted  for 
this  puqiose.  Its  form  and  character  is  asso- 
ciated in  every  cultivated  mind  with  the  re- 
collections of  classical  history  ;  and  it  recalls 
the  brilliant  conceptions  of  national  glory  as 
they  were  received  during  the  ardent  and 
enthusiastic  period  of  youth;  while  its  stern 
and  massy  form  befits  an  edifice  destined  to 
commemorate  the  severe  virtues  and  manly 
character  of  war.  The  efl^ect  of  such  a  build- 
ing, and  the  influence  it  would  have  on  the 
public  taste,  would  be  increased  to  an  in- 
definite degree,  by  the  interest  of  the  purpose 
1o  which  it  is  destined.  An  edifice  which  re- 
called at  once  the  interest  of  classical  associa- 
tion, and  commemorated  the  splendour  of  our 
own  achievements,  would  impress  itself  in  the 
most  indelible  manner  on  the  public  mind, 
and  force  the  beauty  of  its  design  on  the  most 
careless  observer.  And  there  can  be  no  doubt 
that  this  impression  would  be  far  greater,  just 
because  it  arose  from  a  style  of  building 
hitherto  unknown  in  this  country,  and  pro- 
duced an  efl^ect  as  dissimilar  from  that  of  any 
other  architectural  design,  as  the  national 
emotions  which  it  is  intended  to  awaken  are 
from  those  to  which  ordinary  edifices  are  des- 
tined. 

We  cannot  help  considering  this  as  a  matter 
of  great  importance  to  this  city,  and  to  the 
taste  of  the  age  in  M-hich  we  live.  It  is  no 
inconsiderable  matter  to  have  one  building  of 
faultless  design  erected,  and  to  have  the  youth 
of  our  people  accustomed  from  their  infancy 
to  behold  the  work  of  Phidias.  But  the  ulti- 
mate rffecl  which  such  a  circumstance  might 
produce  on  the  taste  of  the  nation,  and  the 
celebrity  of  this  metropolis,  is  far  more  im- 
portant. It  is  in  vain  to  conceal,  that  the 
wealth  and  the  fashion  of  England  is  every 
day  attracting  the  higher  part  of  our  society 
to  another  capital;  and  that  Edinburgh  can 
never  possess  attractions  of  the  same  descrip- 
tion with  London,  sufficient  to  enable  her  to 
stand  an  instant  in  the  struggle.  But  while 
London  must  always  eclipse  this  city  in  all 
that  depends  on  wealth,  power,  or  fashionable 
elegance,  nature  has  given  to  it  the  means  of 
establishing'  a  superiority  i(  a  higher  and  a 


more  permanent  kind.  The  matchless  beauty 
of  its  situation,  the  superb  cliffs  by  which  it 
is  surrounded,  the  magnificent  prospects  of 
ihe  bay,  which  it  commands,  have  given  to 
Edinburgh  the  means  of  becoming  the  most 
baiutifid  town  that  exists  in  the  world.  And 
the  inexhaustible  quarries  of  free-stone,  which 
lie  in  the  immediate  vicinity,  have  rendered 
architectural  embellishment  an  easier  objec* 
in  this  city  than  in  any  other  in  the  empire. 
It  cannot  be  denied,  however,  that  much  still 
remains  to  be  done  in  this  respect,  and  that 
every  stranger  observes  the  striking  contrast 
between  the  beauty  of  its  private  houses,  and 
the  deplorable  scantiness  of  its  public  build- 
ings. The  establishment  of  a  taste  for  edifices 
of  an  ornamental  description,  and  the  gradual 
purification  of  the  popular  taste,  which  may 
fairly  be  expected  from  the  influence  of  so 
perfect  a  model  as  the  Parthenon  of  Athens, 
would  ultimately,  in  all  probability,  render 
this  city  the  favourite  residence  of  the  fine 
arts ;  the  spot  to  which  strangers  would  re- 
sort, both  as  the  place  Avhere  the  rules  of  taste 
are  to  be  studied,  and  the  models  of  art  are  to 
be  found.  And  thus,  while  London  is  the 
Rome  of  the  empire,  to  which  the  young,  and 
the  ambitious,  and  the  gay,  resort  for  the  pur- 
suit of  pleasure,  of  fortune,  or  of  ambition, 
Edinburgh  might  become  another  Athens,  in 
which  the  arts  and  the  sciences  flourished, 
under  the  shade  of  her  ancient  fame,  and 
established  a  dominion  over  the  minds  of  men 
more  permanent  than  even  that  which  the 
Roman  arms  were  able  to  effect. 

The  Greeks  always  fixed  on  an  eminence 
for  the  situation  of  their  temples,  and  what- 
ever was  the  practice  of  a  people  of  such  ex- 
quisite taste  is  Avell  worthy  of  imitation.  The 
Acropolis  of  Athens,  the  Acrocorinthus  of 
Corinth,  the  temple  of  Jupiter  Panhellenius, 
in  ^gina,  are  instances  of  the  beauty  of  these 
edifices  when  placed  on  such  conspicuous 
situations.  At  Athens,  in  particular,  the  tem- 
ples of  Jupiter  Olympius  and  of  Theseus  are 
situated  in  the  plain;  but  although  the  former 
is  built  in  a  style  of  magnificence  to  Miiich 
there  is  no  parallel,  and  is  double  the  size  of 
the  Parthenon,  its  effect  is  infinitel}'  less  strik- 
ing than  that  of  the  temple  of  Minerva,  which 
crowns  the  Acropolis,  and  meets  the  eye  from 
every  part  of  the  adjacent  country.  The  tem- 
ple of  Jupiter  Panhellenius,  in  the  island  of 
^gina,  is  neither  so  large  nor  so  beautiful  as 
the  temple  of  Theseus;  but  there  is  no  one 
who  ever  thought  of  comparing  the  efliect 
which  the  former  produces,  crowning  a  rich 
and  wooded  hill,  to  that  which  is  felt  on  view- 
ing the  latter  standing  in  the  plain  of  Attica. 
The  temple  of  Neptune,  at  Poestum,  has  a 
sublime  effect  from  the  desolation  that  sur- 
rounds it,  and  from  the  circumstance  of  there 
being  no  eminence  for  many  miles  to  interfere 
with  its  stern  and  venerable  form ;  but  there 
is  no  one  who  must  not  have  felt  that  the 
grandeur  of  this  edifice  would  be  entirely  lost 
if  it  was  placed  in  a  modem  city,  and  over- 
topped by  buildings  destined  for  the  most  or- 
dinary purposes.  The  temple  of  Vesta,  at 
Tivoli,  perched  on  the  crag  which  overhangs 
the  cataract,  is  admired  by  all  the  world ;  bu 


NATIONAL  MONUMENTS. 


the  temple  to  the  same  goddess,  on  the  banks 
of  the  Tiber,  at  Rome,  is  passed  over  M-ithout 
notice,  though  the  intrinsic  beauty  of  the  one 
is  nearly  as  great  as  that  of  the  other.  In  the 
landscapes  too  of  Claude  and  Poussin,  who 
knew  so  well  the  situation  in  which  every 
building  appears  to  most  advantage,  the  ruins 
of  temples  are  almost  always  placed  on  pro- 
minent fronts,  or  on  the  summit  of  small 
hills;  in  such  a  situation,. in  short,  as  the  Cal- 
ton  Hill  of  Edinbui-gh  presents.  The  practice 
of  the  ancient  Greeks,  in  the  choice  of  situa- 
;icns  for  their  temples,  joined  to  that  of  the 
modern  Italian  painters  in  their  ideal  repre- 
sentations of  the  same  objects,  leaving  no 
room  to  doubt  that  the  course  which  they  fol- 
lowed was  that  which  the  peculiar  nature  of 
the  building  required. 

But  all  objects  of  local  interest  sink  into 
insignificance  compared  with  the  vast  effect 
which  a  restoration  of  so  perfect  a  relic  of 
antiquity  as  the  Parthenon  of  Athens  would 
have  on  the  national  taste,  and  ultimately  on 
the  spread  of  refined  and  elevating  feelings 
among  the  inhabitants  of  the  countr)^  As 
this  is  a  subject  of  the  very  highest  import- 
ance, and  which  is  not  generally  so  well 
understood  as  it  should  be,  we  crave  the  in- 
dulgence of  our'  readers  to  a  few  observations, 
conceived  in  the  warmest  feeling  of  interest 
in  modern  art,  but  a  strong  sense  of  the  only 
means  by  which  it  can  be  brought  to  the  ex- 
cellence of  which  it  is  susceptible. 

It  is  observed  by  Madame  de  Stael,  "  that 
architecture  is  the  only  art  which  approaches, 
in  its  effects,  to  the  works  of  nature,"  and 
there  are  few,  we  believe,  who  have  not,  at 
some  period  of  their  lives,  felt  the  truth  of  the 
observation.  The  Cathedral  of  York,  the 
Dome  of  St.  Paul's,  or  the  interior  of  St. 
Peter's,  are  scarcely  eclipsed  in  our  recollec- 
tion with  the  glories  of  human  creation ;  and 
the  impression  which  they  produce  is  less 
akin  to  admiration  of  the  talent  of  an  artist, 
than  to  the  awe  and  veneration  which  the  tra- 
veller feels  when  he  first  enters  the  defiles  of 
the  Alps. 

It  has  often  been  a  matter  of  regret  to  per- 
sons of  taste  in  this  country,  that  an  art  so 
magnificent  in  its  monuments,  and  so  power- 
ful in  its  effect,  has  been  so  little  the  object 
of  popular  cultivation ;  nor  is  it  perhaps 
easy  to  understand,  how  a  people  so  much 
alive  to  the  grand  and  beautiful  in  the  other 
departments  of  taste,  should  so  long  have  re- 
mained insensible  to  the  attractions  of  one  of 
its  most  interesting  branches.  Many  causes 
have,  doubtless,  conspired  to  produce  this 
effect;  but  among  these,  the  principal,  we  are 
persuaded,  is  to  be  found  in  the  absence  of 
any  vionuments  of  approved  excellence  to  form  the 
taste,  and  excite  the  admiration  of  the  public. 
And,  in  this  respect,  there  is  an  important  dis- 
tinction, Avhich  is  often  overlooked,  between 
architecture  and  the  other  departments  of  art 
or  literature. 

In  poetry,  painting,  or  sculpture,  the  great 
works  of  former  times  are  in  everybody's 
hands  ;  and  the  public  taste  has  long  ago  been 
formed  on  the  study  of  those  remains  of  an- 
cient genius,  which   still   continue,  notwith- 


standing the  destruction  of  the  people  wnc 
gave  them  birth,  to  govern  the  imagination  of 
succeeding  ages.  The  poetry  of  Virgil,  aau 
the  eloquence  of  Cicero,  form  the  first  objects 
to  which  the  education  of  the  young  is  di- 
rected  ;  the  designs  of  Raphael  and  Correggio 
have  been  multiplied  by  the  art  of  engraving, 
to  almost  as  great  an  (jxtcnt  as  the  classical 
authors  ;  and  casts,  at  least,  of  the  Apollo  and 
the  Venus,  are  familiar  to  every  person  who 
has  paid  the  smallest  attention  to  the  beauty 
of  the  human  form.  It  is  on  the  habitual 
study  of  these  works  that  the  public  taste  has 
been  formed;  and  the  facility  of  cngravin" 
and  painting  has  extended  our  acquaintance 
with  their  excellencies,  almost  as  far  as 
knowledge  or  education  have  extended  in  the 
world. 

But  with  architecture  the  case  is  widely 
different.  Public  edifices  cannot  be  published 
and  circulated  with  the  same  facility  as  an 
edition  of  Virgil,  or  a  print  of  Claude  Lorraine. 
To  copy  or  restore  such  monuments,  requires 
an  expenditure  of  capital,  and  an  exertion  of 
skill,  almost  as  great  as  their  original  con- 
struction. Nations  must  be  far  advanced  in 
wealth  and  attainment  before  such  cosiiy  un- 
dertakings can  be  attempted.  And  if  the  su- 
perstition of  an  earlier  age  has  produced 
structures  of  astonishing  magnitude  and  ge- 
nius, they  are  of  a  kind  which,  however 
venerable  or  imposing,  are  not  calculated  to 
have  the  same  effect  in  chastening  the  public 
taste,  with  those  that  arose  in  that  auspicious 
period  when  all  the  finer  powers  of  the  mind 
had  attained  their  highest  exaltation.  It  thus 
unfortunately  happens,  that  architecture  can- 
not share  in  the  progress  which  the  other  fine 
arts  are  continually  making  from  the  circula- 
tion and  study  of  the  works  of  antiquity;  and 
successive  nations  are  often  obliged  to  begin 
anew  the  career  which  their  predecessors 
have  run,  and  fall  inevitably  into  the  errors 
which  they  had  learned  to  avoid. 

The  possibility  of  multiplying  drawings  or 
engravings  of  the  edifices  of  antiquity,  or  of 
informing  distant  nations  of  their  proportions 
and  dimensions,  has  but  little  tendency  to 
obviate  this  disadvantage.  Experience  has 
shown  that  the  best  drawings  convey  a  most 
inadequate  conception  of  architectural  gran- 
deur, or  of  the  means  by  which  it  is  produced. 
To  those,  indeed,  who  have  seen  the  originals, 
such  engravings  are  highly  valuable,  because 
they  awaken  and  renew  the  impression  which 
the  edifices  themselves  have  made;  but  to 
those  who  have  not  had  this  advantage,  they, 
speak  an  unknown  language.  This  is  matter 
of  common  observation ;  and  there  is  no  tra- 
veller who  has  relumed  from  Greece  or  Italy, 
who  will  not  confirjn  its  truth.  It  is  as  im- 
possible to  convey  a  conception  of  the  exterior 
of  the  Parthenon,  or  the  interior  of  Sr.  Peters, 
by  the  finest  drawings  accomranied  by  the 
most  accurate  statement  of  their  dimensions, 
as  to  give  the  inhabitants  of  a  level  country 
a  true  sense  of  the  sublimity  of  the  Alps,  by 
exhibiting  a  drawing  of  the  snowy  peaks  of 
Mont  Blanc,  and  informing  him  of  its  aliitnd* 
according  to  the  latest  trigcnomctncal  obser 
vations. 


80 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


Even  if  drawings  could  convey  a  concep- 
tion of  the  original  structures,  the  taste  for 
this  art  is  so  extremely  limited  that  it  could 
have  but  little  cllect  in  obviating  the  disadvan- 
a"e  of  their  remote  situation.  There  is  not 
one  person  in  a  hundred  who  ever  looks  at  a 
drawing,  or,  if  he  does,  is  capable  of  deriving 
ihe  bniallest  pleasure  from  the  finest  produc- 
tions of  that  branch  of  art.  To  be  reduced  to 
turn  over  a  portfolio  of  engravings,  is  prover- 
bially spoken  of  as  the  most  Avretched  of  all 
occupations  in  a  drawing-room  ;  and  it  is  no 
uncommon  thing  to  see  the  productions  of 
Claude,  or  Poussin,  or  Williams,  abounding 
in  all  the  riches  of  architectural  ornament, 
passed  over  without  the  slightest  indication  of 
emotion,  by  persons  of  acknowledged  taste  in 
other  respects.  And  yet  the  same  individuals, 
who  are  utterly  insensible  to  architectural  ex- 
cellence in  this  form,  could  not  avoid  acquiring 
a  certain  taste  for  its  beauties,  if  they  were 
the  subject  of /ifiiiViifl?  observation,  in  edifices 
at  home,  or  obtruded  upon  their  attention  in 
the  course  of  foreign  travelling. 

Besides  this,  the  architect  is  exposed  to  in- 
surmountable difficulties,  if  the  cultivation  of 
those  around  him  has  not  kept  pace  with  his 
own,  and  if  they  are  incapable  of  feeling  the 
beauty  of  the  edifices  on  which  his  taste  has 
been  formed.  It  is  to  no  purpose  that  his  own 
taste  may  have  been  improved  by  stud3'ing  the 
ruins  of  Athens  or  Rome,  unless  the  taste  of 
kis  employers  has  undergone  a  similar  ameliora- 
tion, his  genius  will  remain  dormant,  and  his 
architectural  drawings  be  suffered  to  lie  in 
unnoticed  obscurity  in  the  recesses  of  his 
portfolio.  The  architect,  it  should  always  be 
remembered,  cannot  erect  edifices,  as  the  poet 
writes  verses,  or  the  painter  covers  his  can- 
vas, without  any  external  assistance.  A  great 
expenditure  of  capital  is  absolutely  essential 
to  the  production  of  any  considerable  spec  imen 
of  his  art :  and,  therefore,  unless  he  can  com- 
municate his  own  enthusiasm  to  the  wealthy, 
and  unless  a  growing  desire  for  architectural 
embellishments  is  sufficient  to  overcome  the 
mherent  principle  of  parsimony,  or  the  inte- 
rested views  of  individuals,  or  the  jealousy  of 
public  bodies,  he  will  never  have  an  opportu- 
nity of  displaying  his  genius,  or  all  his  at- 
tempts will  be  thwarted  by  persons  incapable 
of  appreciating  it.  And  unfortunately  the 
talents  of  no  artist,  how  great  soever,  can 
sfTect  such  a  revolution;  it  can  be  brought 
about  only  by  the  continued  obso-vation  of  beauti- 
ful cdlfircs,  and  the  diffusion  of  a  taste  for  the 
art  among  all  the  well-educated  classes  of  the 
people. 

'J'he  states  of  antiquity  lay  so  immediately 
in  the  vicinity  of  each  other,  that  the  progress 
of  architecture  was  uninterrupted;  and  thus 
people  of  each  nation  formed  their  taste  by  the 
study  of  the  structures  of  those  to  whom  they 
lay  adjacent.  The  Athenians,  in  particular,  in 
raising  the  beautiful  edifices  which  have  so 
long  been  the  admiration  of  the  world,  pro- 
ceeded entirely  upon  the  model  of  the  build- 
ings by  which  they  were  surrounded,  and  the 
temple  of  Jupiter  Panhellcnius,  in  the  island 
of  ^gina,  which  is  said  to  have  been  built  by 
tf  acus  before  the  Trojan  War,  remains  to  this 


day  to  testify  the  species  of  edifices  on  which 
their  national  taste  was  formed.  The  Ionic 
order,  as  its  name  denotes,  arose  in  the  wealthy 
regions  of  Asia  Minor;  and  when  the  Athe- 
nians turned  their  attention  to  the  embellish- 
ment of  their  city,  they  had,  in  their  immcliate 
vicinit}',  edifices  capable  of  pointing  our  the 
excellencies  of  that  beautiful  style.  Thj  Ro- 
mans formed  their  taste  upon  the  architecture 
of  the  people  whom  they  had  subdu3d,  and 
adopted  all  their  orders  from  the  Grecian 
structures.  Their  early  temples  were  exactly 
similar  to  those  of  their  masters  in  the  art  of 
design;  and  Avhen  the  national  taste  was 
formed  upon  that  model,  they  combined  them, 
as  real  genius  will,  into  diiferent  forms,  and 
left  the  Coliseum  and  the  baths  of  Dioclesian 
as  monuments  of  the  grandeur  and  originality 
of  their  conceptions. 

In  modern  times,  the  restoration  of  taste  first 
began  around  the  edifices  of  antiquity.  "On 
the  revival  of  the  art  in  Italy,"  says  Lord  Aber- 
deen, "  during  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  cen- 
turies, the  great  architects  who  adorned  that 
countrj'  naturally  looked  for  instruction  to  the 
monuments  with  which  they  were  surrounded: 
the  wrecks  and  fragments  of  Imperial  Rome. 
These  were  not  only  successfull}^  imitated,  but 
sometimes  even  surpassed  by  the  Italian  art- 
ists; for  Bramante  and  Michael  Angelo,  Pal- 
ladio  and  Bernini,  desigiied  and  executed 
works  which,  although  of  unequal  merit,  may 
fairly  challenge  a  comparison  with  the  boasted 
productions  of  the  Augustan  age."  Italy  and 
France,  accordingly,  have  reaped  the  full  ad- 
vantage of  their  local  proximity  to  the  monu- 
ments of  former  genius ;  and  the  character  of 
their  buildings  evinces  a  decided  superiority 
to  the  works  of  architects  in  other  states. 

In  the  south  of  Europe,  therefore,  the  pro- 
gress of  architecture  has  been  uninterrupted, 
and  each  successive  age  has  reaped  the  full 
benefit  which  the  works  of  those  which  pre- 
ceded it  was  fitted  to  confer.  But  the  remote- 
ness of  their  situation  has  deprived  the  in- 
habitants of  the  north  of  Eurojie  of  this  advan- 
tage ;  and,  while  the  revival  of  letters  and  the 
arts  has  developed  the  taste  of  the  people  of 
this  country  in  other  respects,  to  a  very  great 
degree,  their  knowledge  of  architecture  is  )'et 
in  its  infancy.  In  this  city  the  most  remarka- 
ble proofs  of  this  deficiency  were  annually 
exhibited  till  a  very  recent  period.  The  same 
age  which  was  illustrated  by  the  genius  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  Campbell,  and  Dugald 
Stewart,  witnessed  the  erection  of  Nelson's 
monument  and  St.  George's  church. 

The  extraordinary  improvement  in  the  public 
taste,  which  has  taken  place  since  the  peace 
of  1814,  opened  the  Continent  to  so  large  a  pro- 
portion of  our  population,  evinces,  in  the  most 
unequivocal  manner,  the  influence  of  the  actual 
siglit  of  fine  models  in  training  the  mind  to  the 
perception  of  architectural  beauty.  That  archi- 
tecture is  greatly  more  an  object  both  of  study 
and  interest  than  it  was  ten  years  ago,  is 
matter  of  common  observation ;  and  the  most 
convincing  proof  of  the  extension  of  a  taste 
for  its  excellencies  is  to  be  found  in  the  rapid 
increase  and  extensive  circulation  of  en 
gravings  of  the  most  interesting  ruins  on  the 


81 


Continent,  which  has  taken  place  of  late  years. 
These  engravings,  however  incapable  of  con- 
veying an  adequate  idea  of  the  originals,  to 
those  who  have  never  left  this  country,  yet 
serve  as  an  admirable  auxiliary  to  the  memo- 
ry, in  retaining  the  impression  which  they 
had  produced  on  those  who  have  had  that 
advantage;  and,  accordingh^,  their  sale  is 
almost  entirely  confined  to  persons  of  that  de- 
scription. 

Nor  is  the  improvement  less  gratifying  in 
the  style  of  the  edifices,  and  the  genius  of  the 
architects  Avho  have  arisen  during  that  period. 
The  churches  of  Marybone  and  St.  Pancras,  in 
London,  notwithstanding  some  striking  defects, 
are  by  far  the  finest  buildings  which  have  been 
raised  in  the  metropolis  since  the  days  of  Sir 
Christopher  Wren.  The  new  street  in  front 
of  Carlton  House,  including  the  Quadrant, 
contains  some  most  beautiful  specimens  of 
architecture;  although  the  absurd  rage  for 
novelty  has  disfigured  it  by  other  structures 
of  extraordinary  deformity.  The  buildings 
which  adjoin,  and  look  into  the  Regent  Park, 
are  the  most  chaste  and  elegant  examples  of 
the  application  of  the  Grecian  architecture  to 
private  edifices  which  the  metropolis  can  boast. 
Nor  is  the  improvement  less  conspicuous  in 
our  own  capital,  where  the  vicinity  of  free- 
stone quarries  of  uncommon  beauty,  and  the 
advantages  of  unrivalled  situation,  have  ex- 
cited a  very  strong  desire  for  architectural 
embellishment.  It  is  hardly  possible  to  believe 
that  Waterloo  Place,  the  Royal  Terrace,  Leo- 
pold Place,  and  the  Melville  Monument,  have 
been  erected  in  the  same  age  which  witnessed 
the  building  of  Lord  Nelson's  monument  on 
the  Calton  Hill,  or  the  recent  edifices  in  the 
Parliament  Square.  The  remarkable  start 
which  the  genius  as  well  as  the  taste  of  our 
architects  has  taken  since  the  public  attention 
was  drawn  to  this  art,  affords  a  striking  proof 
of  the  influence  of  popular  encouragement  in 
fostering  the  conceptions  of  native  genius,  and 
illustrates  the  hopelessness  of  expecting  that 
our  artists  will  ever  attain  to  excellence,  when 
the  taste  of  the  people  does  not  keep  pace  with 
their  exertions. 

But  the  causes  which  have  recently  given 
so  remarkable  a  stimulus  to  architectural  ex- 
ertion are  temporary  in  their  nature.  It  is 
impossible  to  expect  that  the  Continent  will 
always  be  open  to  our  youth,  or  that  the  public 
attention  can  be  permanently  directed  to  the 
arts  of  peace,  with  the  interest  which  is  so 
remarkable  at  this  time.  Other  wars  may 
arise  wliich  will  shut  us  out  from  the  south 
of  Europe ;  the  interest  of  politics  may  again 
withdraw  the  national  attention  from  the  fine 
arts;  or  the  war  of  extermination,  of  which 
Greece  is  now  the  theatre,  may  utterly  destroy 
those  monuments  which  have  so  long  survived 
to  direct  and  improve  the  world.  From  the 
present  aspect  of  affairs  on  the  Continent, 
there  seems  every  reason  to  apprehend  that 
one  or  both  of  these  effects  may  very  soon 
take  place.  These  circumstances  render  it 
the  more  desirable,  that  some  steps  should  be 
taken  to  fix  in  this  island  the  fleeting  percep- 
tion of  architectural  beauty  which  is  now 
prevalent;  and,  if  possible,  render  our  people 
6 


NATIONAL  MONUMENTS. 

independent  of  foreign  travelling,  or  of  the 


borrowed  aid  of  foreign  edifices. 

Lord  Aberdeen,  like  all  other  travellers  of 
taste,  speaks  in  the  highest  terms  of  the  im- 
pression produced  by  the  unrivalled  edifices 
of  ancient  Greece;  and  contrasts  the  pure  and 
faultless  taste  by  which  they  are  distinguished, 
with  the  ephemeral  productions  which  in 
modern  times  have  arisen,  in  the  vain  attemp* 
to  improve  upon  their  proportions.  I£  we  seek 
tor  the  manifestation  of  pure  taste  in  the 
monuments  which  surround  us,  our  search 
will  but  too  often  prove  fruitless.  We  must 
turn  our  eyes  towards  those  regions. 

Where  on  the  Egean  shore  a  city  stands. 
Built  nobly! 

Here, — it  has  been  little  understood,  for  it  has 
been  rarely  felt;  its  country  is  Greece, — its 
throne  the  Acropolis  of  Athens. 

"By  a  person  writing  on  the  subject  of 
architecture,  the  name  of  Athens  can  scarcely 
be  pronounced  without  emotion,  and,  in  the 
mind  of  one  who  has  had  the  good  fortune  to 
examine  at  leisure  its  glorious  remains,  im- 
pressions are  revived  which  time  and  distance 
can  never  obliterate.  It  is  diflicult  to  resist  the 
desire  of  fondly  dwelling  on  the  descriptions 
of  monuments,  to  the  beauty  of  which,  although 
they  have  been  long  well  known,  and  accu- 
rately described,  we  feel  that  no  language  can 
do  full  justice.  But,  as  it  is  not  the  purpose 
of  this  inquiry  to  give  those  practical  or  de- 
tailed instructions  in  the  art,  which  may  te  so 
much  better  attained  from  other  sources,  I  will 
only  observe  in  this  place,  what  it  is  of  con- 
sequence to  keep  in  view,  because  no  descrip- 
tions or  representations,  however  accurate, 
can  give  adequate  notions  of  the  effect  of  the 
originals,  that,  notwithstanding  the  lapse  of 
ages;  the  injuries  of  barbarism,  and  fanatical 
violence,  Athens  still  presents  to  the  student 
the  most  faultless  models  of  ornamental  archi- 
tecture; and  is  still,  therefore,  the  best  school 
for  the  acquisition  of  the  highest  attributes  of 
his  art."— pp.  35,  36. 

Speaking  of  the  numerous  attempts  at  no- 
velty, which  have  been  made  in  modern  times, 
he  observes: 

"It  may  be  observed  in  general,  that  few  of 
those  numerous  changes  of  taste  wliicli  an  in- 
satiable desire  of  novelty,  or  the  caprice  of 
fashion,  may  have  sanctioned  for  a  time,  have 
been  ultimately  successful  ;  for  these  ephe- 
meral productions,  however  warmly  sup- 
ported, have  been  found  successively  to  vanisli 
before  the  steady  and  permanent  attractions  of 
Grecian  beauty,  and  we  shall  probably  feel  dis- 
posed to  admit,  that  the  ornamental  details  of 
the  standard  models  of  antiquity,  combined 
and  modified  by  discretion  and  judgment,  ap- 
pear to  ofl^er  a  suflicient  variety  for  the  exer- 
cise of  invention  and  genius  in  this  province 
of  the  art."— p.  30.  . 

And  comparing  these  with  the  remains  ol 
Grecian  architecture,  he  crserves: 

"  The  precious  remains  of  Grecian  art  were 
long  neglected,  and  the  most  beautiful  were,  in 
truth,  nearly  inaccessible  to  the  t.  'nst.an 
world.  It  is  almost  in  our  o«-n  t.mo,  that  ob- 
stacles,  formerly  insurmountable,  have  been 
since  vanquished;  and  that  the  treasures  of 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  E?SA  I'S 


*rt,  still  unfortunately  in  the  custody  of  igno- 
lanrr  ami  l>arbarisni,  have  not  only  been 
^isiieil,  but  iiavc  been  aceurately  measured 
and  delineated.  Hencefortli.  therefore,  tliese 
exquisite  remains  should  form  tlie  chiel''  study 
of  the  architect  vrho  aspires  to  permanent 
reputation;  other  modes  are  transitory  and 
uneeriain,  but  the  essential  qualities  of  Gre- 
cian excellence,  as  they  arc  founded  on  reason. 
and  are  consistent  with  fitness  and  proprietj-, 
will  ever  continue  to  deserve  his  first  care." — 
pp.  215,216. 

The  arfrument  which  is  most  commonly 
urged  at^ainsl  the  restoration  of  an  ancient 
structure,  is,  that  it  is  degrading  to  cnjnj  the 
architecture  of  another  people.  It  is  both  hu- 
miliating to  our  artists,  it  is  said,  and  inju- 
rious to  the  progress  of  art,  to  imitate  what 
has  been  already  done.  The  Romans  never 
copied;  but,  borrowing  merely  the  general 
forms  of  the  Grecian  architecture,  moulded 
them  into  ditferent  combinations,  which  gave 
a  diderent  character  to  their  style  of  building. 
Such  also  should  be  the  course  which  we 
should  adopt. 

This  very  plausible  argument  proceeds 
upon  an  inattention  to  the  successive  steps 
by  which  excellence  in  the  fine  arts  is  attained, 
and  a  mistaken  conception  of  the  height  to 
which  we  have  already  ascended  in  our  taste 
or  knowledge  of  architecture.  It  is  quite  true 
that  the  Romans  did  not  copy  the  Grecian  tem- 
ples; and  that  the  modern  Italians  have  not 
thought  of  attempting  a  restoration  of  the  Coli- 
seum or  the  Pantheon.  But  it  is  to  be  recol- 
Jected  that  the  originals  tvere  u-ithin  their  reach, 
and  hiul  already  cxor/sffZ  their  salutary  influence 
upon  the  public  taste.  The  ancient  Romans 
had  only  to  go  to  Pcestum,  Agrigentum,  or 
Syracuse,  to  behold  the  finest  Grecian  temples; 
and  their  warlike  youth,  in  the  course  of  the 
military  expeditions  to  Avhich  all  the  citizens 
were  liable,  had  perpetually,  in  their  eastern 
dominions,  the  Grecian  edifices  placed  before 
their  eyes.  Michael  Angelo,  Poussin,  and 
Claude  Lorraine,  lived  amidst  the  ruins  of  an- 
cient Rome,  and  formed  their  taste  from  their 
earliest  youth,  upon  the  /,«6i7?(«/ contemplation 
of  those  monuments.  For  them  to  have  co- 
pied these  buildings,  with  a  view  to  the  re- 
storation of  the  public  taste,  would  have  been  as 
absurd  as  for  us  to  copy  York  or  Lincoln  Ca- 
thedrals, in  order  to  revive  an  admiration  for 
the  Gothic  architecture. 

But  is  there  no  ditference  between  the  situ- 
ation of  a  people,  who,  like  the  ancient  Romans 
and  modern  Italians,  had  the  great  models  of 
antiquity  continually  before  their  eyes,  and 
that  of  a  people,  who,  like  the  inhabitants  of 
this  island,  have  ir<>  vtodds  in  the  boric  style, 
either  £o  form  their  tasce,  or  guide  their  exer- 
tions, and  who  have  no  means  of  reaching  the 
remains  of  that  order  which  exist,  but  by  a 
journey  of  many  thousand  milesl  Of  the  in- 
fluence of  the  study  of  ancient  excellence  in 
improving  the  taste,  both  of  architects  and  peo- 
ple, no  one  acquainted  with  the  subject  can 
have  jhe  smallest  doubt ;  and  it  is  stated  in 
the  strongest  terms,  by  the  author  whose  obser- 
vations have  just  been  mentioned.  "Amidst 
the.  ruins  of  Rome,  the  great  Italian  architects 


formed  their  taste.  They  studied  the  relics  of 
ancient  grandeur,  with  all  the  diligence  of  en 
thusiasm.  They  measured  the  proportions,  and 
drew  tlie  details,  and  modelled  the  members 
But  when  their  artists  were  employed  by  the 
piety  or  magnificence  of  the  age,  they  never  re  ■ 
stored  the  examples  by  which  they  were  sur 
rounded,  and  which  were  the  objects  of  theii 
hdbituiil  sludij.  The  architects  did  notilugerin 
contemplation  of  their  predecessors;  former 
generations  had  advanced  and  they  proceeded." 

Now  such  being  the  influence  of  the  remains 
of  antiquity  in  guiding  the  inventions,  and 
chastening  the  taste  of  modern  artists,  is  there 
no  advantage  in  putting  our  architects  in  this 
particular  on  a  level  ivith  those  of  Italy,  and  com- 
pensating, in  some  degree,  by  the  restoration 
of  the  finest  monuments  of  ancient  genius, 
the  local  disadvantages  with  which  a  residence 
in  this  remote  part  of  the  xvorld  is  necessarily  at- 
tended 1  By  doing  this,  we  are  not  precluding 
the  development  of  modern  invention ;  we  are, 
on  the  contrary,  laying  the  surest  foundation 
for  it,  by  bringing  our  artists  to  the  point  from 
which  the  Italian  artists  took  their  departure. 
When  this  is  done,  the  inventive  genius  of  the 
two  nations  will  be  able  to  commence  their 
career  with  equal  adv.antages.  Tillitis  attempt- 
ed, we  can  hardly  hope  that  we  shall  overtake 
them  in  the  race.  Suppose,  that  instead  of 
possessing  the  Coliseum  and  the  Pantheon 
within  their  walls,  and  having  made  their  pro- 
portions the  continual  subject  of  their  study, 
the  Roman  artists  had  been  obliged  to  travel 
into  the  interior  of  Asia  to  visit  their  ruins, 
and  that  this  journey,  from  the  expense  with 
which  it  was  attended,  had  been  within  the 
reach  only  of  a  few  of  the  most  opulent  and 
adventurous  of  their  nobility;  can  there  be  the 
slightest  doubt  that  the  fine  arts  in  that  city 
would  have  been  greatly  indebted  to  any  Ro- 
man pontiff  who  restored  those  beautiful  mo- 
numents in  his  own  dominions'?  and  yet  this 
benefit  is  seriously  made  a  matter  of  doubt, 
Avhen  the  restoration  of  the  Parthenon  is  pro- 
posed, in  a  part  of  the  world  where  the  remains 
of  ancient  genius  are  placed  at  the  distance  of 
two  thousand  miles. 

The  greatest  exertions  of  original  genius, 
both  in  literature  and  arts,  by  Avhich  modem 
Europe  has  been  distinguished,  have  been  made 
in  an  age  when  the  wealth  of  ancient  times 
was  thoroughly  understood.  The  age  of  Tasso 
andMachiavel/o//oHY(i  the  restoration  of  letters 
in  Italy.  If  we  compare  their  writings  with  those 
which  preceded  that  great  event,  the  diflerence 
appears  almost  incalculable.  It  Avas  on  the  stu- 
dy of  Grecian  and  Roman  eloquence,  that  Mil- 
ton trained  himself  to  those  sublime  concep- 
tions Avhich  have  immortalized  his  name. 
Raphael  and  Michael  Angelo  gave  but  slight 
indications  of  original  genius  till  their  pow- 
ers were  awakened  and  their  taste  refined  by 
the  study  of  the  Grecian  sculpture.  Statuar}',  in 
modern  times,  has  nowhere  been  cultivated  with 
such  success  as  at  Rome,  amidst  the  work? 
of  former  ages;  and  Chantry  has  declared  that 
the  arrival  of  the  Elgin  marbles  in  the  British 
Museum  is  to  be  regarded  as  an  era  in  the  pro- 
gress of  art  in  this  country.  Architecture  has 
attained  its  greatest  perfection  in  France  and 


NATIONAL  MONUMENTS. 


83 


Italy,  where  the  study  of  the  remains  of  anti- 
quity which  those  countries  contain,  has  had 
so  powerful  an  influence  upon  the  public  taste. 
Those  who  doubt  the  influence  of  the  restoration 
of  the  Parthenon,  in  improving  the  efforts  of 
original  genius  in  this  country,  reason  in  op- 
position not  only  to  the  experience  of  past 
times,  in  all  the  other  departments  of  literature 
and  art,  but  to  all  that  we  know  of  the  causes 
to  which  the  improvement  of  architecture  itself 
has  been  owing. 

It  is  no  answer  to  this  to  say  that  drawings 
and  prints  of  these  edifices  are  open  to  all  the 
world;  and  that  an  architect  may  study  the 
proportions  of  the  Parthenon  as  well  in 
Stuart's  Athens,  as  on  the  Calton  Hill  of  Edin- 
burgh. An  acquaintance  with  drawings  is 
limited  to  a  small  number,  even  in  the  most 
polished  classes  of  society,  and  to  the  middling 
and  lower  orders  is  almost  unknown ;  where- 
as, public  edifices  are  seen  by  all  the  world, 
and  obtruda  themselves  on  the  attention  of  the 
most  inconsiderate.  There  are  few  persons 
who  return  from  Greece  or  Italy,  without  a 
considerable  taste  for  architectural  beauty ; 
but  during  the  war,  when  travelling  was  im- 
possible, the  existence  of  Stuart's  Athens  and 
Piranesi's  Rome  produced  no  such  efiect. 
Our  architects,  during  the  war,  had  these  ad- 
mirable engravings  constantly  at  their  com- 
mand: but  how  wretched  were  their  concep- 
tions before  the  peace  had  afforded  them  the 
means  of  studying  the  originals  !  ■  The  extra- 
ordinary improvement  which  both  the  style  of 
our  buildings,  and  the  taste  of  our  people  have 
received,  since  the  edifices  of  France  and  Italy 
were  laid  open  to  so  large  a  proportion  of  the 
country,  demonstrates  the  superior  efficacy  of 
actual  observation,  to  the  study  of  prints,  in 
improving  the  public  taste  for  architectural 
beauty.  The  engravings  never  become  an  object 
of  interest  till  the  originals  have  been  seen. 

The  recent  attempts  to  introduce  a  new 
order  of  architecture  in  this  island,  demon- 
strate, that  we  have  not  as  yet  arrived  at  the 
point  where  the  study  of  ancient  models  can 
be  dispensed  with.  In  the  new  street  in  front 
of  Carlton  House,  every  thing,  which,  if  form- 
ed on  the  model  of  the  antique,  is  beautiful ; 
every  thing  in  which  novelty  has  been  at- 
tended is  a  deformity.  It  is  evident,  that  more 
than  one  generation  must  pass  away,  before 
architecture  is  so  thoroughly  understood  as  to 
admit  of  the  former  landmarks  being  disre- 
garded. 

The  belief  that  a  Grecian  temple  cannot 
look  beautiful,  but  in  the  climate  and  under 
the  sun  of  Athens,  is  a  total  mistake.  The 
clear  atmosphere  which  prevails  during  the 
frosts  of  winter,  or  in  the  autumnal  mon.hs, 
in  Scotland,  is  as  favourable  to  the  display  of 
architectural  splendour,  as  the  warm  atmo- 
sphere of  Greece.  The  Melville  monument  in 
St.  Andrew's  Square  appears  nowise  inferior 
to  the  original  in  the  Roman  capitol.  The 
gray  and  time-worn  temples  of  Prestum  are 
perhaps  more  sublime  that  the  Grecian  struc- 
tures which  stLU  retain  the  brightness  and 
histre  Iv  which  they  were  originally  charac- 
terized. Of  all  the  edifices  which  the  genius 
of  man  ever  conceived,  the  Doric  temple  is 


raosUndependento^i\ie  adventitious  advanta<»es 
of  light  and  shade,  and  rests  most  securely  on 
the  intrinsic  grandeur  and  solidity  of  its  con 
struction. 

To  say,  that  every  people  have  an  archi. 
tecture  of  their  own,  and  that  the  Gothic  is 
irretrievably  fixed  down  upon  this  island,  is  a 
position    unwarranted  either    by    reason    or 
authority.     A  nation  is  not  bound  to  adhere  to 
barbarous  manners,  because   their  ancestors 
were  barbarous ;  nor  is  the  character  of  their 
literature  to  be  fixed  by  the  productions  of  its 
earliest  writers.    It  is   by  its  works   in  the 
period  of  its  meridian  splendour,  that  the  opil 
nion  of  posterity  is  formed.    The  bow  was 
once  the  national  weapon  of  England,  and  to 
the  skill  with  which  it  Avas  used,  our  greatest 
victories  have  been  owing;   but  that  is  no 
reason  why  it  should  be  adhered  to  as  the 
means  of  national  defence  after  fire-arms  have 
been  introduced.    If  we  must  make  something 
peculiar  in  the  National  Monument,  let  it  be 
the  peculiarity  which  distinguishes  the  period 
when   architecture   and    the   other   fine   arts 
have  attained  to  their  highest  perfection,  and 
not  the  period  of  their  infancy.    But  the  feudal 
and  castellated  forms  arose  during  an  age  of 
ignorance  and  civil  dissension.    To   compel 
us  to  continue  that  style  as  the  national  archi- 
tecture, would  be  as  absurd  as  to  consider 
Chaucer  as  the  standard  of  English  literature, 
or  Duns  Scotus  as  the  perfection  of  Scotch 
eloquence.     We  do  not  consider  the  writers  in 
the  time  of  the  Jameses  as  the  model  of  our 
national  literature.     Why  then  should  we  con- 
fer that  distinction  on  the  architecture  which 
arose  out  of  the  circumstances  of  the  barba- 
rous period  1 

For  these  reasons,  we  are  compelled  to  dif- 
fer from  the  noble  author,  whose  very  inte- 
resting essay  on  Grecian  architecture  has 
done  so  much  to  awaken  the  world  to  a  sense 
of  its  excellencies,  in  regard  to  the  expediency 
of  restoring  the  Parthenon  in  the  National 
Monument  of  Scotland.  From  the  taste  which 
his  work  exhibits,  and  from  the  obvious  supe- 
riority which  he  possesses  over  ourselves  in 
estima'ting  the  beauties  of  Grecian  architec- 
ture, we  drew  the  strongest  argument  in  favour 
of  such  a  measure.  It  was  from  a  study  of 
the  ruins  of  ancient  Greece,  that  Lord  Aber- 
deen acquired  the  information  and  taste  which 
he  possesses  on  this  subject,  and  gained  the 
superiority  which  he  enjoys  over  his  untra- 
velled  countrymen.  If  they  had  the  same 
means  of  visiting  and  studying  the  originals 
which  he  has  possessed,  we  should  agree 
Avith  him  in  thinking,  that  the  genius  of  the 
age  should  be  directed  'to  new  combinations. 
But  when  this  is  not  the  case,  we  must  be  con- 
tent to  proceed  by  slower  degrees;  and  while 
nineteen-twentieths  of  our  people  do  not  know 
what  the  Parthenon  is,  and  can  perceive  no- 
thing remarkable  in  the  finest  models  of  archi- 
tectural excellence,  we  must  not  thmk  of 
forming  new  orders.  It  is  enough  if  we  can 
make  them  acquainted  with  those  which 
already  exist.  The  first  step  towards  national 
excellence  in  the  fine  arts,  is  to  feel  the  beawty 
of  that  which  has  already  been  done  ;  the  se- 
cond, is  to  excel  it.    We  must  take  the  nrst 


84 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


I 


9tfp,  before  wc  attempt  the  second.  Having 
laid  the  foundation  of  national  taste  in  archi- 
tecture, by  restoring  the  finest  model  of  anti- 
quity on  the  situation  of  ail  others  the  best 
adapted  for  making  its  excellencies  known,  wc 
shall  be  prepared  to  form  new  edifices,  and 
possibly  to  surpass  those  which  antiquity  has 


left.  But  till  this  is  done,  there  is  every  rea» 
son  to  apprehend,  that  the  efforts  of  our  artists 
will  be  as  ineffectual  in  obtaining  true  beauty 
as  the  genius  of  our  writers  was  in  obtaining 
real  excellence,  until  the  restoration  of  the 
classic  authors  gave  talent  its  true  direction, 
and  public  taste  an  unexceptionable  standard. 


T    * 


MARSHAL  NEY. 


Tub  memoirs  connected  with  the  French 
Revolution  furnish  an  inexhaustible  source 
of  interesting  discussion.  We  shall  look  in 
vain  in  any  other  period  of  history  for  the 
same  splendid  succei.sion  of  events;  for  a 
phantasmagoria  in  which  characters  so  illus- 
trious are  passed  before  the  view ;  or  for  in- 
dividuals whose  passions  or  ambition  have 
exercised  an  equally  important  influence  on 
human  affairs.  When  we  enter  upon  the  era 
of  Napoleon,  biography  assumes  the  dignity 
of  history  ;  the  virtues  and  vices  of  individuals 
become  inseparably  blended  with  public  mea- 
sures; and  in  the  memoirs  of  contemporary 
writers,  we  turn  for  the  secret  springs  of  those 
great  events  which  have  determined  the  fate 
of  nations. 

From  the  extraordinary  interest,  however, 
connected  with  this  species  of  composition, 
has  arisen  an  evil  of  no  ordinary  kind.  Not 
France  only,  but  Europe  at  large,  being  in- 
satiable for  works  of  this  kind,  an  immense 
number  have  sprung  up  of  spurious  origin,  or 
doubtful  authorit)'.  Writing  of  memoirs  has 
become  a  separate  profession.  A  crowd  of 
able  young  men  devote  themselves  to  this  fas- 
cinating species  of  composition,  which  pos- 
sesses the  interest  of  history  without  its  dry- 
ness, and  culls  from  the  book  of  Time  only 
the  most  brilliant  of  its  flowers.  Booksellers 
engage  in  the  wholesale  manufacture,  as  a 
mercantile  speculation;  an  attractive  name, 
an  interesting  theme,  is  selected  ;  the  relations 
of  the  individuals  whose  memoirs  are  pro- 
fessed to  be  given  to  the  world,  are  besought 
to  furnish  a  few  original  documents  or  au- 
thentic anecdotes,  to  give  an  air  of  veracity  to 
the  composition ;  and  at  length  the  memoirs 
are  ushered  forth  to  the  world  as  the  work  of 
one  who  never  wrote  one  syllable  of  them 
himself.  Of  this  description  are  the  soi-disant 
Memoirs  of  Fouche,  Robespierre, Une  Femme 
de  Qualite,  Louis  the  Eighteenth,  and  many 
others,  which  are  now  admitted  to  be  the  work 
of  the  manufacturers  for  the  Parisian  book- 
sellers, but  arc  nevertheless  interspersed  with 
many  authentic  and  interesting  anecdotes, 
derived  from  genuine  sources,  and  contain  in 
consequence  much  valuable  matter  for  future 
nislory. 

In  considering  the  credit  due  to  any  set  of 
memoirs,  one  main  point,  of  course,  is,  whe- 
ther they  are  published  by  a  living  author  of 


•  Momnlrpn  (111  Mnrrrhnl  Nrv,  p'llilir'n  par  na  ]''aiiiilli- 
rnri«,  KmirnliT;  l.omlrcs,  IC.Uul ,  l^SS.  lUackwood's 
Mngazinc,  Oct.  JS3a. 


character  and  station  in  society.  If  they  are, 
there  is  at  least  the  safeguard  against  impos- 
ture, which  arises  from  the  facility  with  which 
they  may  be  disavowed,  and  the  certainty  that 
no  man  of  character  would  permit  a  spurious 
composition  to  be  palmed  upon  the  world  as 
his  writing.  The  Memoirs,  therefore,  of  Bour- 
rienne,  Madame  Junot,  Savar}',  and  many 
others,  may  be  relied  on  as  at  least  the  ad- 
mitted work  of  the  persons  whose  names  they 
bear,  and  as  ushered  into  the  world  under  the 
sanction  and  on  the  responsibility  of  living 
persons  of  rank  or  station  in  societ)% 

There  are  other  memoirs,  again,  of  such  ex- 
traordinary ability  as  at  once  to  bear  the  stamp 
of  originality  and  veracity  on  their  very  face. 
Of  this  description  are  Napoleon's  memoirs, 
dictated  to  Montholon  and  Gourgaud ;  a  work 
which  bears  in  every  page  decisive  marks  of 
the  clear  conceptions,  lucid  ideas,  and  tranch- 
ant  sagacity  of -the  Conqueror  of  Austerlitz 
and  Rivoli.  Judging  from  internal  evidence, 
we  are  disposed  to  rank  these  invaluable  Me- 
moirs much  higher  than  the  rambling  and  dis- 
cursive, though  interesting  work  of  Las  Casas. 
They  are  not  nearly  so  impassioned  or  ran- 
corous; facts  are  not  so  obviously  distorted; 
party  spirit  is  not  so  painfully  conspicuous. 
With  regret,  we  must  add,  that  even  these 
genuine  memoirs,  dictated  by  Napoleon  him- 
self, as  the  groundwork  for  the  history  of  his 
achievements,  contain  the  marks  of  the  weak- 
nesses as  well  as  the  greatness  of  his  mind; 
an  incessant  jealousy  of  every  rival  who  ap- 
proached even  to  his  glory ;  an  insatiable 
passion  for  magnifying  his  own  exploits ;  a 
disregard  of  truth  so  remarkable  in  a  person 
gifted  with  such  extraordinary  natural  sagaci- 
ty, that  it  can  be  ascribed  only  to  the  poison- 
ous nnoral  atmosphere  which  a  revolution  pro- 
duces. The  Memoirs  of  Thibaudeau  perhaps 
exhibit  the  most  valuable  and  correct,  as  well 
as  favourable  picture  of  the  emperor's  min  i. 
In  the  discussions  on  the  great  public  mea- 
sures which  were  submitted  to  the  Council  of 
State  at  Paris,  and,  above  all,  in  the  clear  and 
luminous  speeches  of  Napoleon  on  ever}- sub- 
ject, whether  of  civil  or  military  administra- 
tion, that  occurred  during  his  consulship,  is 
to  be  found  the  clearest  proof  of  the  vast  grasp 
and  great  capacity  of  his  mind;  and  in  their 
superiority  to  those  of  the  other  speakers,  and, 
above  all,  of  Thibaudeau  himself,  the  best 
evidence  of  the  fidelity  of  his  reports. 

Next  in  value  to  those  of  Napoleon  and 
Thibaudeau,  we  are  inclined  to  place  those  of 


MARSHAL  NEY. 


85 


Bonrrienne  and  the  Duchess  of  Abrantes.  The 
first  of  these  writers,  in  addition  to  consider- 
able natural  talents,  enjoyed  the  inestimable  ad- 
vantage of  having  been  the  school-fellow  of 
Napoleon,  and  his  private  secretary  during 
the  most  interesting  period  of  his  life ;  that 
which  elapsed  from  the  opening  of  his  Italian 

I  Campaign,  in  1796,  to  his  accession  to  the 
throne  in  1804.  If  Bourrienne  could  be  entire- 
ly relied  on,  his  Memoirs,  with  such  sources 
of  information,  would  be  invaluable ;  but  un- 
fortunately, it  is  evident  that  he  labours  under 
a  feeling  of  irritation  at  his  former  school- 
fellow, which  renders  it  necessary  to  take  his 
statements  with  some  grains  of  allowance. 
Few  men  can  forgive  the  extraordinary  and 
unlooked-for  elevation  of  their  foi-mer  equals  ; 
and,  in  addition  to  this  common  source  of  pre- 
judice, it  is  evident  that  Bourrienne  labours 
under  another  and  a  less  excusable  feeling. 
It  is  plain,  even  from  his  own  admission,  that 
he  had  been  engaged  in  some  money  transac- 
tions of  a  doubtful  character  with  M.  Ouvrard, 
•which  rendered  his  continuing  in  the  highly 

I  confidential  situation  of  private  secretary  to 
the  emperor  improper ;  and  his  dismissal  from 
it  has  evidently  tinged  his  whole  narrative 
■with  a  certain  feeling  of  acrimony,  which,  if 

'  it  has  not  made  him  actually  distort  facts,  has 
at  least  caused  them  to  appear  in  his  hands 
through  a  medium  coloured  to  a  certain  de- 
gree. 

The  Duchess  of  Abrantes,  like  most  of  the 
other  annalists  of  Napoleon,  labours  under 
prepossessions  of  a  different  kind.  She  was 
intimate  with  Napoleon  from  his  childhood ; 
her  mother  had  the  future  emperor  on  her 
knee  from  the  day  of  his  birth ;  and  the  in- 
timacy between  the  two  families  continued  so 
great,  that  when  Napoleon  arrived  at  the  age 
of  twenty-six,  and  felt,  as  he  expresses  it,  the 
"  besoin  de  se  fixer,"  he  actually  proposed  for 
the  duchess's  mother  himself,  who  was  a  per- 

•  son  of  great  natural  attractions,  while  he 
wished  at  the  same  time  to  arrange  a  mar- 
riage belTveen  Joseph  and  the  duchess,  and 
Pauline  and  her  brother.  It  may  readily  be 
imagined  that,  though  these  proposals  were 
all  declined,  they  left  no  unfavourable  impres- 
sion on  the  duchess's  mind;  and  this, coupled 
with  her  subsequent  marriage  to  Junot,  and 
his  rapid  advancement  by  the  emperor,  has 
filled  her  mind  with  an  admiration  of  his  cha- 
racter almost  approaching  to  idolatry.  She 
sees  every  thing,  in  consequence,  in  the  con- 
sular and  imperial  government,  in  the  most 
favourable  colours.  Napoleon  is  worshipped 
with  all  a  woman's  fervour,  and  the  days  of 
triumph  for  the  Grand  Army  looked  back  to 
as  a  dream  of  glory,  which  has  rendered  all 
the  remainder  of  life  worthless  and  insipid. 

The  Memoirs  of  Marshal  Ney  appear  under 
different  auspices  from  any  others  which  have 
yet  appeared  regarding  this  eventful  era.  They 
do  not  profess  to  have  been  written  by  him- 
self; and,  indeed,  the  warlike  habits,  and 
sudden  and  tragic  death  of  the  marshal,  pre- 
clude the  possibility  of  their  being  ushered 
forth  to  the  world  under  that  character.  But, 
en  the  other  hand,  they  are  unquestionably 
f -ablished  by  hi?  family,  from  the  documents 


and  papers  in  their  possession ;  and  the  aneo 
dotes  wuh  which  they  are  interspersed  havt 
plainly  been  collected  with  great  pains  from 
all  the  early  friends  of  that  illustrious  warrior. 
If  they  are  not  published,  therefore,  under 
the  sanction  of  personal,  they  are  under  that 
of  family  responsibility,  and  may  be  regarded, 
as  we  would  say  in  England,  as  "  the  Ney  Pa- 
pers," connected  together  by  an  interesting 
biography  of  the  character  to  whom  they 
refer. 

In  such  a  production,  historical  impartiality 
cannot  be  reasonably  expected.  To  those  cf 
his  family  who  still  mourn  the  tragic  end  of 
the  bravest  of  French  heroes,  his  character 
must  still  be  the  object  of  veneration.  Fail- 
ings which  would  have  been  acknowledged, 
defects  which  would  have  been  pointed  out,  if 
he  had  descended  to  an  honoured  tomb,  are 
forgotten  in  his  melancholy  fate;  and  his 
family,  with  hearts  ulcerated  at  the  supposed 
injustice  and  perhaps  real  illegality  of  his 
condemnation,  are  rather  disposed  to  magnify 
his  character  into  that  of  a  martyr,  than  ac- 
knowledge its  alliance  with  any  of  the  weak- 
nesses or  faults  of  mortality.  In  such  feel- 
ings, there  is  not  only  every  thing  that  is 
natural,  but  much  that  is  commendable  ;  and 
the  impartial  foreigner,  in  reviewing  the  his- 
tory of  his  achievements,  will  not  forget  the 
painful  sense  of  duty  under  which  the  British 
government  acted  at  the  close  of  his  career, 
or  the  mournful  feelings  with  which  the  axe 
of  justice  was  permitted  to  descend  on  one  of 
the  bravest  of  the  human  race,  under  the  feel- 
ing— whether  right  or  not  it  is  the  province 
of  history  to  inquire — of  imperious  state 
necessity. 

Marshal  Ney  was  born  at  Sarrelouis,  on  the 
10th  January,  1769;  consequently,  he  was 
twenty  years  old  when  the  Revolution  first 
broke  out.  His  father  was  an  old  soldier,  who 
had  served  M'ith  distinction  at  the  battle  of 
Rosbach ;  but  after  his  discharge,  he  conti- 
nued the  profession  of  a  cooper,  to  -which  he 
had  been  early  educated.  At  school,  his  son, 
the  young  Ney,  evinced  the  turbulent  vigour 
of  his  disposition,  and  the  future  general  was 
incessantly  occupied  in  drilling  and  directing 
his  comrades.  Napoleon  gave  tokens  of  the 
same  disposition  at  an  equally  early  period : 
there  is  no  turn  of  mind  which  so  early 
evinces  itself  as  a  taste  for  military  achieve- 
ments. He  was  at  first  destined  for  a  notar}''s 
office ;  but  in  spite  of  the  earnest  entreaties  of 
his  parents,  he  resolved  to  change  his  profes- 
sion. At  the  age  of  fifteen,  our  author  gives 
the  following  interesting  account  of  the  cir- 
cumstances which  led  to  his  embracing  the 
profession  of  arms. 

"  So  early  as  when  he  was  fifteen,  Ney  had 
a  presentiment  of  his  future  destiny.  His 
father,  incapable  alike  of  estimating  ins  pow- 
ers, or  sharing  his  hopes,  in  vain  endeavourrd 
to  restrain  him.  The  mines  of  Asscnunler  at 
that  period  were  in  full  activity;  he  sent  hi? 
son  there,  to  endeavour  to  give  a  new  direc- 
tion to  his  thoughts.  It  had  quite  an  opposite 
effect.  His  imagination  soon  resumed  its 
wonted  courses.  He  dreamed  only  ..I  fields 
of  battle,  combats  and  glory.    The  counsel* 


M 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


of  his  fnihpr.  the  tears  of  his  mother,  were 
alike  inrireriunl :  they  lacerated  without  mov- 
ing his  heart.  'J'wo  years  passed  away  in  this 
manner;  but  his  taste  for  arms  became  every 
day  more  decided.  The  places  where  he 
dwelt,  contributed  to  strengthen  the  natural 
bent  of  his  penius.  Almost  all  the  towns  on 
the  Rhine  are  fortified;  wherever  he  went,  he 
saw  garrisons,  unilbrms,  and  artilji-ry.  Ncy 
could  withstand  it  no  lonijer;  he  rosiirned  liis 
humble  functions,  and  set  out  for  Metz,  where 
a  re;jiment  of  hussars  was  stationed,  with  the 
intention  of  enlistinp.  The  prief  which  he 
well  knew  that  sudden  determination  would 
cause  to  his  mother,  the  chai^rin  which  it 
would  occasion  to  his  father,  agitated  his 
mind ;  he  hesitated  Ion?  what  to  do,  but  at 
length  filial  piety  prevailed  over  fear,  and  he 
returned  to  Sarrclouis  to  embrace  his  parents, 
and  bid  them  adieu. 

"The  interview  was  painful,  his  reception 
stormy ;  reproaches,  tears,  prayers,  menaces, 
alternately  tore  his  heart.  At  length  he  tore 
himself  from  their  arms,  and  flying  in  haste, 
without  either  baggage,  linen,  or  nioney,  he 
regained  the  route  of  Metz,  from  which  he 
had  turned.  He  walked  on  foot;  his  feet 
were  soon  blistered,  his  shoes  were  stained 
with  blood.  Sad,  harassed,  and  worn  out 
with  fatisrue,  he  nevertheless  continued  his 
march  without  llinching;  and  in  his  very  first 
debut,  gave  proof  of  that  invincible  determi- 
nation which  no  subsequent  obstacles  were 
able  to  overcome. 

"  At  an  afier  period,  when  fortune  had 
smiled  on  his  path,  he  returned  to  Sarrelouis. 
The  artillery  sounded;  the  troops  were  under 
arms;  all  the  citizens  crowded  to  see  their 
compatriot  of  whom  they  were  so  proud.  Ke- 
cognising  then  the  road  which  thirteen  years 
before  he  had  traversed  on  foot,  the  marshal 
recounted  with  emotion  his  first  fatigues  to 
the  officers  who  surrounded  him." — I.  .5,  6. 

It  has  frequently  been  observed,  that  those 
who  rise  from  humble  beginnings  are  ashamed 
in  subsequent  life  of  their  commencement, 
and  degrade  themselves  by  a  puerile  endea- 
vour to  trace  their  origin  to  a  family  of  dis- 
tinction. Ney,  equally  with  Napoleon,  was 
above  that  meanness. 

"Never  in  subsequent  life  did  the  marshal 
forget  the  point  from  which  he  had  started. 
After  he  had  arrived  at  the  highest  point  of  his 
fortune,  he  took  a  pleasure  in  recurring  to  his 
humble  origin.  When  some  ])ersons  were 
dcf  laiming  in  his  presence  on  their  connection 
With  the  noblesse,  and  what  they  had  obtained 
from  their  rich  families:— ♦You  were  more 
fortunate  than  I,' said  he,  interrupting  them  ; 
•  I  received  nothintr  from  mv  family,  and 
deemed  myself  rich  when,  at  Metz,  I  had  two 
pieces  of  bread  on  the  board.' 

"After  he  was  named  a  marshal  of  the  em- 
pire, he  held  a  splendid  levee:  every  one 
offered  his  congratulations,  and  hastened  to 
prf'-ent  his  compliments.  He  interrupted  the 
.I'll.itnrj' strain  lr\- addressing  himself  to  an 
old  "Hicer  who  kept  at  a  distance.  'Do  you 
rerolbrt.  captain,  the  time  when  you  said  to 
n\r,  (,n  occasion  of  my  presenting  my  report, 
Weil  done,  Ney ;  I  am  well  pleased  with  you ; 


go  on  as  you  have  begun,  you  will  make  )'our 
fortune.'  *  Perfectly,  marshal,'  replieC  his  old 
coininandcr;  'I  had  the  honour  to  command 
a  man  iiiliiiitcly  my  superior.  Such  good  for- 
tune is  not  easily  forgotten.' 

"  The  satisfaction  which  he  experienced  al 
recurring  to  his  origin,  arose  not  merely  from 
the  noble  pride  of  having  been  the  sole  archi- 
tect of  his  fortune,  but  also  from  the  warm 
aflection  which  he  ever  felt  for  his  familj'. 
He  loved  nothing  so  much  as  to  recount  the 
tenderness  which  he  had  experienced  from  his 
mother,  and  the  good  counsels  which  he  had 
received  from  his  father.  Thus,  when  he  was 
abandoning  himself  to  all  the  dangers  arising 
from  an  impetuous  courage,  he  carefully  con- 
cealed his  perils  from  his  parents  and  rela- 
tions, to  save  them  from  useless  anxiety.  On 
one  occasion,  he  commanded  the  advanced 
guard  of  General  Colaud,  and  was  engaged  in 
a  serious  action.  Overwhelmed  with  fatigue, 
he  returned  and  recounted  to  his  comrades  the 
events  of  the  day.  One  of  his  friends  blamed 
him  for  his  imprudence.  'It  is  very  true,' 
replied  Ney,  '  I  have  had  singular  good  for- 
tune to-day;  four  different  times  I  found  m)'- 
self  alone  in  the  midst  of  the  Austrians. 
Nothing  but  the  most  extraordinary  good  for- 
tune extricated  me  out  of  their  hands.'  'You 
have  been  more  fortunate  than  your  brother.' 
'  What,'  replied  Ney,  impetuously,  and  fixing 
his  eyes  anxiously  on  his  friend,  'is  my  bro 
ther  dead  1  Ah  !  m)'  poor  mother !'  At  length 
he  learned  the  mournful  news,  that  in  a 
serious  affair  in  Italy,  Pierre  Ney,  his  eldei 
brother,  had  been  killed.  He  burst  into  tears, 
and  exclaimed,  '  What  would  have  become  of 
my  mother  and  sister,  if  I  too  had  fallen ! 
Write  to  them,  I  pray  you ;  but  conceal  the 
dangers  to  which  I  am  exposed,  that  they  may 
not  fear  also  for  my  life.'  The  father  of  the 
marshal  died  a  few  )'ears  ago,  at  the  age  of 
nearly  a  hundred  years.  He  loved  his  son 
with  tenderness  mingled  with  respect,  and  al- 
though of  a  singularly  robust  habit  of  body, 
his  family  feared  the  effect  of  the  shock  which 
the  sad  events  of  1815  might  produce  upon 
him.  He  was  never  informed  of  them:  the 
mourning  of  his  daughter,  with  whom  he 
lived,  and  of  his  grandchildren,  onh'  made 
him  aware  that  some  dreadful  calamity  had 
befallen  the  family.  He  ventured  to  ask  no 
questions,  and  ever  since,  sad  and  melancholy, 
pronouncing  but  rarely  the  name  of  his  son, 
he  lingered  on  till  182(5,  when  he  died  Avithout 
having  learned  his  tragic  fate." — I.  9,  10. 

The  great  characteristic  of  Marshal  Ncy 
was  his  impetuous  courage,  which  gained  for 
him,  even  among  the  giants  of  the  era  of  Na- 
poleon, the  surname  of  the  Bravest  of  the 
Brave.  This  remarkable  characteristic  is 
thus  described  in  these  Memoirs  : — 

"It  is  well  known  with  what  power  and 
energy  he  could  rouse  the  masses  of  the  sol 
diers,  and  precipitate  them  upon  the  enemy. 
Vehement  and  impetuous  when  heading  a 
charge,  he  was  gifted  with  the  most  imper- 
turbal)le  sang  froid  when  it  became  necessary 
to  sustain  its  movements.  Dazzled  by  the 
lustre  of  that  brilliant  valour,  many  persons 
have  imagined  that  it  was  the  onl/  illustrious 


MARSHAL  NEY. 


quality  which  the  marshal  possessed;  but 
'.hose  who  were  nearer  his  person,  and  better 
acquainted  with  his  character,  will  concede  to 
him  greater  qualities  than  the  enthusiasm 
which  captivates  and  subjugates  the  soldier. 
Calm  in  the  midst  of  a  storm  of  grape-shot — 
imperturbable  amid  a  shower  of  balls  and 
shells,  Ney  seemed  to  be  ignorant  of  danger; 
to  have  nothing  to  fear  from  death.  This 
rashness,  which  twenty  years  of  perils  have 
not  diminished,  gave  to  his  mind  the  liberty, 
the  promptitude  of  judgment  and  execution, 
so  necessary  in  the  midst  of  the  complicated 
movements  of  war.  This  quality  astonished 
those  who  surrounded  him,  more  even  than 
the  courage  in  action  which  is  more  or  less 
felt  by  all  who  are  habituated  to  the  dangers 
of  war.  One  of  his  officers,  whose  courage 
had  repeatedly  been  put  to  the  proof,  asked 
him  one  day  if  he  had  never  felt  fear.  Re- 
gaining instantly  that  profound  indifference 
for  danger,  that  forgetfulness  of  death,  that 
elasticity  of  mind,  which  distinguished  him  on 
the  field  of  battle,  '  I  have  never  had  time,' 
replied  the  marshal  with  simplicity. 

"Nevertheless,  this  extraordinary  coolness 
Ln  danger  did  not  prevent  his  perceiving  those 
slight  shades  of  weakness,  from  which  it  is  so 
rarely  that  a  soldier  is  to  be  found  entirely 
exempted.  On  one  occasion,  an  officer  was 
giving  an  account  of  a  mission  on  which  he 
had  been  sent:  while  he  spoke,  a  bullet  passed 
so  near  him  that  he  involuntarily  lowered  his 
head,  but  nevertheless  continued  his  narrative 
without  exhibiting  emotion — '  You  have  done 
extremely  well,'  said  the  marshal,  '  but  next 
time  do  not  bow  quite  so  low.' 

"  The  marshal  loved  courage,  and  took  the 
greatest  pleasure  in  producing  it  in  others.  If 
he  had  witnessed  it  in  a  great  degree  in  any 
one  on  the  field  of  battle  ;  if  he  had  discovered 
vigour,  capacity,  or  military  genius,  he  never 
rested  till  he  had  obtained  their  promotion ; 
and  the  army  resounded  for  long  with  the 
eflx)rts  which  he  made  for  this  purpose." — I.  21. 

But  it  was  not  mere  valour  or  capacity  on 
the  field  of  battle,  which  distinguished  Ney; 
ha  was  attentive  also  to  the  minutest  wants  of 
his  soldiers,  and  indefatigable  in  his  endea- 
vours to  procure  for  them  those  accommoda- 
tions, of  which,  from  having  risen  from  the 
humblest  rank  himself,  he  so  well  knew  how 
to  appreciate  the  value.  Of  his  efforts  in  this 
respect  we  have  the  following  interesting  ac- 
count : — 

"Quick  in  repressing  excesses,  the  marshal 
omitted  nothing  to  prevent  them.  A  private 
soldier  in  early  life,  he  had  himself  f^elt  the 
suflTerings  endured  by  the  private  soldier,  and 
when  elevated  to  a  higher  station  he  did  his 
itmost  to  assuage  them  in  others.  He  knew 
that  the  soldier,  naturally  just  and  grateful  to 
those  who  watched  over  his  interests,  was 
difficult  to  manage  when  his  complaints  were 
neglected,  and  it  was  evident  that  his  superiors 
had  no  sympathy  for  his  fatigues  or  his  priva- 
tions. N^,y  was  sincerely  attached  to  those 
great  masses,  which,  though  composed  of  men 
of  L  >ch  different  characters,  were  equally 
ready  every  day  to  meet  dangers  and  death  in 
♦he  discharge  of  duty.     At  that   period  our 


troops,  worn  out  with  the  fatigues  of  war,  ac- 
customed to  make  light  of  dangers,  were  much 
ruder  m  their  manners,  and  haughty  in  their 
ideas,  than  those  of  these  times,  who  lead  a 
pacific  life  in  great  cities  and  garrisons.  The 
marshal  was  incessant  in  his  endeavours  to 
discover  and  correct  the  abuses  which  affected 
them.  He  ever  endeavoured  to  prevent  their 
wishes,  and  to  convince  the  officers  who  com- 
manded  them,  that  by  elevating  the  soldier  in 
his  own  eyes,  and  treating  him  with  the  respect 
which  he  deserves,  but  without  any  diminution 
of  the  necessary  firmness,  it  was  alone  possible 
to  obtain  that  forgetfulness  of  himself,  thai 
abandonment  of  military  discipline,  which 
constitutes  so  large  a  portion  of  military  force. 

"Avoiding,  therefore,  in  the  most  careful 
way,  the  imposition  of  unnecessary  burdens 
upon  the  soldiers,  he  was  equally  careful  to 
abstain  from  that  vain  ostentation  of  author- 
ity, that  useless  prodigality  of  escort,  Avhich 
generals  of  inferior  calibre  are  so  fond  of  dis- 
playing. His  constant  object  was  to  .spare  the 
troops  engaged  in  that  fatiguing  service,  and 
not  to  diminish,  but  from  absolute  necessity, 
by  such  detachments,  the  numerical  strength 
of  the  regiments  under  his  orders.  That  soli- 
citude did  not  escape  the  soldiers;  and  among 
their  many  subjects  of  gratitude,  they  ranked 
in  Ihe  foremost  place  the  continual  care  and 
perseverance  with  which  their  general  secured 
for  them  the  means  of  subsistence.  The  pro 
digies  he  effected  in  that  particular  -will  be 
found  fully  detailed  in  the  campaign  of  Portu- 
gal, where  he  succeeded,  in  a  country  repeat- 
edly devastated,  in  providing,  by  incredible 
exertions,  not  only  provisions  for  his  own 
corps,  but  the  whole  army,  during  the  six 
months  that  it  remained  in  Portugal.  Con 
stantly  in  motion  on  the  Mondego,  inces- 
santly pushing  columns  in  every  direction, 
he  contrived  to  procure  bread,  clothes,  provi- 
sions, in  fine,  every  thing  which  was  required. 
The  recollection  of  these  things  remained 
engraven  on  the  minds  of  his  soldiers,  and 
when  his  division  with  Massena  caused  him 
to  resign  the  command  of  his  corps,  the  grief 
of  the  soldiers,  the  murmurs,  the  first  symp- 
toms of  an  insurrection  ready  to  break  forth, 
and  which  a  single  word  from  their  chief 
would  have  blown  into  aflame,  were  sufficient 
to  prove  that  his  cares  had  not  been  thrown 
away  on  ungrateful  hearts,  and  that  his  multi- 
plied attentions  had  won  all  their  afioclioiis. 

"But  his  careful  attention  to  his  soldiers  did 
not  prevent  him  from  maintaining  the  most 
rigorous  discipline,  and  punishing  severely 
any  considerable  excess  on  the  part  of  the 
troops  under  his  command.  An  instance  of 
this  occurred  in  the  country  of  Darmstadt. 
The  Austrians  had  been  defeated,  and  retired 
near  to  Swigemberg,  where  they  M'cre  hroketi 
anew.  The  action  was  warmly  conlesled,  and 
our  soldiers,  irritated  by  so  much  resistance. 
broke  open  several  houses  and  plundcn-d  iliem. 
The  circumstances  in  which  itocciirivd  might 
excuse  the  transgression,  but  Ney  i*^^''"'^:''  '" 
make  a  signal  example  of  reparation.  v\h>le 
he  proceeded  with  the  utmost  sevcniy  nga  "Mil 
the  offenders,  he  published  a  i.roclamntn.n  in 
which  he  directed  that  the  damage  .should    •«> 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


> ;  and  in  order  that  it  should  not  be 
II  elusory  sum,  he  chartjod  ilio  Land- 
jCravf  liunsclf  \vitl»  the  vahiatiun. 

"  When  Governor  of  CJallicia  and  Salamanca, 
these  provinces,  notwithstanding  their  haired 
at  the  yoke  of  the  stranger,  cheerfully  acknow- 
ledged the  justice  of  his  administration.  One 
only  ohject  of  spoil  has  been  left  by  the  mar- 
shal to  his  family,  a  relic  of  St.  James  of  Cuin- 
posiella,  which  ihe  monks  of  the  convent  of 
Su  Jago  presented  to  him,  in  gratitude  for  the 
humanity  with  which  he  treated  them.  He  did 
not  limit  his  care  to  the  protection  of  property 
from  pillage ;  he  kilew  that  there  are  yet 
dearer  interests  to  which  honour  is  more 
nearly  allied,  and  he  never  ceased  to  cause 
them  to  be  respected.  The  English  army  will 
bear  testimony  to  his  solicitude  in  that  parti- 
cular. Obliged,  after  the  battle  of  Corunna,  to 
riiiliark  in  haste,  they  were  unable  to  place  on 
I'l'.inl  the  women  by  whom  they  were  followed, 
and  in  consequence,  fifty  were  left  on  the  shore, 
where  they  were  wandering  about  without  pro- 
tection, exposed  to  the  insults  of  the  soldiers. 
No  sooner  was  Ney  informed  of  their  situa- 
tion, than  he  hastened  to  come  to  their  suc- 
cour; he  assembled  them,  assured  them  of  his 
protection,  and  directed  that  they  should  be 
placed  in  a  female  convent.  But  the  Superior 
refused  to  admit  them  ;  she  positively  refused 
lo  have  any  thing  to  do  with  htretics ;  no  en- 
treaties could  persuade  her  to  extend  to  these 
unfortunates  the  rites  of  hospitality. 

"'Be  it  so,'  replied  the  marshal;  'I  under- 
stand your  scruples ;  and,  therefore,  instead  of 
these  Protestants,  you  shall  furnish  lodgings 
to  two  companies  of  Catholic  grenadiers.'  Ne- 
cessity, at  length, bent  the  hard-hearted  Abbess ; 
and  these  unhappy  women,  for  the  most  pan 
the  wives  or  daughters  of  oflicers  or  non-com- 
missioned officers,  whose  braver}"^  we  had  ex- 
perienced in  the  field,  were  received  into  the 
convent,  where  they  were  protected  from  every 
species  of  injury." — L  39 — 41. 
•  We  have  no  doubt  of  the  truth  of  this  last 
anecdote,  and  we  may  add  that  Ney  not  only 
respected  the  remains  of  Sir  John  Moore, 
interred  in  the  ramparts  of  Corunna,  but 
erected  a  monument  to  his  memory.  It  is 
soothing  to  see  the  Freemasonry  of  generous 
feelin'^  which  subsists  between  the  really 
brave  and  elevated,  under  all  the  varieties  of 
national  rivalry  or  animosit}',  in  every  part  of 
the  world. 

It  is  a  pleasing  task  to  record  traits  of  gene- 
rosity in  an  enemy;  but  war  is  not  composed 
f-niirely  of  such  actions;  and,  as  a  specimen 
of  the  mode  in  which  the  Republican  troops, 
in  the  first  years  of  their  triumphs,  oppressed 
the  people  whom  they  professed  to  deliver,  we 
Mil'join  the  following  account  of  the  mode  in 
wliKh  they  levied  their  requisitions,  taken 
from  ihe  report  of  one  of  the  Envoys  of  Go- 
vernment lo  the  Convention. 

"Cologne,  8ih  October,  1794. 

"The  agents  sent  to  make  r.quisitions,  my 
^car  cnjl. -agues,  act  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
revolt  all  the  world.  The  moment  they  arrive 
in  a  town,  they  lay  a  rerjuisition  on  every 
thing  ;  htrrally  rvrry  llihif;.  No  one  thereafter 
can  either  buy  or  sell.    Thus  we  see  com- 


merce paralyzed,  and  for  how  longi  For  aj 
indefinite  lime  ;  for  there  are  many  requisi 
tions  which  have  been  laid  on  a  month  ago, 
and  on  which  nothing  has  yet  been  demanded; 
and  during  that  whole  period  the  inhabitants 
were  unable  to  purchase  any  articles  even  of  tht 
first  necessity.  If  such  measures  are  not  cal-> 
culated  to  produce  a  counter-revciutionary 
reaction ;  if  they  are  not  likely  to  roui;e  against 
us  the  indignation  o^  all  mankind,  I  ask  you 
what  are  1 

"  Safety  and  fraternity. — Gellit."    I.  53. 

Contrast  this  conduct  on  the  part  of  the 
Friends  of  the  People,  as  detailed  by  one  of 
their  own  representatives  to  his  democratic 
rulers,  with  the  conduct  of  the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington, paying  high  prices  for  every  article 
required  by  the  English  army  in  the  south  of 
France,  and  we  have  the  best  proof  of  the  dif- 
ference between  the  actions  of  a  Conservative 
and  Kevolutionary  Government. 

The  life  of  a  soldier  who  spent  twenty  years 
in  camps,  of  course  furnishes  abundant  ma- 
terials for  the  description  of  military  adventure. 
We  select,  almost  at  random,  the  following  de- 
scription of  the  passage  of  the  Rhine,  opposite 
Ehrenbreitzin,  by  the  corps  of  Kleber,  in  179 &. 

"  The  fort  of  Ehrenbreitzin  commanded  the 
mouth  of  Moselle ;  the  batteries  of  the  righi 
bank  swept  all  the  shores  of  the  Rhine.  The 
enemy  were  quite  aware  of  our  design;  the 
moon  .  shone  bright ;  and  his  soldiers,  with 
anxious  ej-cs  and  listening  ears,  waited  the 
moment  when  our  boats  might  come  within 
reach  of  his  cannon.  The  danger  was  great ; 
but  that  of  hesitation  was  still  greater ;  we 
abandoned  ourselves  to  our  fate,  and  pushed 
across  towards  Neuwied.  Instantly  the  forts 
and  the  batteries  thundered  with  unexampled 
violence ;  a  shower  of  grape-shot  fell  in  our 
boats.  But  there  is  something  in  great  danger 
which  elevates  the  mind.  Our  pontonniers 
made  a  sport  of  death,  as  of  the  batteries 
which  were  successively  unmasked,  and  join- 
ing their  efforts  to  the  current  which  swept 
them  along,  at  length  reached  the  dikes  on 
the  opposite  shore.  Neuwied  also  opened  its 
fire.  That  delicious  town,  embellished  by 
all  the  arts  of  peace,  now  transfonned  into  a 
Avarlike  stronghold,  overwhelmed  us  by  the 
fire  of  its  batteries.  We  replied  with  vigour, 
but  for  long  felt  a  repugnance  to  direct  our 
fire  against  that  charming  city.  At  length, 
however,  necessity  compelled  us  to  make  the 
attack,  and  in  a  few  hours  Neuwied  was  re-  , 
duced  to  ashes.  I 

"The  difficulties  of  the  enterprise  neverthe- 
less remained.  It  was  necessary  to  overcome 
a  series  of  redoubts,  covered  by  chevaux-de- 
frize,  palisades,  and  covered  ways.  We  liad 
at  once  to  carry  Dusseldorf  and  beat  the  Count 
d'Hirbauch,  who  awaited  our  approach  at  the 
head  of  20,000  men.  Kleber  alone  did  not  des- 
pair; the  batteries  on  the  left  shore  were  ready, 
and  the  troops  impatiently  awaited  the  signal 
to  land.  The  dispositions  were  soon  made. 
Lcfebvre  attacked  the  lef\,  Championnet  the 
centre,  Grenier  the  right.  Such  leaders  could 
not  but  inspire  confidence  in  the  men.  Soldiers 
and  officers  leapt  ashore.  We  braved  the  storm 
of  grape-shot;  and  on  the  5fh  September  . 


MARSHAL  NEY. 


89 


break  of  day,  we  were  established  on  the  Ger- 
man bank  of  the  river." — I.  99-^101. 

These  Memoirs  abound  with  passages  of 
this  description  ;  and  if  implicit  faith  is  to  be 
given  to  them,  it  appears  certain  that  Ney  from 
the  very  first  was  distinguished  by  a  degree 
of  personal  gallantry,  as  well  as  military  con- 
duct, which  has  been  rarely  paralleled,  and 
never  exceeded.  The  description  of  his  ele- 
vation to  the  rank  of  General  Brigade,  and  the 
action  which  preceded  it,  is  singularly  de- 
scriptive of  the  character  of  the  French  armies 
at  that  period. 

"  Meanwhile  Mortier  made  himself  master  of 
Ebermanstadt,  Collaud  advanced  upon  For- 
chiers.  His  orders  were  to  drive  back  every 
opponent  whom  he  found  in  the  plain,  and 
disperse  every  force  which  attempted  to  cover 
the  place.  The  task  was  difficult ;  the  avenues 
leading  to  it,  the  heights  around  it,  were  equally 
guarded ;  and  Wartensleben,  in  the  midst  of 
his  soldiers,  was  exhorting  them  not  to  per- 
mit their  impregnable  position  to  be  carried. 
It  presented,  in  truth,  every  obstacle  that  could 
well  be  imagined;  they  were  abrupt,  covered 
with  woods,  surrounded  by  deep  ravines.  To 
these  obstacles  of  nature  were  joined  all  the 
resources  of  art;  on  this  height  were  placed 
masses  of  soldiers,  that  was  crowned  with  ar- 
tillery; infantry  was  stationed  at  the  summit 
of  the  defiles,  cavalry  at  their  mouths;  on 
every  side  the  resistance  promised  to  br?  of  the 
most  formidable  description.  Ney,  however, 
was  not  to  be  deterred  by  such  obstacles ;  he 
advanced  at  the  head  of  a  handful  of  heroes, 
and  opened  his  fire.  He  had  only  two  pieces 
of  artillery ;  the  enemy  speedily  unmasked 
fourteen.  His  troop  was  for  a  moment  shaken 
by  the  violence  of  the  fire ;  but  it  was  ac- 
customed to  all  the  chances  of  war.  It  speedily 
re-formed,  continued  the  attack,  and  succeeded, 
after  an  obstinate  struggle,  in  throwing  the  ene- 
my's ranks  into  disorder.  Some  reinforcements 
soon  afterwards  arrived ;  the  melee  grew 
warmer;  and  at  Jength  the  Austrians,  over- 
whelmed and  broken,  evacuated  the  position, 
which  they  found  themselves  unable  to  defend. 

"Kleber,  charmed  with  that  brilliant  achieve- 
ment, testified  the  warmest  satisfaction  with  it 
to  the  young  ofiicer.  He  addressed  to  him, 
at  the  liead  of  his  troop,  the  most  flattering  ex- 
pressions upon  his  activity,  skill,  and  courage, 
and  concluded  with  these  words,  'I  will  no 
longer  hurt  your  modesty  by  continuing  my 
praises!  My  line  is  taken;  you  are  a  Gene- 
ral of  Brigade.'  The  chasseurs  clapped  their 
hands,  and  the  officers  loudly  testified  their 
satisfaction.  Ney  alone  remained  pensive  ;  he 
even  seemed  to  hesitate  whether  he  should  ac- 
cept the  rank,  and  did  not  utter  a  single  word. 
'Well,' continued  Kleber,  in  the  kindest  man- 
ner, 'you  seem  very  confused;  but  the  Aus- 
trians are  those  who  will  speedily  make  you 
forget  your  ennui ;  as  for  me,  I  will  forthwith 
report  your  promotion  to  the  Directory.'  He 
di«l  so  in  eflect,  and  it  was  confirmed  by  return 
of  post."— I.  186. 

It  is  still  a  question  undecided,  whether  Na- 
poleon intended  seriously  to  invade  England, 
or  whether  his  great  preparations  in  the  Chan- 
nel were  a  feint  merely  to  give  employment 


to  his  troops,  and  cover  other  designs.  Bour- 
rienne  maintains  that  he  never  in  reality  in- 
tended  to  attempt  the  descent;  and  that,  un 
known  to  every  one,  he  was  organizing  his 
expedition  into  the  heart  of  Germany  at  the 
time  when  all  around  him  imagined  that  he 
was  studying  only  the  banks  of  the  Thames. 
Napoleon  himself  affirms  the  conlrarr.  He 
asserts  that  he  was  quite  serious  in  his  inton- 
tion  of  invading  England;  that  he  was  fully 
aware  of  the  risks  with  which  the  attempt 
would  have  been  attended,  but  was  willing  to 
have  braved  them  for  so  great  an  object;  and 
that  the  defeat  of  the  combined  squadron  by 
Sir  Robert  Calder,  frustrated  the  best  combined 
plan  he  had  ever  laid  during  his  whole  career. 
His  plan,  as  detailed  in  the  instructions  given 
to  Villeneuve,  printed  in  the  appendix  to  his 
Memoirs,  was  to  have  sent  the  combined  fleet 
to  the  West  Indies,  in  order  to  draw  after  it 
Loixl  Nelson's  squadron  ;  and  to  have  immedi- 
ately brought  it  back,  raised  the  blockade  of 
Ferrol  and  Corunna,  and  proceeded  with  tho 
combined  fleet  to  join  the  squadrons  of  Rochelle 
and  Brest,  where  twenty  sail  of  the  line  were 
ready  for  sea,  and  brought  the  combined  squad- 
ron into  the  Channel  to  cover  the  embarkation 
of  the  army.  In  this  way,  by  a  sudden  con- 
centration of  all  his  naval  force,  he  calcixlated 
upon  having  seventy  sail  of  the  line  in  the 
Channel;  a  much  greater  force  than, in  the  ab- 
sence of  Lord  Nelson,  the  British  could  have 
at  once  assembled  to  meet  him.  When  Ave 
recollect  that  Lord  Nelson  fell  into  the  snare, 
and  actually  pursued  the  combined  fleets  to 
the  West  Indies ;  that  in  pursuance  of  Na- 
poleon's design,  Villeneuve  reached  Ferro), 
and  that  it  was  in  consequence  only  of  his  un- 
successful action  with  Sir  Robert  Calder.  that 
he  was  induced  to  fall  back  to  Cadiz,  and  there- 
by cause  the  whole  plan  to  miscarry;  it  is 
evident  that  the  fate  of  Britain  then  hung  upon 
a  thread,  and  that  if  the  English  admiral  had 
been  defeated,  and  the  combined  fleet  had  pro- 
ceeded up  the  Channel,  the  invasion  might  have 
been  effected,  and  the  fate  of  the  civilized  world 
been  changed.  It  is  a  singular  proof  of  the 
sagacity  of  Lord  Collingwood,  that  at  the  very 
time  when  this  well-combined  plan  was  in 
progress  on  Napoleon's  side,  he  divined  the 
enemy's  intentions,  and  in  a  memorial  address- 
ed to  "the  Admiralty,  and  published  in  his  Me- 
moirs, pointed  outthe  danger  arising  from  the 
precise  plan  which  his  great  antagonist  was 
adopting;  and  it  is  a  still  more  singular  in- 
stance of  the  injustice  and  precipitance  of 
public  opinion,  that  tho  British  government 
were  compelled  to  bring  the  admiral  to  a 
court-martial,  and  dismiss  him  from  the  ser- 
vice, because,  with  fifteen  ships  of  the  line,  he 
had  maintained  a  2;lorious  combat  with  t\venly- 
sevcn,  captured  two  of  their  line,  and  d.-foaled 
the  greatest  and  best  combined  project  ever 
formed  by  the  Emperor  Napoleon. 

As  every  thing  relating  to  this  critical  pe- 
riod of  the  war  is  of  the  very  highest  inlcirst 
in  Great  Britain,  wc  shall  translate  the  pns 
sages  of  Ney's  Memoirs,  which  throw  ItRht 
upon  the  vast  preparations  th.-n  made  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Channel.  ,  r     i  „j 

"Meanwhile  time  passed  on,  and  Engl.tnd. 


00 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


a  liiil 
neve  I 


rod  from  its  consternation,  Init 
lif  hmI  place  of  attack,  always 
Us  '.•ovcrnnuMit. 


Four  thousand  f^un- 
boats  ciivcnd  the  coast;  the  construclion  of 
praams  and  rafis  wont  on  without  intermission ; 
ever)-  thinp  announced  that  the  invasion  was 
to  W  #'fr<Tied  by  main  force,  and  by  means  of 
l!,  ;  whidi  maclc  so  much  noi^e.    If  the 

ft;;:  ilnubiful,  it  at  least  had  its  chance 

of  success;  but  while  Enj^land  was  daily  be- 
coming more  confident  of  success  in  repelling 
that  airtzrossion,  the  preparations  for  the  real 
attack  were  approaching  to  malurit)'.  Napoleon 
never  seriously  intended  to  traverse  the  Chan- 
nel under  cover  of  a  fo'^,  by  the  aid  of  a  favour- 
able wind,  or  by  the  force  of  such  frail  vessels 
of  war  as  cun-boats.  His  arrangements  were 
better  made;  and  all  that  splendid  display  of 
gun-boats  was  only  intended  to  deceive  the 
enemy.  He  wished  to  disperse  the  force  which 
he  could  not  combat  when  assembled  together. 
In  pursuance  of  this  plan,  his  fleets  were  to 
have  assembled  from  Toulon,  Rochfort,  Cadiz, 
Brest,  and  Ferrol,  draw  after  them  to  the  West 
Indies  the  British  blockading  squadrons,  and 
return  rapidly  on  their  steps,  and  present  them- 
selves in  the  Channel  before  the  English  were 
well  aware  that  they  had  crossed  the  Line. 
Master  in  this  way  of  a  preponderating  force, 
riding  irresistibly  in  the  Channel,he  would  have 
embiirked  on  board  his  flotilla  the  troops  with 
which  he  would  have  made  himself  master  of 
London,  and  revolutionized  England,  before 
ihat  immense  marine,  which  he  could  never 
have  faced  when  assembled  together,  could 
have  collected  for  its  defence.  These  different 
expeditions,  long  retained  in  their  diflVrcnt  har- 
bours, had  at  length  set  sail ;  the  troops  had 
received  orders  to  be  ready  to  put  themselves 
instantly  on  board;  the  instructions  to  the 
general  had  foreseen  ever}'  thing,  provided  for 
every  emergency ;  the  vessels  assigned  to  each 
troop,  the  order  in  which  they  were  to  fall  out 
of  the  harbour,  were  all  fixed.  Arms,  horses, 
artillery,  combatants,  camp-followers,  all  had 
received  their  place,  all  were  arranged  accord- 
ing to  their  orders. 

".Mar>hal  Ney  had  nothing  to  do  but  follow 
out  literally  his  instructions;  they  were  so 
luminous  and  precise  as  to  provide  for  every 
contingency.  He  distributed  the  powder,  the 
tools,  the  projectiles,  which  were  to  accompany 
his  corps  on  board  the  transports  provided  for 
that  purpose.  He  divided  that  portion  of  the 
flotilla  assigned  to  him  into  subdivisions; 
every  regiment,  every  battalion,  every  com- 
pany, received  the  praams  destined  for  their 
use;  every  one,  down  to  the  very  last  man, 
was  ready  In  oinbark  at  thp  first  signal.  He 
did  murr ;  rapidity  of  movement  requires  com- 
Ifincd  exertions,  and  he  resolved  to  habituate 
the  tHKips  to  embarkation.  The  divisions  were 
successively  brought  down  to  the  quay,  and 
embarked  in  the  finest  order;  hut  it  was  possi- 
ble that  wlien  assembled  hurriedly  together, 
they  nii'.;ht  be  less  calm  and  orderly.  The 
Marshal  resolved  lo  put  it  to  the  proof. 

"Infantry,  cavair)',  artillery,  were  at  once 
put  under  arms,  and  ranged  opposite  to  the 
resscis  on  which  they  were  to  embark.  The 
whole  were  formed  in  platoons  for  embarka- 


tion, at  small  distances  from  each  other.  A, 
cannon  was  discharged,  the  field-officers  an 
stafl-oflicers  immediately  dismounted,  and 
placed  themselves  each  at  the  head  of  the 
troop  he  was  destined  to  command.  The  drum.\ 
had  ceased  to  beat;  the  soldiers  had  unfixed 
their  bayonets;  a  second  discharge  louder  than 
the  first  was  heard;  the  generals  of  divisions 
pass  the  order  to  the  colonels.  'Make  ready 
to  embark.'  Instantly  a  calm  succeeds  to  the 
tumult;  everyone  listens  attentively,  eagerly 
watching  for  the  next  order,  on  which  so  much 
depended.  A  third  cannon  is  heard,  and  the 
command  'Colonels,  forward,'  is  heard  with 
indescribable  anxiety  along  the  line.  In  fine 
a  last  discharge  resounds,  and  is  instantly  fol- 
lowed by  the  order,  '  March  !' — Universal  ac- 
clamations instantly  broke  forth;  the  soldiers 
hurried  on  board ;  in  ten  minutes  and  a  half 
twenty-five  thousand  men  were  embarked. 
The  soldiers  never  entertained  a  doubt  tha' 
they  were  about  to  set  sail.  They  arranges 
themselves,  and  each  took  quarters  for  him- 
self; when  the  cannon  again  sounded,  the 
drums  beat  to  arms,  they  formed  ready  for 
action  on  the  decks.  A  last  gun  is  discharged ; 
every  one  believed  it  was  the  signal  to  Aveigh 
anchor,  and  shouts  of  Vive  V  Empcreur  rent  the 
air,  but  it  was  the  signal  for  debarkation, 
which  was  efl"ected  silently  and  with  deep  re- 
gret. It  was  completed,  however,  as  rapidly 
as  the*  embarkation,  and  in  thirteen  minutes 
from  the  time  when  the  soldiers  Avere  on 
board,  they  were  arranged  in  battle  array  on 
the  shore. 

"  Meanwhile  the  English  had  completely 
fallen  into  the  snare.  The  f.eet  which  cruised 
before  Rochfort  had  no  sooner  seen  Admiral 
Missiessy  running  down  before  the  Mind,  than 
it  set  sail  in  pursuit.  Villeneuve,  who  started 
from  Toulon  in  the  middle  of  a  violent  tem- 
pest, was  obliged  to  return  to  the  harbour;  but 
such  was  Nelson's  anxiety  to  meet  him,  that 
he  set  sail  first  for  Egypt,  then  for  the  West  In- 
dies. The  Mediterranean  was  speedily  cleared 
of  English  vessels;  their  fleets  Avandered 
through  the  Atlantic,  without  knowing  where 
to  find  the  enemy;  the  moment  to  strike  a 
decisive  stroke  had  arrived. 

"The  unlooked  for  return  of  Missiessy  frus- 
trated all  these  calculations.  He  had  sailed 
like  an  arrow  to  Martinique,  and  returned  still 
more  rapidly:  but  the  English  now  retained 
at  home  the  squadrons  which  they  had  original- 
ly intended  to  have  sent  for  the  defence  of 
Jamaica.  Our  situation  in  consequence  was 
less  favourable  than  we  had  expected  ;  but, 
nevertheless,  there  was  nothing  to  excite  un- 
easiness. We  had  fifteen  ships  of  the  line  at 
Ferrol,  six  at  Cadiz,  five  at  Rochfort,  twenty- 
one  at  Brest.  Villeneuve  was  destined  to  rally 
them,  join  them  to  the  twenty  which  he  had 
under  his  orders,  and  advancing  at  the  head 
of  an  overwhelming  force,  make  himself  mas- 
ter of  the  Channel.  He  left  'J'oulon  on  the 
30ih  March,  and  on  the  23d  June  he  was  at  the 
Azores,  on  his  return  to  Europe,  leaving  Nelson 
still  in  the  West  Indies.  But  at  the  very  mo- 
ment when  every  one  flattered  himself  that 
our  vessels  would  speedily  arrive  to  protect 
the  embarkation  of  the  armj',  we  learnt  that,. 


J 


MARSHAL  NEY. 


91 


leterred  by  a  cannonade  of  a  few  hours,  and 
the  loss  of  two  ships,  (Sir  R.  Calder's  battle,) 
he  had  taken  refuge  in  Ferrol.  A  mournful 
feeling  took  possession  of  our  minds ;  every- 
one complained  that  a  man  should  be  so  im- 
measurably beneath  his  destiny. 

"  All  hope,  however,  was  not  lost;  the  em- 
peror still  retained  it.  He  continued  his  dis- 
positions, and  incessantly  urged  the  advance 
of  the  marine.  Every  one  flattered  himself 
that  Villeneuve,  penetrated  with  the  greatness 
of  his  mission,  would  at  length  put  to  sea,  join 
Gautheame,  disperse  the  fleet  of  Cornwallis, 
and  at  length  make  his  appearance  in  the 
Channel.  But  an  unhappy  fatality  drew  him 
on.  He  only  left  Ferrol  to  throw  himself  into 
Cadiz.  It  was  no  longer  possible  to  count  on 
the  support  of  his  squadron.  The  emperor  in 
vain  attempted  other  expedients,  and  made 
repeated  attempts  to  embark.  Nothing  could 
succeed  for  want  of  the  covering  squadron ; 
and  soon  the  Battle  of  Trafalgar  and  the 
Austrian  war  postponed  the  conquest  of  Eng- 
land to  another  age." — II.  259—262. 

This  passage,  as  well  as  all  the  others  in 
Napoleon's  Memoirs,  which  are  of  a  similar 
import,  are  calulated,  in  our  opinion,  to  excite 
the  most  singular  feelings.  They  demonstrate, 
beyond  a  doubt,  of  what  incalculable  import- 
ance Sir  Robert  Calder's  action  was  ;  and  that, 
more  than  even  the  triumph  of  Trafalgar,  it 
fixed  the  destinies  of  Britain.  The  great  victory 
of  Nelson  did  not  occur  till  the  21st  October, 
and  months  before  that  the  armies  of  Napo- 
leon had  been  transported  from  the  shores  of 
Boulogne  to  the  heart  of  Germany,  and  were 
irrevocably  engaged  in  a  contest  with  Austria 
and  Russia.  It  was  Sir  Robert  Calder's  action 
which  broke  the  course  of  Napoteon's  designs, 
and  chained  his  armies  to  the  shore,  at  the 
very  time  when  they  were  ready  to  have 
passed  over,  with  a  second  Cssar,  to  the  shores 
of  Britain.  It  is  melancholy  to  think  of  the 
fate  of  the  gallant  officer,  under  the  dictation 
of  that  impartial  judge,  the  popular  voice, 
whose  skill  and  bravery  achieved  these  great 
results. 

It  is  a  curious  speculation,  now  that  the 
event  is  over,  what  would  have  been  the  fate 
of  England,  if  Napoleon,  with  one  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  men,  had,  in  consequence 
of  the  success  of  these  combinations,  landed 
on  the  shores  of  Sussex.     We  are  now  com- 
pelled, with  shame  and  sorrow,  to  doubt  the 
doctrine  which,  till   the   lasJ.  three  years,  we 
held  on  this  subject.  We  fear,  there ^s  a  great 
probability  that  he  would  have  achieved  the 
overthrow  of  the   British  empire.    Not  that 
the  mere  force  of  Napoleon's  army,  great  as  it 
was,  could  have  in  the  end  subjugated  the  de- 
scendants of  the   conquerors  of  Cressy  and 
Azicour.     The  examples  of  Vimiera,  Maida, 
Alexandria,   Corunna,   and  Waterloo,  where 
English  troops,  who   had  never   seen   a  shot 
fired  in  anger,  at  once  defeated  the  veterans 
of  France,   even  when    commanded   by   the 
ablest  officers,  is  sufficient  to  prove  the  reverse. 
England  was  invincible,  if  she  remained  faith- 
ful to  herself.     But  would  she  have  remained 
faithful  to  herselfl    That  is  the  question.  The 
events  of  the  last  three  years  have  awakened 


us  to  the  mournful  fear,  that  she  would  nt  t-  II 
is   now  proved,  by  sad   experience,  that  we 
possess  within  ourselves  a  numerous,  power- 
ful, and  energetic  faction,  insatiable  in  am- 
bition, unextinguishable  in  resources,  deaf  to 
every  call  of  patriotism,  dead  to  every  feeling 
of  hereditary  glory.  To  them  national  triuncph 
is  an  object  of  regret,  because  it  was  achieved 
under  the  banners  of  their  opponents ;  national 
humiliation  an  object  of  indifl"erencc,  provided 
they  are  elevated  by  it  to  the  reins  of  power. 
With  burning  hearts  and  longing  eyes  they 
watched  the  career  of  the  French  Revolution, 
ever  eulogizing  its  principles,  palliating  its 
excesses,   vituperating   its   adversaries.     Mr. 
Fox  pronounced  in  Parliament  the  Constitu- 
tion framed  by  the  Constituent  Assembly,  to 
be  "the  most  astonishing  fabric  of  v.-isdoco 
and  virtue  which  patriotism  had  reared  in  any 
age  or  country,  on  the  ruins  of  ignorance  and 
superstition."      And   when    this    astonishing 
fabric  produced  Danton  and  Robespierre,  and 
hatched  the  Reign  of  Terror,  he  showed  no 
disposition  to  retract  the  opinion.    Two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  thousand  Irishmen,  we  are  told 
by  Wolfe  Tone,  were  united,  drilled,  regimented 
and  organized,  to  effect  the  separation  of  Ire- 
land from  Great  Britain ;  and  if  we  may  be- 
lieve Mr.  Moore,  in  his  Life  of  Lord  Edward 
Fitzgerald,  Mr.  Fox  was  no  stranger  to  their 
treasonable  intentions  at  the  very  time  when 
he  earnestly  supported  their  demand  for  Parlia- 
mentary Reform.     During  the  last  three  years 
we  have  seen  this  party  systematically  undo 
every   think   which    their    predecessors    had 
efll'ected  during  half  a  century-  of  unexampled 
glory;  abandon,  one  by  one,  all  the  objects  of 
our  continental  policy,  the  Dutch  barrier,  the 
protection  of  Portugal,  the  independence  of 
Holland,  the  integrity  of  Turkey;  unite   the 
leopard    and    the    tricolor  in   an   inglorious 
crusade  against  the  independence  of  the  sur- 
rounding states  ;  beat  down  Holland  by  open 
force,  and  subvert  Portugal  by  feigned  neutrali- 
ty  and    real    hostility;   force   the  despots  of 
Northern  Europe  into  a  dangerous  defensive 
combination,  and  unite  the  arms  of  constitu 
tional  freedom  with  those  of  democratic   am 
bition   in  the  South;  and,  to  gain  a  deceitful 
popularity  for  a  few  years,  sacrifice  the  Con- 
stitution,  which  had  for  two  hundred  years 
conferred    unexampled    prosperity    on    their 
country.     The   men   who    have    done    these 
things,  could  not  have  been  relied  on  when 
assailed  by  the  insidious   arts  and  deceitful 
promises  of  Napoleon. 

Napoleon  has  told  us,  in  his  Memoirs,  how 
he  proposed  to  have  subjugated  England.^  He 
would  have  overcome  it,  as  he  overcame  bw'it- 
zerland,  Venice,  and  all  the  states  wincii  ilid 
not  meet  him  with  uncompromising  hostility 
He  would  instantly,  on  landing,  have  pub 
lished  a  proclamation,  in  which  lie  dociared 
that  he  came  to  deliver  the  English  from  the 
oligarchy  under  which  they  had  gro:i"c.  for 
three  centuries;  and  for  this  end  he  w..uld 
have  promised  annual  parliaments  universal 
suffrage,  vote  by  ballot,  the  confiscation  of  .he 
Churdi  property,  the  abol.tun,  of  '.e  Corn 
Laws,  and  all  the  objects^of  Whtg  or  R.J.ral 
ambit  on.     Bv   these   offers   he  would   have 


98 


ALISOK'8  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


ihrown  ihr  npple  of  clonuil  discord  and  divi- 
sion into  (MtMi  Hnlaiii.  The  republican  trans- 
ports Mlui'h  broke  out  vith  such  vehemence 
on  the  announcement  of  the  Hcform  13ill  in 
1831,  would  have  been  instantly  heard  on  the 
landing  of  the  tricolor-tlag  on  the  throne  of 
En^'land:  and  the  divisions  now  so  irrecover- 
ably e.Niablished  amongsi  us,  would  have  at 
once  ari.-on  in  presence  of  a  gigantic  and  en- 
terprising enemy.  There  can  be  little  doubt, 
wc  fear,  what  a  considerable  portion  of  the 
Movement  party  in  England,  and  the  whole  of 
it  in  Ireland,  would  have  done.  They  would, 
heart  and  hand,  have  joined  the  enemy  of  their 
country.  Conceiving  that  they  were  doing: 
what  was  best  for  its  inhabitants — they  would 
have  established  a  republic  in  close  alliance 
with  France,  and  directed  the  whole  resources 
of  England  to  support  the  cause  of  democracy 
all  over  the  world.  Meanwhile,  Napoleon, 
little  solicitous  about  their  political  dogmas, 
would  have  steadily  fixed  his  iron  grasp  on 
die  great  warlike  establishments  of  the  coun- 
try; Portsmouth,  Plymouth,  Woolwich,  Chat- 
bam,  Shcerness,  Deptford,  and  Carron,  would 
have  fallen  into  his  hands ;  the  army  would 
have  been  exiled  or  disbanded;  and  if  his 
new  democratical  allies  proved  at  all  trouble- 
some in  the  House  of  Commons,  he  would 
have  dispersed  them  with  as  little  ceremony, 
by  a  file  of  grenadiers,  as  he  did  the  Council 
of  Five  Hundred  in  the  Orangery  of  St.  Cloud. 

It  is  with  pain  and  humiliation  that  we 
make  this  confession.  Five  years  ago  we 
should  have  held  any  man  a  foul  libeller  on 
the  English  character  who  should  have  de- 
clared such  conduct  as  probable  in  any  part 
of  the  English  opposition ;  and  we  should 
have  relied  with  as  much  confidence  on  the 
whole  liberal  party  to  resist  the  aggressions 
of  France,  as  we  should  on  the  warmest  ad- 
herents of  government.  It  is  their  own  conduct, 
since  they  came  into  power,  which  has  unde- 
ceived us,  and  opened  our  eyes  to  the  immen- 
sity of  the  danger  to  which  the  country  was 
exposed,  when  her  firm  patriots  at  the  helm 
nailed  her  colors  to  the  mast.  But  regarding, 
as  we  do,  with  perfect  sincerity,  the  Reform 
Bill  as  ihi  parent  of  a  much  greater  change 
in  our  national  institutions  than  a  conquest  by 
France  would  have  been,  and  the  passing  of 
that  measure  as  a  far  more  perilous,  because 
more  irremediable  leap  in  the  dark,  than  if 
we  had  thrown  ourselves  into  the  arms  of 
Napoleon,  wc  cannot  but  consider  the  subse- 
quent events  as  singularly  illustrative  of  the 
orior  dangers,  and  regard  the  expulsion  of  the 
Whigs  from  the  ministry  by  the  firmness  of 
George  IIL.  in  1807,  as  a  delivery  from  greater 
danger  than  the  country  had  known  since  the 
8axon  arms  were  overthrown  by  William  on 
the  field  of  Hastings. 

One  of  the  most  brilliant  acts  of  Napoleon 
was  his  astonishing  march  from  Boulogne  to 
Swabia,  in  ISO."),  and  the  admirable  skill  with 
which  he  accumulated  his  forces,  converging 
from  so  many  diflerent  points  round  the  un- 
fortunate Mack,  who  lay  bewildered  at  Ulm. 

In  this  able  undertaking,  as  well  as  in  the 
combat  at  Elchingen,  which  contributed  in  so 
P'sential  a  manner  to  its  success,  and  from 


which  his  title  of  duke  was  taken,  Ney  bor« 
a  conspicuous  part.  The  previous  situation 
of  the  contending  powers  is  thus  described  by 
our  author: 

"The  troops  which  the  emperor  had  undel 
his  command  did  not  exceed  180,000  men.— 
This  was  little  enough  for  the  strife  which 
was  about  to  commence,  for  the  coalition  did 
not  now  merely  oppose  to  us  the  troops  which 
they  had  in  the  first  line.  The  allied  sove- 
reigns already  addressed  themselves  to  the 
multitude,  and  loudly  called  on  them  to  take 
up  arms  in  defence  of  liberty,  they  turne(?. 
against  us  the  principles  which  they  professed 
their  desire  to  destroy.  They  roused  in  Ger- 
many national  antipathies:  flattered  in  Italy 
the  spirit  of  independence,  scattered  every 
where  the  seeds  of  insurrection.  The  masses 
of  the  people  were  slow  to  swallow  the  bait. 
They  appreciated  our  institutions,  and  did  not 
behold  without  distrust  this  sudden  burst  of 
enthusiasm  in  sovereigns  in  favour  of  the  po« 
pular  cause :  but  they  readily  took  fire  at  the 
recital  of  the  sacrifices  which  we  had  imposed 
on  them,  the  promised  advantages  Avhich  we 
had  not  permitted  them  to  enjo}'.  The  Coali- 
tion prepared  to  attack  us  on  all  the  vast  line 
which  we  occupied.  Russians,  Swedes,  Eng- 
lish, Hanoverians,  hastened  to  take  a  part  in 
the  strife.  The  approach  of  such  a  mass  oi 
enemies  might  have  occasioned  dangerous 
results ;  a  single  reverse  might  have  involved 
us  in  a  strife  with  warlike  and  impatient  na- 
tions; but  the  Austrians  had  imprudently 
spread  themselves  through  Bavaria,  at  a  time 
when  the  Russians  had  hardly  as  yel  passed 
Poland.  The  emperor  did  not  despair  of  an- 
ticipating the  one  and  overwhelming  the  other 
and  thus  dissipating  that  formidable  league  of 
sovereigns  before  they  Avere  in  a  situation  tc 
deploy  their  forces  on  the  field  of  battle.  The 
blow,  according  to  these  calculations,  Avas  to 
be  struck  in  Swabia.  But  from  that  country 
to  Boulogne,  where  our  troops  were  stationed, 
the  distance  was  nearly  the  same  as  to.Podo- 
lia,  where  the  Russians  had  arrived.  Her 
sought  to  steal  a  march  upon  them  to  conceal 
for  some  days  the  great  mancpuvre  which  he 
meditated.  For  this  purpose,  Marmont,  whose 
troops  were  on  the  coast,  when  he  set  out  for 
Germany,  received  orders  to  give  out  that  he 
was  about  to  take  merely  other  quarters  ;  and 
Bernadotte,  who  was  stationed  in  Hanover,  to 
encourage  the  opinion  that  he  was  about  to 
spend  the  winter  in  that  country.  Meanwhile 
all  had  orders  to  hasten  their  march ;  all  ad- 
vanced with  the  same  celerit}' ;  and  when  our 
enemies  still  believed  us  6n  the  shores  of  the 
Channel,  we  were  far  advanced  towards  the 
Rhine.  The  first  and  second  corps  had 
reached  Mayence;  the  third  was  grouped 
around  Manheim  ;  the  fourth  had  halted  in 
the  environs  of  Spire;  the  fifth  was  estab- 
lished at  Strasbourg,  and  the  sixth,  which  hajt 
started  from  Montreuilon  the  28th  August,  had 
reached  Lauterbourg  on  the  24th  September. 
In  that  short  interval,  it  had  traversed  three  hun- 
dred leagues,  being  at  the  rate  of  above  ten 
leagues  a-day.  History  has  nothing  to  show 
comparable  to  such   celerity."— IL  268— 270      : 

From  a  soldier  of  such  ability  and  experi-     i 


MARSHAL  NEY. 


93 


ence  much  may  be  expected  of  value  on  the 
science  of  war.  In  the  "  Reflections"  of  the 
marshal,  at  the  end  of  the  second  volume,  the 
reader  will  find  much  interesting  matter  of  that 
description.     We  select  one  example : — 

"The  defensive  system  accords  ill  Avith  the 
disposition  of  the  French  soldier,  at  least  if  it 
is  not  to  be  maintained  by  successive  diver- 
sions and  excursions ; — in  a  word,  if  you  are 
not  constantly  occupied  in  that  little  warfare, 
inactivity  destroys  the  force  of  troops  who 
rest  constantly  on  the  defensive.  They  are 
obliged  to  be  constantly  on  the  alert,  night 
and  day ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  offensive 
expeditions,  wisely  combined,  raise  the  spirit 
of  the  soldier,  and  prevent  him  from  having 
time  to  ponder  on  the  real  cause  of  his  dan- 
gerous situation. 

"It  is  in  the  offensive  that  you  find  in  the 
French  soldier  inexhaustible  resources.  His 
active  disposition,  and  valour  in  assaults, 
double  his  power.  A  general  should  never 
hesitate  to  march  with  the  bayonet  against  the 
enemy,  if  the  ground  is  favourable  for  the  use 
of  that  weapon.  It  is  in  the  attack,  in  fine, 
that  you  accustom  the  French  soldier  to  every 
species  of  warfare, — alike  to  brave  the  ene- 
my's fire,  which  is  generally  little  hurtful, 
and  to  leave  the  field  open  to  the  develop- 
ment of  his  intelligence  and  courage. 

"  One  of  the  greatest  difficulties  in  war  is 
to  accustom  the  soldier  to  the  fatigues  of 
marching.  The  other  powers  of  Europe  will 
attain  with  difficulty  in  this  respect  the  degree 
of  perfection  which  the  French  soldier  pos- 
sesses. His  sobriety  and  physical  constitu- 
tion are  the  real  causes  of  the  marked  superi- 
ority he  has  acquired  over  the  Austrians  in 
that  particular. 

"Rapidity  of  march,  or  rather  an  able  com- 
bination of  marches,  almost  invariably  deter- 
mine the  fate  of  war.  Colonels  of  infantry, 
therefore,  should  be  indefatigable  in  their  en- 
deavours to  train  their  soldiers  progressively  to 
ordinary  and  forced  marches.  To  attain  that 
object,  so  essential  in  war,  it  is  indispensable 


to  oblige  the  soldier  to  carry  his  k-napsack  on 
his  back  from  the  outset  of  the  campaign,  in 
order  to  accustom  him  to  the  fatigues  which 
m  the  course  of  it  he  must  undergo.  The 
health  of  the  soldier  depends  on  this  being 
habitual ;  the  men  are  economized  by  it ;  the 
continual  loss  by  partial  and  frequently 
useless  combats  is  avoided,  as  well  as  the 
considerable  expenses  of  hospitals  to  govern- 
ment."— II.  410,  411. 

We    have    room    for    no   more    extracts: 
those   which   have   been  already   given  wilJ 
convey  a  clear  idea  of  the  character  of  this 
work.    It  possesses  the  merits,  and  exhibits 
the  defects,  of  all  the  memoirs  by  the  leaders 
of  the  ambitious  or  war  party  in  France,  re- 
garding that  period.     Abounding  in  anecdote, 
lull  of  patriotic  spirit  and  military  adventure, 
it  at  the  same  time  presents  all  the  prejudices 
and  errors   of  that  party, — a  profound  and 
unreasonable  hatred  of  this  country — an  im- 
passioned enthusiasm  for  the  glory  of  France 
— a  deliberate  and  apparently  sincere  belief, 
that  whatever  opposes  its  elevation  is  to  be 
looked  upon  with  instinctive  and  unconquer- 
able aversion.    In  this  respect,  the  opinions 
of  this  party  in  France  are  utterly  extravagant, 
and   not   a   little   amusing.     They  iT>ake   no 
allowances    for   the   differences   of   national 
feeling — yield  nothing  to   national  rivalry — 
never  transport  themselves  into  the  breasts  of 
their  antagonists  in  the  strife,  or  of  the  people 
they  are  oppressing,  but  take  for  granted,  as  a 
matter  concerning  which  there  can  be  no  dis- 
pute, that  whatever  resists  the  glory  of  France 
is  an  enemy  of  the  human  race.    There  are 
many  writers   of  intelligence  and  ability  in 
whom  we  cannot  pardon  this  weakness ;  but, 
recollecting  the  tragic  fate  of  Marshal  Ney, 
and  pitying  the  ulcerated  hearts  of  his  rela- 
tions, we  find  more  excuse  for  it  in  his  bio- 
grapher, and  look  forward  with  interest  to  the 
concluding  volumes  of  this  work,  which  will 
contain    still    more    interesting    matter— the 
Peninsular  campaigns,   the  Russian  retrea*, 
the  rout  of  Waterloo. 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


IIOIJEKT  BEUCE.* 

A  Fropilome  is  a  nolilc  thine: ; 
Frci'ddiiK!  iiiuki-H  man  to    luive  liking; 
KrpiMloiiic  all  Biilari;  to  nion  i.'iv<;s  ; 
Ho  lives  at  ease  thai  freely  lives. 

BAUBOun's  Bruce. 


Thi  discovery  of  the  bones  of  RonEnr 
Brick,  among  the  ruins  of  Diinfcrinline  ab- 
bey, calls  for  some  observations  in  a  journal 
intended  to  record  the  most  remarkable  events, 
whether  of  a  public  or  a  domestic  nature, 
which  occur  during  the  period  to  vhich  it 
refers;  and  it  will  never,  perhaps,  be  our 
good  forlunc  to  direct  the  attention  of  our 
readers  to  an  event  more  interesting  to  the 
antiquary  or  the  patriot  of  Scotland,  than  the 
discovery  and  reinterment  of  the  remains  of 
her  greatest  hero. 

It  is  satisfactory,  in  the  first  place,  to  know 
that  no  doubt  can  exist  about  the  remains 
which  were  discovered  being  really  the  bones 
of  Robert  Bruce.  Historians  had  recorded 
that  he  was  interred  "  dcbito  cum  honore  in 
medio  Ecclesiae  de  Dunfermline ;"  but  the 
ruiQ  of  the  abbey  at  the  time  of  the  Reforma- 
tion, and  the  subsequent  neglect  of  the  monu- 
ments which  it  contained,  had  rendered  it 
diflicult  to  ascertain  where  this  central  spot 
reall}-  was.  Attempts  had  been  made  to  ex- 
plore among  the  ruins  for  the  tomb ;  but  so 
entirely  was  the  form  of  cathedral  churches 
forgotten  in  this  northern  part  of  the  island, 
that  the  researches  were  made  in  a  totally 
ditTercnt  place  from  the  centre  of  the  edifice. 
At  length,  in  digging  the  foundations  of  the 
new  church,  the  workmen  came  to  a  tomb, 
arched  over  with  masonry,  and  bearing  the 
marks  of  more  than  usual  care  in  its  construc- 
tion. Curiosity  being  attracted  by  this  cir- 
cumstance, it  was  suspected  that  it  might 
contain  the  remains  of  the  illustrious  hero; 
and  persons  of  more  skill  having  examined 
the  spot  discovered  that  it  stood  precisely  in  the 
centre  of  the  church,  as  its  form  was  indicated 
by  the  existing  ruins.  The  tomb  having  been 
opened  in  the  presence  of  the  Barons  of 
Exchequer,  the  discovery  of  the  name  of  King 
Robert  on  an  iron  plate  among  the  rubbish, 
and  the  cloth  of  gold  in  which  the  bones  were 
shrouded,  left  no  room  to  doubt  that  the  long 
wished-ff)r  grave  had  at  last  been  discovered  ; 
whil<-  the  appearance  of  the  skeleton,  in 
which  the  breast-bone  was  sawed  asunder, 
afforded  a^  still  more  interesting  proof  of  its 
really  being  the  remains  of  that  illustrious 
hero,  whose  heart  was  committed  to  his  faith- 
ful asstKMale  in  arms,  and  thrown  by  him,  on  a 
pilt,'riina'.;e  to  the  Holy  Land,  amidst  the  ranks 
of  the  enemy,  with  the  sublime  expression, 
"Onwards,  as  thou  wast  wont,  thou  fearless 
heart." 

Such  an  event  demands  a  temporary  pause 
iTt  the  avocations  and  amusements  of  life. 
Wc  feel  called  on  to  go  back,  in  imagination, 

•ntnrkMood'R  MnRnr.inp,  Pit.  isni.  Written  iii 
^p  lliiK'  <.f  ih';  ill«r<>viTy  of  tlin  rtniuins  of  Uobcrt 
WUfc  In  the  cliurch  of  Uunfcrinlinc. 


to  the  distant  and  barbarous  pericd  when  thfl 
independence  of  our  country  was  secured  by 
a  valour  and  ability  that  has  never  since 
been  equalled;  and  in  returning  from  his 
recent  grave  to  take  a  nearer  view  of  the 
difficulties  which  he  had  to  encounter,  and  the 
beneficial  eflects  which  his  unshaken  patriot- 
ism has  confirmed  upon  its  people. — Had  we 
lived  in  the  period  when  his  heroic  achieve- 
ments were  fresh  in  the  public  recollection, 
and  when  the  arms  of  England  yet  trembled 
at  the  name  of  Bannockburn,  we  M'ould  have 
dwelt  with  enthusiasm  on  his  glorious  ex- 
ploits, A  nation's  gratitude  should  not  relax, 
when  the  lapse  of  five  subsequent  centuries 
has  not  produced  a  rival  to  his  patriotism  and 
valour;  and  when  this  long  period  has  served 
only  to  develope  the  blessings  which  they 
have  conferred  upon  his  country. 

Towards  a  due  understanding,  however,  of 
the  extraordinary  merits  of  Robert  Bruce,  it 
is  necessary  to  take  a  cursory  view  of  the 
poAver  with  which  he  had  to  contend,  and  of 
the  resources  of  that  kingdom,  which,  at  that 
critical  juncture,  providence  committed  to  his 
arms. 

The  power  of  England,  against  which  it 
was  his  lot  incessantly  to  struggle,  Avas,  per- 
haps, the  most  formidable  which  then  existed 
iu  Europe.  The  native  valour  of  her  people, 
distinguished  even  under  the  weakest  reign, 
was  then  led  on  and  animated  by  a  numerous 
and  valiant  feudal  nobility.  That  bold  and 
romantic  spirit  of  enterprise  which  led  the 
Norman  arms  to  the  throne  of  England,  and 
enabled  Roger  de  Hauteville,  with  thirty  fol- 
lowers, to  win  the  crown  of  the  two  Sicilies, 
still  animated  the  English  nobles;  and  to  this 
hereditary  spirit  Avas  added  the  remembrance 
of  the  matchless  glories  Avhich  their  arms  had 
acquired  in  the  wars  of  Palestine.  The 
barons,  who  Avere  arrayed  against  Robert 
Bruce,  were  the  descendants  of  those  iroa 
Avarriors  Avho  combated  for  Christendom  under 
the  Avail  of  Acre,  and  defeated  the  Avhole 
Saracen  strength  in  the  battle  of  Ascalon  ;  the 
banners  that  were  unfurled  for  the  conquest 
of  Scotland,  Avere  those  AA-hich  had  Avaved 
victorious  over  the  arms  of  Saladin ;  and  the 
sovereign  Avho  led  them,  bore  the  crown 
that  had  been  AA'orn  by  Richard  in  the  Holy 
Wars,  and  Avielded  in  his  sword  the  terror  of 
that  mighty  name,  at  which  even  the  accumu- 
lated hosts  of  Asia  Avere  appalled. 

Nor  Avere  the  resources 
formidable  for  maintaining  and 
the  Avar.  The  prosperity  which  had  groAvn 
up  Avith  the  equal  laAA's  of  our  Saxon  ances* 
tors,  and  Avhich  the  tyranny  of  the  early  Nor- 
man kings  had  never  completely  extinguishedi 
had  revived  and  spread  under  the  Avise  and 


of  England  less 
nourishing 


ROBERT  BRUCE. 


95 


beneficent  reigns  of  Henry  II.  and  Edward  I. 
The  legislative  wisdom  of  the  last  monarch 
had  given  to  the  English  law  greater  improve- 
ments than  it  had  ever  received  in  any  subse- 
quent reigns,  while  his  heroic  valour  had 
subdued  the  rebellious  spirit  of  his  barons, 
and  trained  their  united  strength  to  submis- 
sion to  the  throne.  The  acquisition  of  Wales 
had  removed  the  only  weak  point  of  his  wide 
dominion,  and  added  a  cruel  and  savage  race 
to  the  already  lormidable  mass  of  his  armies. 
The  navy  of  England  already  ruled  the  seas, 
and  was  prepared  to  carry  ravage  and  desola- 
ticji  over  the  wide  and  defenceless  Scottish 
coast;  while  a  hundred  thousand  men,  armed 
in  the  magnificent  array  of  feudal  war,  and 
led  on  by  the  ambition  of  a  feudal  nobility, 
poured  into  a  country  which  seemed  destined 
only  to  be  their  prey. 

But  most  of  all,  in  the  ranks  of  this  army, 
were  found  the  intrepid  Yeomanry  of  Eng- 
land ;  that  peculiar  and  valuable  body  of  men 
which  has  in  every  age  contributed  as  much 
to  the  stability  of  the  English  character,  as 
the  celebrity  of  the  English  arms,  and  which 
then  composed  those  terrible  archers,  whose 
prowess  rendered  them  so  formidable  to  all 
the  armies  of  Europe.  These  men,  whose 
valour  was  warmed  by  the  consciousness  of 
personal  freedom,  and  whose  strength  was 
nursed  among  the  enclosed  fields  and  green 
pastures  of  English  liberty,  conferred,  till  the 
discovery  of  fire-arms  rendered  personal  ac- 
quirements of  no  avail,  a  matchless  advan- 
tage on  the  English  armies.  The  troops  of 
no  other  nation  could  produce  a  body  of  men 
in  the  least  comparable  to  them  either  in 
strength,  discipline,  or  individual  valour;  and 
such  was  the  dreadful  etficacy  with  which 
they  used  their  weapons,  that  not  only  did 
they  mainly  contribute  to  the  subsequent  tri- 
umphs of  Cressy  and  Azincour,  but  at  Poitiers 
and  Hamiklon  Hill  they  alone  gained  the  vic- 
tory, Avitli  hardly  any  assistance  from  the 
feudal  tenantrv. 

These  troops  were  well  known  to  the 
Scottish  soldiers,  and  had  established  their 
superiority  over  them  in  many  bloody  battles, 
in  M'hich  the  utmost  efforts  of  undisciplined 
valour  had  been  found  unavailing  against 
their  practised  discipline  and  superior  equip- 
ment. The  very  names  of  the  barons  who 
headed  them  were  associated  with  an  un- 
broken career  of  conquest  and  renown,  and 
can  hardly  be  read  }'et  without  a  feeling  of 
national  exultation. 

Names  that  to  fear  were  never  known, 
Bold  Norfolk's  Earl  de  Brotherton, 
And  Oxford's  famed  de  Vera  ; 
Ross,  Montague,  and  Manly  came, 
And  Courtney's  pride,  and  Percy's  fame, 
Names  known  too  well  in  Scotland's  war 
At  Falkirk,  Metliven,  and  Dunbar, 
IJlazed  broader  yet  in  after  years, 
At  Cressy  red,  and  fell  Poitiers. 

Against  this  terrible  force,  before  which,  in 
the  succeeding  reign,  the  military  power  of 
France  was  compelled  to  bow,  Bruce  had  to 
array  the  scanty  troops  of  a  barren  land,  and 
the  divided  forces  of  a  turbulent  nobility. 
Scotland  was,  in  his  time,  fallen  low  indeed 
from  that  state   of  peace   and  prosperity  in 


which  she  was  found  at  the  first  invasion  of 
Edward  I.,  and  on  which  so  much  liglit  hai 
been  thrown  by  the  industrious  research  of 
our  times.*  the  disputed  succersion  had 
sown  the  seeds  of  unextin^nishable  jealousies 
among  the  nobles ;  the  gold  of  England  had 
corrupted  many  to  betray  their  country's 
cause;  and  the  latal  ravages  of  English  inva- 
sion nad  desolated  the  whole  plains  front 
which  resources  for  carrying  on  the  war 
could  be  drawn.  All  the  heroic  valour,  the 
devoted  patriotism,  and  the  personal  prowess 
of  Wallace,  had  been  unable  to  stem  the 
torrent  of  English  invasion;  and,  when  he 
died,  the  whole  nation  seemed  to  sink  under 
the  load  against  which  his  unexampled  forti- 
tude had  long  enabled  it  to  struggle.  These 
unhappy  jealousies  among  the  nobles,  to 
which  his  downfall  was  owing,  still  continued, 
and  almost  rendered  hopeless  any  attempt  to 
combine  their  forces ;  while  the  thinned  popu- 
lation and  ruined  husbandry  of  the  country 
seemed  to  prognosticate  nothing  but  utter 
extirpation  from  a  continuance  of  the  war. 
Nor  was  the  prospect  less  melancholy  from  a 
consideration  of  the  combats  which  had  taken 
place.  The  short  spear  and  light  shield  of 
the  Scotch  had  been  found  utterly  unavailing 
against  the  iron  panoply  and  poAverful  horses 
of  the  English  barons ;  while  the  hardy  and 
courageous  mountaineers  perished  in  vain 
under  the  dreadful  tempest  of  the  English 
archery. 

What  then  must  have  been  the  courage  of 
that  youthful  prince,  who  after  having  been 
driven  for  shelter  to  an  island  on  the  north  of 
Ireland,  could  venture,  with  only  forty  fol- 
lowers, to  raise  the  standard  of  independence 
in  the  west  of  Scotland,  against  the  accumu- 
lated force  of  this  mighty  power? — what  the 
resource^  of  that  understanding,  which,  though 
intimately  acquainted,  from  personal  service, 
with  the  tried  superiority  of  the  English  arms, 
could  foresee,  in  his  barren  and  exhaiwsted 
country,  the  means  of  combating  them  I — what 
the  ability  of  that  political  conduct  which 
could  re-unite  the  jaring  interests,  and  smother 
the  deadly  feuds,  of  the  Scottish  nobles  1 — and 
what  the  capacity  of  that  noble  warrior,  wno, 
in  the  words  of  the  contemporary  historian.f 
could  "  unite  the  prowess  of  the  first  knight  to 
the  conduct  of  the  greatest  general  of  his  age," 
and  was  able,  in  the  space  of  six  j^ears,  to  raise 
the  Scottish  arms  from  the  lowest  point  of 
depression  to  such  a  pitch  of  glory,  that  even 
the  redoubted  archers  and  haughty  chivalry 
of  England  fled  at  the  sight  of  the  Scottish 
banner  1 1 

Nor  was  it  only  in  the  field  that  the  great 
and  patriotic  conduct  of  Robert  Bruce  mms  dis- 
played. In  the  endeavour  to  restore  the  almost 
ruined  fortunes  of  his  country,  and  to  lical  the 
wounds  -vhich  a  war  of  unparalleled  seventy 
had  brought  upon  its  people,  he  cxhibiu-d  the 
same  wise  and  beneficent  policy.  Under  his 
auspicious  rule,  husbandry  revived,  arts  were 
encouraged,  and  the  turbulent  barons  were 
awed  into  subjection.  Scotland  recovered, 
during  his  administration,  in  a^greaUneasure, 

♦  Chalmers's  Caledonia,  vol.  i. 
t  Wulsing.  p.  lOG.    Mon.  Malms,  p 


f  FroI'Mrt. 
162,  163. 


90 


ALISOira   MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


from  the  devastation  that  had  precccded  it ; 
and  the  peasants,  for^ettin?  the  stem  warrior 
in  the  l^enelirent  monarch,  lonp;  remembered 
his  sway,  under  the  name  of  the  "good  King 
Rol>eri'v  rci^Mi." 

But  the  ;:reatness  of  his  character  appeared 
most  of  all  from  the  events  that  occurred  after 
his  death.  When  the  capacity  with  wliich 
he  and  his  worthy  associates,  Randolph  and 
Dou<:l,is.  had  counterbalanced  the  superiority 
of  tiic  Hn^rlish  arms,  was  withdrawn,  tiic  fiibric 
whioh  tiu-y  had  supported  fell  to  the  ground. 
In  the  very  first  battle  which  was  fought  after 
his  death,  at  Ilamildon  Hill,  a  larger  army 
than  th.at  which  conquered  at  Bannockburn 
was  overthrown  by  the  archers  of  England, 
without  a  single  knight  couching  his  spear. 
Never,  at  any  subsequent  period,  was  Scotland 
able  to  withstand  the  more  powerful  arms  of 
the  English  yeomanry.  Thenceforward,  her 
military  history  is  little  more  than  amcJancholy 
calalosue  of  continued  defeats,  occasioned 
rather  by  treachery  on  the  part  of  her  nobles, 
or  incapacity  in  her  generals,  than  any  defect 
of  valour  in  her  soldiers ;  and  the  independence 
of  the  monarchy  was  maintained  rather  b}'  the 
(error  which  the  name  of  Bruce  and  the  re- 
membrance of  Bannockburn  had  inspired, 
than  by  the  achievements  of  any  of  the  suc- 
cessors to  his  throne.* 

The  merits  of  Roben  Bruce,  as  a  warrior, 
ire  very  generally  acknowledged;  and  the  eyes 
of  Scottish  patriotism  turn  with  the  greater 
:xultaticn  to  his  triumphs,  from  the  contrast 
which  their  splendour  aflbrds  to  the  barren 
•.nd  humilip.ting  annals  of  the  subsequent 
reign?,.  But  the  important  coNSEauExcEs  of 
nis  victories  are  not  sufficiently  appreciated. 
While  all  admit  the  purity  of  the  motives  by 
vvhich  he  was  actuated,  there  are  many  who 
lament  the  consequences  cf  his  sucpess,  and 
perceive  in  it  the  source  of  those  continued 
hostilities  between  England  and  Scotland 
which  have  brought  such  incalculable  calami- 
ties upon  both  countries,  and  from  which  the 
latter  has  only  within  half  a  century  begun  to 
recover.  Better  would  it  have  been,  it  is  said 
for  the  prosperitYof  this  countr}--,  if,  like  Wales, 
she  had  passed  at  once  under  the  dominion  of 
the  English  government,  and  received,  five 
centuries  ago,  the  present  of  that  liberty  which 
she  so  entirely  lost  during  her  struffgles  for 
national  independence,  and  which  nothing  but 
her  subsequent  union  with  a  free  people  has 
enabled  her  to  obtain. 

There  is  something,  we  think,  a  priori,  im- 
probable in  this  supposition,  that,  from  the 
assertion  of  her  independence  under  Robert 
Bruce,  Scotland  has  received  any  injury.  The 
instinct  to  maintain  the  national  independence, 
and  r'  'ession  from  foreign  powers,  is 

?°  "■'•  i'nplanted  among  mankind,  that 

it  may  well  be  doubted  whether  an  obedience 
to  its  impulse  is  likely  in  any  case  to  pro- 
duce injurious  c/Tect-s,  In  fact,  subjugation 
by  a  foreign  power  is  itself,  in  general,  a  greater 
calamity  than  any  benefits  with  which  it  is 
ftccnmpanied  can  ever  compensate;  because, 
in  the  very  act  of  receiving  ihcm  by  force,  there 


•  Ilanry'f  Drilain,  vol.  vil. 


is  implied  an  entire  dereliction  of  all  that  lit 
valuable  in  political  blessings, — a  security  that 
they  will  remain  permanent.  There  is  no  ex- 
ample, perhaps,  to  be  found  in  the  history  of 
mankind,  of  political  freedom  being  either 
ellectually  conferred  bjr  a  sovereign  in  gift,  or 
communicated  by  the  force  of  foreign  arms ; 
but  as  liberty  is  the  greatest  blessing  which 
man  can  enjoy,  so  it  seems  to  be  the  law  of 
nature  that  it  should  be  the  reward  of  intre- 
pidity and  energy  alone;  and  that  it  is  by  the 
labour  of  his  hands,  and  the  sweat  of  his  brow, 
that  he  is  to  earn  his  freedom  as  well  as  his 
subsistence. 

Least  of  all  are  such  advantages  to  be  an- 
ticipated from  the  conquest  of  a/;ce  people. 
That  the  dominion  of  free  states  over  con- 
quered countries  is  always  more  tyrannical 
than  that  of  any  other  form  of  government, 
has  been  observed  ever  since  the  birth  of 
liberty  in  the  Grecian  states,  by  all  who  have 
been  so  unfortunate  as  to  be  subjected  to  their 
rule.  If  we  except  the  Roman  republic,  whose 
wise  and  beneficent  policy  is  so  entirely  at 
variance  with  every  thing  else  which  we  ob- 
serve in  human  aff"airs,  that  vre  are  almost  dis- 
posed to  impute  it  to  a  special  interposition  of 
divine  providence,  there  is  no  free  state  in 
ancient  or  modern  times,  whose  government 
towards  the  countries  whom  it  subdued  has 
not  been  of  the  most  oppressive  description. 
We  are  accustomed  to  speak  of  the  maternal 
government  of  free  governments,  but  towards 
their  subject  provinces,  it  is  generally  the 
cruel  tyranny  of  the  step-mother,  who  oppresses 
her  acquired  children  to  favour  her  own  ofi"- 
spring. 

Nor  is  it  difficult  to  perceive  the  reason 
why  a  popular  government  is  naturally  in- 
clined, in  the  general  case,  to  severtty  towards 
its  dependencies.  A  single  monarch  looks  to  . 
the  rn-cnttc  alone  of  the  countries  whom  he 
has  subdued,  and  as  it  necessarily  rises  with 
the  prosperity  which  they  enjoj%  Ins  obvious 
interest  is  to  pursue  the  measures  best  calcu- 
lated to  secure  it.  But  in  republics,  or  in  those 
free  governments  where  the  popular  voice  ex- 
ercises a  decided  control,  the  leading  men  of 
the  state  themselves  look  to  the  property  of 
the  subject  country  as  the  means  of  their  in- 
dividual exaltation.  Confiscations  according- 
ly are  multiplied,  with  a  view  to  gratify  the 
people  or  nobles  of  the  victorious  country 
with  grants  of  the  confiscated  lands.  Hatred 
and  animosity  are  thus  engendered  between 
the  ruling  government  and  their  subject 
provinces;  and  this,  in  its  time, gives  rise  to 
new  confiscations,  by  which  the  breach  be- 
tween the  higher  and  lower  orders  is  rendered 
irreparable.  Whoever  is  acquainted  with  the 
history  of  the  dominion  which  the  Athenian 
and  Syracusan  populace  held  over  their  subject 
cities;  with  the  governmentof  Genoa,  Venice, 
and  Florence,  in  modern  times  ;  or  with  thej 
sanguinary  rule  which  England  exercised  I 
over  Ireland  during  the  three  centuries  which] 
followed  her  subjugation,  will  know  that  this  ^ 
statement  is  not  overcharged. 

On  principle,  therefore,  and  judging  by  the  I 
experience  of  past  times,  there  is  no  room  tOj 
doubt,  that  Bruce,  in  opposing  the  conquest  of 


ROBERT  BRUCE. 


Scotland  by  the  English  arms,  doing  what  the 
real  interest  of  his  country  required;  and  that 
how  incalculable  soever  may  be  the  blessin^-s 
which  she  has  since  received  by  a  union,  on 
equal  terms,  with  her  southern  neighbour,' the 
result  would  have  been  very  different  had' she 
entered  into  that  government  on  the  footing  of 
involuntary  subjugation.  In  fact,  it  is  not  diffi- 
cult to  perceive  what  would  have  been  the 
policy  which  England  would  have  pursued  to- 
wards this  country,  had  she  prevailed  in  the 
contest  for  the  Scottish  throne  ;  and  it  is  by 
following  out  the  consequences  of  such  an 
event,  and  tracing  its  probable  influence  on 
the  condition  of  our  population  at  this  day, 
that  we  can  alone  appreciate  the  immense  obli- 
gations we  owe  to  our  forefathers,  who  fought 
and  died  on  the  field  of  Bannockburn. 

Had  the  English  then  prevailed  in  the  war 
with  Robert  Bruce,  and  finally  succeeded  in 
establishing  their  long  wished-for  dominion  in 
this  country,  it  cannot  be  doubted,  that  their 
first  measure  would  have  been  to  dispossess  a 
large  portion  of  the  nobles  who  had  so  obsti- 
nately maintained  the  war  against  them,  and 
substitute  their  own  barons  in  their  room.  The 
pretended  rebellion  of  Scotland  against  the 
legitimate  authority  of  Edward,  Avould  have 
furnished  a  plausible  pretext  for  such  a  pro- 
ceeding, while  policy  would  of  course  have 
suggested  it  as  the  most  efficacious  means,  both 
of  restraining  the  turbulent  and  hostile  spirit 
of  the  natives,  and  of  gratifying  the  great  barons 
by  whose  force  they  had  been  subdued.  In 
fact,  many  such  confiscations  and  grants  of 
the  lands  to  English  nobles  actually  took  place, 
during  the  time  that  Edward  I.  maintained  his 
authority  within  the  Scottish  territory. 

The  cons.equences  of  such  a  measure  are 
very  obvious.  The  dispossessed  proprietors 
would  have  nourished  the  most  violent  and 
inveterate  animosity  against  their  oppressors ; 
and  the  tenantry  on  their  estates,  attached  by 
feudal  and  clanish  aflection  to  their  ancient 
masters,  would  have  joined  in  any  scheme  for 
their  restoration.  The  seeds  of  continual  dis- 
cord and  hatred  would  thus  have  been  sown 
between  the  lower  orders  and  the  existing 
proprietors  of  the  soil.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  grejft  English  barons,  to  whom  the  con- 
fiscated lands  were  assigned,  would  naturally 
prefer  the  society  of  their  own  country,  and  the 
security  of  their  native  castles,  to  the  unpro- 
ductive soil  and  barbarous  tribes  on  their 
northern  estates.  They  would  in  consequence 
have  relinquished  these  estates  to  factors  or 
agents,  and,  without  ever  thinking  of  residing 
among  a  people  by  whom  they  were  detested, 
have  sought  only  to  increase,  by  rigorous  ex- 
actions, the  revenue  which  they  could  derive 
from  their  labour. 

In  progress  of  time,  hoM^ever,  thei  natural 
fervour  of  the  Scottish  people,  their  hereditary 
;  animosities  against  England,  the  exertions  of 
I  the  dispossessed  proprietors,  and  the  oppression 
I  of  the  English  authorities,  would  have  occa- 
I  sioned  a  revolt  in  Scotland.  They  would  na- 
;  turall}^  have  chosen  for  such  an  undertaking 
\  the  moment  when  the  English  forces  were  en- 
I  gaged  in  the  wars  of  France,  and  when  the 
I  entire  desertion  of  the  nothern   frontier  pro- 


97 

mised  successful  rapine  to  their  arms.  In  such 
circumstances,  it  is  not  to  be  doubted  that  they 
would  have  been  unable  to  withstand  the  seeds 
F  Jn.T  '  '°  ■'^'  ^"-"^h  arms,  which  the 
French  emissaries  would  have  sedulously 
spread  through  the  countrj-.  And  if  the  at^- 
thority  of  England  was  again  re-established, 
new  and  more  extensive  confiscations  would 
of  course  have  followed;  the  English  nobles 
would  have  been  gratified  by  grants  of  the  most 
considerable  estates  on  the  north  of  the  Tweed 
and  the  bonds  of  military  subjection  would 
have  been  tightened  on  the  unfortunate  people 
who  Avere  subdued. 

The  continuance  of  the  wars  betweenFrance 
and  England,  by  presenting  favourable  op- 
portunities  to  the  Scotch  to  revolt,  combined 
with  the  temptation  which  the  remott  'ess  of 
their  situation  and  the  strength  of  theii  coun- 
try afforded,  would  have  induced  continual 
civil  wars  between  the  peasantry  and  their 
foreign  masters,  until  the  resources  of  the  coun- 
try were  entirely  exhausted,  and  the  people 
sunk  in  hopeless  submission  under  the  power 
that  oppressed  them. 

But  in  the  progress  of  these  wars,  an  evil 
of  a  far  greater  and  more  permanent  descrip- 
tion would  naturally  arise,  than  either  the  loss 
of  lives  or  the  devastation  of  property  which 
they  occasioned.  In  the  course  of  the  pro- 
tracted contest,  the  landed  pnopEnrr  of  the 

COUNTIlr  WOULD  EXTIRELY  HAVE  CHANGED  MAS- 
TERS ;  and  in  place  of  being  possessed  by  na- 
tives of  the  country  permanently  settled  on 
their  estates,  and  attached  by  habit  and  com- 
mon interest  to  the  labourers  of  the  ground, 
it  would  have  come  into  the  hands  of  foreign 
noblemen,  forced  upon  the  country  by  military 
power,  hated  by  the  natives,  residing  always 
on  their  English  estates,  and  regarding  the 
people  of  Scotland  as  barbarians,  whom  it  was 
alike  impolitic  to  approach,  and  necessary  to 
curb  by  despotic  power. 

But  while  such  would  be  the  feelings  and 
policy  of  the  English  proprietors,  the  stewards 
whom  they  appointed  to  manage  their  Scotch 
estates,  at  a  distance  from  home,  and  surround- 
ed by  a  fierce  and  hostile  population,  would 
have  felt  the  necessity  of  some  assistance,  to 
enable   them    to   maintain  their  authoritj',  or 
turn  to  any  account  the  estates  that  were  com- 
mitted to  their  care.    Unable  to  procure  mili- 
tary assistance,  to  enforce  the  submission  of 
every  district,  or  collect  the  rents  of  every  pro- 
pertv,  they  would,  of  necessity,  have  looked  to 
some  method  of  conciliating  the  people  of  ihe 
country  ;  and  such  a  method  would  naturally 
suggest  itself  in  the  attachment  M'hich  the  peo- 
ple bore  to  the  families  of  original  laiVllords.and 
the  consequent  means  which  they  possoscd 
of  swaying  their  refractory  dispositions.  The^e 
unhappy  men,  on  the  other  hand,  despairini; 
of  the  recovery  of  their  whole  estates,  would 
be  glad  of  an  opportunity  of  regain  ing  any  p.-in 
of  them,  and  eagerly  embrace  any  proposal  1).T 
which  such  a  compromise  miglit  be  clJixtcd. 
The  sense  of  mutal  dependence,  in  short,  would 
have  led  to  an  arrangement,  by  which  the  es« 
tales  of  the  English  nobles  u-ne  m  he  ful»ct  to 
the  Scottish  proprietors  for  a  fixed  yrnrlij  rent,  and 
they  would  take  upoh  themselves  tlic  task  l" 


M 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


which  thcv  alenp  were  competent,  of  recovering 
the  rents  lioin  ilie  actual  cultivators  of  the  soil. 
As  Ihc  numbers  of  the  people  increased, 
howcTcr,  and  the  value  of  the  immcnbc  farms 
which  had  been  thus  granted  to  the  descendants 
of  their  original  proprietors  was  enhanced,  the 
task  of  collecting  rents  over  so  extensive  a 
district  would  have  become  too  great  for  an}- 
individual,  and  the  increased  wealth  which  he 
had  acquired  from  the  growth  of  his  tenantry*, 
tt-ould  have  led  him  to  dislike  the  personal  la- 
jour  t.'ith  which  it  would  be  atton(lc<l.  These 
.^reat  tenants,  in  consequence,  would  have  sub- 
set their  vast  possessions  to  an  inferior  set  of 
occupiers,  Avho  might  each  superintend  the 
coUecticm  of  the  rents  within  his  own  farm, 
and  have  an  opportunity  of  acquiring  a  per- 
sonal acquaintance  with  the  labourers  b\-Avhom 
it  was  to  be  cultivated.  As  the  number  of  the 
people  increased,  the  same  process  would  be 
:epealed  by  the  diflerent  tenants  on  their  re- 
spective farms;  and  thus  there  would  have 
sprung  up  universally  in  Scotland  a  class  of 
MIDDLE  >iE\  between  the  proprietor  and  the  ac- 
tual cultivator  of  the  soil. 

While  these  changes  went  on,  the  condition 
of  the  people,  oppressed  by  a  series  of  suc- 
cessive masters,  each  of  -whom  required  to  live 
by  their  labour,  and  wholly  debarred  from  ob- 
taining any  Irgal  redress  for  their  grievances, 
would  have  gradually  sunk.  Struggling  with 
a  barren  soil,  and  a  host  of  insatiable  oppres- 
sors, they  could  never  have  acquired  any  ideas 
of  comfort,  or  indulged  in  any  hopes  of  rising 
in  the  world.  They  would,  in  consequence, 
have  adopted  that  species  of  food  which  pro- 
mised to  aflbrd  the  greatest  nourishment  for  a 
family  from  the  smallest  space  of  ground ;  and 
from  the  universality  of  this  cause,  the  Potato 
would  have  become  the  staple  food  of  the 
country. 

The  landed  proprietors,  on  the  other  hand, 
who  are  the  natural  protectors,  and  ought  al- 
ways to  be  the  best  encouragers  of  the  people 
on  their  estates,  would  have  shrunk  from  the 
idea  of  leaving  their  English  possessions, 
where  they  nrrc  surrounded  by  an  affectionate 
and  comfortable  tenantr}^,  Aviiere  riches  and 
plentj'  sprung  from  the  natural  fertility  of  the 
soil,  and  where  power  and  security  were  de- 
rived from  their  equal  law,  to  settle  in  a  north- 
ern climate,  amongst  a  people  by  whom  they 
were  abhorred,  and  wlicre  law  was  unable  to 
restrain  the  licentiousness,  or  reform  the  bar- 
barity of  the  inhabitants. — They  would  in  con- 
sequence have  universally  become  adsentee 
pnopniKToiiR;  and  not  only  denied  to  the  Scot- 
tish p<-(tple  the  incalculaiile  advantages  of  a 
resident  body  of  landed  gentlemen ;  but,  by 
their  influenec  in  Parliament,  and  their  animo- 
sity towards  their  northern  tenantry,  prevented 
any  Irpislative  measure  being  pursued  for 
their  relief. 

In  such  circtimstances,  it  seems  hardly  con- 
ceivable that  arts  or  manufactures  should  have 
made  any  progress  in  this  country.  But,  if  in 
spite  of  the  obstacles  which  the  unfavourable 
climate,  and  unhappy  political  circumstances 
of  the  country  presented,  manufactures  should 
have  begun  to  spring  up  amongst  us,  they 
vouU  speedily  have  been  checked  by  the  com- 


mercial jealousy  of  their  more  powerful  south- 
ern rivals.  Bills  would  have  been  brought 
into  parliament,  as  was  actually  done  in  re- 
gard to  a  neighbouring  island,  proceeding 
on  the  preamble,  "  that  it  is  expedient  that 
the  Scottish  manufactures  should  be  discou 
raged;"  and  the  prohibition  of  sending  theii 
goods  into  the  richer  market  of  England, 
whither  the  whole  wealth  of  the  country  were 
already  drawn,  would  have  annihilated  the  in- 
fant elforts  of  manufacturing  industry. 

Nor  would  the  Reformation,  which,  as  mat- 
ters stand,  has  been  of  such  essential  service 
to  this  country,  have  been,  on  the  hypothesis 
which  we  are  pursuing,  a  lesser  source  of  suf- 
fering, or  a  greater  bar  to  the  improvement 
of  the  people.  From  being  embraced  by  their 
English  landlords,  the  Reformed  Religion 
would  have  been  hateful  to  the  peasants  of 
Scotland ;  the  Catholic  priests  Avould  have 
sought  refuge  among  them,  from  the  persecu- 
tion to  which  they  Avere  exposed  in  their  native 
seats  ;  and  both  would  have  been  strengthened 
in  their  hatred  to  those  persons  to  whom  their 
common  misfortune  was  owing.  Religious 
hatred  would  thus  have  combined  with  all  the 
previous  circumstances  of  irritation,  to  in- 
crease the  rancour  between  the  proprietors 
of  the  soil,  and  the  labouring  classes  in  this 
country;  and  from  the  circumstance  of  the 
latter  adhering  to  the  proscribed  religion,  they 
would  have  been  rendered  yet  more  incapable 
of  procuring  a  redress  for  their  grievances  in 
a  legislative  form. 

Had  the  English,  therefore,  succeeded  in 
subduing  Scotland  in  the  time  of  Robert 
Bruce,  and  in  maintaining  their  authority 
from  that  period,  we  think  it  not  going  too  far 
to  assert,  that  the  people  of  this  country  would 
have  been  now  in  an  unhappy  and  distracted 
condition :  that  religious  discussion  and  civil 
rancour  would  have  mutually  exasperated  the 
higher  and  lower  orders  against  each  other ; 
that  the  landed  proprietors  would  have  been 
permanently  settled  in  the  victorious  country ; 
that  everywhere  a  class  of  middlemen  would 
have  been  established  to  grind  and  ruin  the 
labours  of  the  poor ;  that  manufactures  would 
have  been  scanty,  and  the  country  covered 
with  a  numerous  and  indigent  population, 
idle  in  their  habits,  ignorant  in  their  ideas, 
ferocious  in  their  manners,  professing  a  reli- 
gion which  held  them  in  bondage,  and  cling- 
ing to  prejudices  from  which  their  ruin  must 
ensue. 

Is  it  said,  that  this  is  mere  conjecture,  and 
that  nothing  in  the  history  of  English  govern- 
ment warrants  us  in  concluding,  that  such 
would  have  been  the  consequence  of  the  esta- 
blishment of  their  tlominion  in  this  country  ? 
Alas  !  it  is  not  conjectnrc.  The  history  of  Ikk- 
LAND  affords  too  melancholy  a  coniirmation 
of  the  truth  of  the  positions  which  Ave  have 
advanced,  and  of  the  reality  of  the  deduction 
which  Ave  have  pursued.  In  that  deduction 
we  have  not  reasoned  on  hypothesis  or  con- 
jecture. Every  step  Avhich  Ave  have  hinted  at, 
has  there  been  taken ;  every  consequence  which 
we  have  suggested,  has  there  ensued.  Those 
acquainted  with  the  history  of  that  unhappy 
country,  or  who  have  studied  its  present  con 


ROBERT  BRUCE. 


99 


dition,  will  recognise  in  the  conjectural  history 
which  we  have  sketched,  of  what  ivould  have 
followed  tlifi  annexation  of  this  country  to 
England  in  the  time  of  Edward  II.,  the  real 
history  of  what  has  followed  its  sulDJugation 
in  the  time  of  Henry  II.,  and  perceive  in  the 
causes  which  we  have  pointed  out,  as  what 
would  have  operated  upon  our  people,  the 
real  ccmses  of  the  misery  and  wretchedness  in 
which  its  population  is  involved. 

Nor  is  the  example  of  the  peaceful  submis- 
sion of  Wales  to  the  dominion  of  England, 
any  authority  against  this  view  of  the  subject. 
Wales  is  so  inconsiderable  in  comparison  to 
England,  it  comes  so  completely  in  contact 
with  its  richest  provinces,  and  is  so  enveloped 
by  its  power,  that  when  once  subdued,  all 
thought  of  resistance  or  revolt  became  hope- 
less. That  mountainous  region,  therefore,  fell 
as  quietly  and  as  completely  into  the  arms  of 
England,  as  if  it  had  been  one  of  the  Hept- 
archy, which  in  process  of  time  was  incor- 
porated with  the  English  monarch}%  Very 
different  is  the  situation  of  Scotland,  where 
the  comparative  size  of  the  country,  the  fervid 
spirit  of  the  inhabitants,  the  remoteness  of  its 
situation,  and  the  strength  of  its  mountains, 
continually  must  have  suggested  the  hope  of 
successful  revolt,  and  as  necessarily  occa- 
sioned the  calamitous  consequences  which  we 
have  detailed.  The  rebellion  of  Owen  Glen- 
dower  is  sufficient  to  convince  us,  that  nothing 
but  the  utter  insignificance  of  Wales,  compared 
to  England,  prevented  the  continual  revolt  of 
the  Welsh  people,  and  the  consequent  intro- 
duction of  all  those  horrors  which  have  fol- 
lowed the  establishment  of  English  dominion 
among  the  inhabitants  of  Ireland. 

Do  we  then  rejoice  in  the  prosperity  of  our 
country  1  Do  we  exult  at  the  celebrity  which 
it  has  acquired  in  arts  and  in  arms  1  Do  we 
duly  estimate  the  blessings  which  it  has  long 
enjoyed  from  equal  law  and  personal  freedom  1 
— Do  we  feel  grateful  for  the  intelligence,  the 
virtue,  and  the  frugality  of  our  peasantry,  and 
acknowledge,  with  thankfulness,  the  practical 
beneficence  and  energetic  spirit  of  our  landed 
proprietors  1  Let  us  turn  to  the  grave  of  Ro- 
bert Bruce,  and  feel  as  we  ought  the  inex- 
pressible gratitude  due  to  him  as  the  remote 
author  of  all  these  blessings.  But  for  his  bold 
and  unconquerable  spirit,  Scotland  might  have 
shared  with  Ireland  the  severity  of  English 
conquest;  and,  instead  of  exulting  now  in  the 
prosperity  of  our  country,  the  energy  of  our 
peasantry,  and  the  patriotic  spirit  of  our  resi- 
dent landed  proprietors,  we  might  have  been 
deploring  with  her  an  absent  nobility,  an 
oppressive  tenan':ry,  a  bigotted  and  ruined 
people. 


It  was  therefore,  in  truth,  a  meraof  able  day 
for  this  country  when  the  remains  of  this 
great  prmce  were  rediscovered  amidst  the 
rums  m  which  they  had  so  long  been  hid; 
when  the  arms  which  slew  Henry  de  Bohun 
were  remterred  in  the  land  Avhich  they  had 
saved  from  slavery ;  and  the  head  which  had 
beheld  the  trmmph  of  Bannockburn  was  con- 
signed to  the  dust,  after  five  centuries  of  grate- 
ful remembrance  and  experienced  obligation. 
It  IS  by  thus  appreciating  the  merits  of  depart- 
ed Avorth,  that  similar  virtues  in  future  are  to 
be  called  forth ;  and  by  duly  feeUng  the  conse- 
quences of  heroic  resistance  in  time  past,  that 
the  spirit  is  to  be  excited  by  which  the  future 
fortunes  of'the  state  are  to  be  maintained. 

In  these  observations  we  have  no  intention, 
as  truly  we  have  no  desire,  to  depreciate  the 
incalculable  blessings  which  this  country  has 
derived  from  her  union  with  England.  We 
feel,  as  strongly  as  any  can  do,  the  immense 
advantage  which  this  measure  Ijrought  to  the 
wealth,  the  industry,  and  the  spirit  of  Scotland. 
We  are  proud  to  acknowledge,  that  it  is  to  the 
efforts  of  English  patriotism  that  we  owe  the 
establishment  of  liberty  in  our  civil  code ;  and 
to  the  influence  of  English  example,  the  diffu- 
sion of  a  free  spirit  among  our  people.  But  it 
is  just  because  we  are  duly  impressed  with 
these  feelings  that  we  recur,  with  such  grate- 
ful pride,  to  the  patriotic  resistance  of  Robert 
Bruce ;  it  is  because  we  feel  that  we  should 
be  unworthy  of  sharing  in  English  liberty,  un- 
less we  had  struggled  for  our  own  indepen- 
dence, and  incapable  of  participating  in  its 
benefits,  unless  we  had  shown  that  we  were 
capable  of  acquiring  it.  Nor  are  we  ashamed 
to  own,  that  it  is  the  spirit  which  English  free- 
dom has  awakened  that  first  enabled  us  fully 
to  appreciate  the  importance  of  the  efforts 
which  our  ancestors  made  in  resisting  their 
dominion  ;  and  that  but  for  the  Union  on  equal 
terms  with  that  power,  we  would  have  been 
ignorant  of  the  debt  which  we  owed  to  those 
who  saved  us  from  its  subjugation.  In  our 
national  fondness,  therefore,  for  the  memory 
of  Robert  Bruce,  the  English  should  perceive 
the  growth  of  those  principles  from  which 
their  own  unequalled  greatness  has  arisen; 
nor  should  they  envy  the  glory  of  the  field  of 
Bannockburn,  when  we  appeal  to  it  as  out 
best  title  to  be  quartered  in  their  arms. 

Yet  mourn  not,  land  of  Fame, 
Though  ne'er  the  leopards  on  thy  shield 
Retreated  from  so  sad  a  field 

Since  Norman  William  came. 
Oft  may  thine  annals  justly  hoast, 
Of  battles  there  by  Scotland  lost, 

Grudge  not  her  victory  ; 
When  for  her  freeborn  rights  she  pirove, 
Rights  dear  to  all  who  freedom  lore, 

To  none  so  dear  as  thee. 


IM 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


PAUIS  IN  1814.* 


With  whatever  sentiments  a  stranger  may 
enter  Paris,  his  feelings  must  be  the  same 
with  regard  to  the  monuments  of  ancient  mag- 
nificence, or  of  modern  taste,  which  it  contains. 
All  that  the  vanity  or  patriotism  of  a  long 
series  of  sovereigns  could  effect  for  the  em- 
bellishment of  the  capital  in  which  they 
resided;  all  that  the  conquests  of  an  ambitious 
and  unprincipled  army  could  accumulate  from 
the  spoils  of  the  nations  whom  they  had  sub- 
dued, are  there  presented  to  the  eye  of  the 
stranger  with  a  profusion  which  obliterates 
every  former  prejudice,  and  stifles  the  feelings 
of  national  emulation  in  exultation  at  the 
greatness  of  human  genius. 

The  ordinary  buildings  of  Paris,  as  every 
traveller  has  observed,  and  as  all  the  world 
knows,  are  in  general  mean  and  uncomfort- 
able. The  height  and  gloomy  aspect  of  the 
houses ;  the  narrowness  of  the  streets,  and  the 
want  of  pavement  for  foot  passengers,  convey 
an  idea  of  antiquity,  which  ill  accords  with 
what  the  imagination  had  anticipated  of  the 
modern  capital  of  the  French  empire.  This 
circumstance  renders  the  admiration  of  the 
spectator  greater  when  he  first  comes  in  sight 
of  its  public  cdifces ;  when  he  is  conducted  to 
the  Place  Louis  Quinze  or  the  Pont  Neuf, 
from  whence  he  has  a  general  view  of  the 
principal  buildings  of  this  celebrated  capital. 
With  the  single  exception  of  the  view  of  Lou- 
don from  the  terrace  of  the  Adelphi,  there  is 
no  point  in  Britain  where  the  effect  of  archi- 
tectural design  is  so  great  as  in  the  situations 
which  have  now  been  mentioned.  The  view 
irom  the  former  of  these,  combines  many  of 
the  most  striking  objects  which  Paris  has  to 

? resent.  To  the  east,  the  long  front  of  the 
'uileries  rises  over  the  dark  mass  of  foliage 
which  cover  its  gardens;  to  the  south,  the 
picturesque  aspect  of  the  town  is  broken  by 
the  varied  objects  which  the  river  presents, 
and  the  fine  perspective  of  the  Bridge  of  Peace, 
terminating  in  the  noble  front  of  the  palace  of 
the  Legislative  Body;  to  the  west,  the  long 
avenues  of  the  Elysian  Fields  are  closed  by 
the  pillars  of  a  triumphal  arch  which  Napo- 
leon had  commenced  ;  while,  to  the  north,  the 
beautiful  fa<;ade  of  the  Place  itself,  leaves  the 
spectator  only  room  to  discover  at  a  greater 
distance  the  foundation  of  the  Temple  of 
Glorj',  which  he  hnd  commenced,  and  in  the 
execution  of  which  he  was  interrupted  by 
those  ambitious  enterprises  to  which  his  sub- 
sequent downfall  was  owing.f    To  a  painter's 


•  Wriltcn  In  Mny  nnd  Juno,  IRU,  diirini;  a  residence 
•t  Pnrl«,  when  tin-  iillird  uriiiicH  ncnipieil  the  rily,  niid 
lh«"  crrtit  niiiHciiin  nf  itir;  Lmivri'  \v;ih  iinlniirlii'il ;  niul 
Pulilinlii-d  In  "Trnvi-U  in  rriiiirc  in  lsii_ir),"  wliirli 
lupiicd  rrom  the  prcuB  in  KdinlnirKli  In  \^\:t,  to  llio 
flrnt  volume  of  which  the  author  conlrilnitcd  a  few 
Uiapli-m. 

t  Kinro  cnmpletcd,  and  forming  the  beautiful  periRlylc 
•f  the  Madeleine. 


eye,  the  effect  of  the  whole  scene  is  increased 
by  the  rich  and  varied  fore-ground,  which 
everywhere  presents  itself,  composed  of  the 
shrubs  with  which  the  skirts  of  the  square  are 
adorned,  and  the  lofty  poplars  which  rise 
amidst  the  splendour  of  architectural  beauty; 
while  recent  events  give  a  greater  interest  to 
the  spot  from  which  this  beauty  is  surveyed, 
by  the  remembrance,  that  it  was  here  that 
Louis  XVI.  fell  a  martyr  to  the  revolutionary 
principles,  and  that  it  was  here  that  the  Em 
peror  Alexander  and  the  other  princes  of 
Europe  took  their  station  when  their  armies 
passed  in  triumph  through  the  walls  of  Paris. 

The  Aaew  from  the  Pont  Neuf,  though  no) 
striking  upon  the  whole,  embraces  objects  of 
greater  individual  beauty.  The  gay  and  ani- 
mated quays  of  the  city  covered  with  foot  pas 
sengers,  and,  Avitli  all  the  varied  exhibitions  of 
industrious  occupation,  which,  from  the  warm- 
ness  of  the  climate,  are  carried  on  in  the  open 
air ; — the  long  and  splendid  front  of  the  Louvre, 
and  the  Tuileries ; — the  bold  projections  of 
the  Palais  des  Arts,  of  the  Hotel  de  la  Monnaie, 
and  other  public  buildings  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  river; — the  beautiful  perspective  of  the 
bridges,  adorned  by  the  magnificent  colonnade 
which  fronts  the  Palace  of  the  Legislative 
Body; — and  the  lofty  picturesque  buildings  of 
the  centre  of  Paris,  surrounding  the  more  ele- 
vated towers  of  Notre  Dame,  foiTn  a  scene, 
which,  though  less  perfect,  is  more  striking, 
and  more  characteristic  than  the  scene  from 
the  centre  of  the  Place  Louis  Quinze.  It  con- 
ve3's  at  once  a  general  idea  of  the  French 
capital ;  of  that  mixture  of  poverty  and  splen- 
dour by  which  it  is  so  remarkably  distinguish- 
ed; of  that  grandeur  of  national  power,  and 
that  degradation  of  individual  importance 
which  marked  the  ancient  dynast}'  of  the 
French  nation.  It  marks  too,  in  an  historical 
view,  the  changes  of  public  feeling  Avhich  the 
people  of  this  country  have  undergone,  from 
the  distant  period  when  the  towers  of  Notre 
Dame  rose  amidst  the  austerity  of  Gothic  taste, 
and  were  loaded  Avith  the  riches  of  Catholic 
superstition,  to  that  boasted  aera,  when  the 
loyalty  of  the  French  people  exhausted  the 
wealth  and  the  genius  of  the  country,  to  deco» 
rate  with  classic  taste  the  residence  of  their 
sovereigns ;  and  lastly,  to  those  later  days, 
when  the  names  of  religion  and  of  loyalty  have 
alike  been  forgotten ;  when  the  national  exulta- 
tion reposed  only  on  the  trophies  of  military 
greatness,  and  the  iron  yoke  of  imperial  power 
was  forgotten  in  the  monuments  which  record 
the  deeds  of  imperial  glory. 

To  the  general  observation  on  the  infcrioritj 
of  the  common  buildings  in  Paris,  there  are 
some  remarkable  exceptions.  The  Boulevards, 
which  are  the  remains  of  the  ancient  ramparts 
which  surrounded  the  city  at  a  former  period, 
are,  in  general,  beautiful,  both  from  the  circu- 


PARIS  IN  1814. 


10) 


lar  form  in  which  they  are  built,  which  pre- 
vents the  view  from  being  ever  too  extensive 
for  the  objects  which  it  contains,  and  presents 
them  in  the  most  picturesque  aspect ;  from  the 
breadth  which  they  everywhere  preserve,  and 
which  affords  room  for  the  spectator  to  observe 
the  magnificence  of  the  detached  palaces  with 
which  they  abound ;  and  iVom  the  rows  of  trees 
with  which  they  are  shaded,  and  which  com- 
bine singularly  well  with  the  irregular  cha- 
racter of  the  building  which  they  generally 
present.  In  the  skirts  of  the  town,  and  more 
especially  in  the  Fauxbourg  St.  Germain,  the 
beauty  of  the  streets  is  greatly  increased  by 
the  detached  hotels  or  villas,  surrounded  by 
gardens,  which  are  everywhere  to  be  met  with, 
in  which  the  lilac,  the  laburnum,  the  Bois  de 
Judee,  and  the  acacia,  grow  in  the  most  luxu- 
riant manner,  and  on  the  green  foliage  of 
which,  the  eye  reposes  with  singular  delight, 
amidst  the  bright  and  dazzling  whiteness  of 
the  stone  with  which  they  are  surrounded. 

The  Hotel  des  Invalides,  the  Chelsea  Hospital 
of  France,  is  one  of  the  objects  on  which  the 
Parisians  principally  pride  themselves,  and  to 
which  a  stranger  is  conducted  immediately 
after  his  arrival  in  that  capital.  The  institu- 
tion itself  appears  to  be  well  conducted,  and 
to  give  general  satisfaction  to  the  wounded 
men,  who  have  there  found  an  asylum  from 
tJie  miseries  of  war.  These  men  live  in  habits 
of  perfect  harmony  among  each  other;  a  state 
of  things  widely  diiferent  from  that  of  our 
veterans  in  Greenwich  Hospital,  and  which  is 
probably  chiefly  owing  to  the  cheerfulness  and 
equanimity  of  temper  which  form  the  best 
feature  in  the  French  character.  7'here  is 
something  in  the  style  of  the  architecture  of 
this  building,  which  accords  well  with  the 
object  to  which  it  is  devoted.  The  front  is 
distinguished  by  a  simple  manly  portico,  and  a 
dome  of  the  finest  proportion  rises  above  its 
centre,  which  is  visible  from  all  parts  of  the 
city.  This  dome  was  gilded  by  order  of  Bona- 
parte: and  however  much  a  fastidious  taste 
may  regret  the  addition,  it  certainly  gave  an 
air  of  splendour  to  the  whole,  which  was  in 
perfect  unison  with  the  feelings  of  exultation 
which  the  sight  of  this  monument  of  military 
glory  was  then  fitted  to  awaken  among  the 
French  people.  The  exterior  of  this  edifice 
was  formerly  surrounded  by  cannon  captured 
by  the  armies  of  France  at  different  periods: 
and  ten  thousand  standards,  the  trophies  of 
victory  during  the  wars  of  two  centuries, 
waved  under  its  splendid  dome,  and  enveloped 
the  sword  of  Frederic  the  Great,  which  hung 
from  the  centre,  until  the  31st  of  March,  1814, 
when  they  were  all  burnt  by  order  of  Maria 
Louisa,  to  prevent  their  falling  into  the  vic- 
torious hands  of  the  allied  powers. 

If  the  character  of  the  architecture  of  the 
Hotel  des  Invalides  accords  well  with  the 
object  to  which  that  building  is  destined;  the 
character  of  the  Louvre  is  not  less  in  unison 
with  the  spirit  of  the  fine  arts,  to  which  it  is 
consecrated.  It  is  impossible  for  language  to 
convey  any  adequate  idea  of  the  impression 
which  this  exquisite  building  awakens  in  the 
mind  of  a  stranger.  The  beautiful  proportions, 
and  the  fine  symmetry  of  the  great  fagade,  give 


an  air  of  simplicity  to  the  distant  view  of  thii 
edihce,  which  is  not  diminished,  on  nearer  an- 
proach,  by  the  unrivalled  beauty  of  its  orna- 
ments  and  detail;  but  when  you  cross  the 
threshold  of  the  portico,  and  pass  under  iu 
noble  archway  into  the  inner  court,  ail  consU 
derations  are  absorbed  in  the  throb  of  admira- 
tion, which  IS  excited  by  the  sudden  display  of 
all  that  IS  lovely  and  harmonious  in  Grecian 
architecture.  You  find  yourself  in  the  midst 
of  the  noblest  and  yet  chastest  display  of  archi- 
tectural beauty,  where  every  ornament  pos- 
sesses the  character  by  which  the  whole  is 
distinguished,  and  where  the  whole  possesses 
the  grace  and  elegance  which  every  ornament 
presents :— You  find  yourself  on  the  spot, 
where  all  the  monuments  of  ancient  art  are 
deposited — where  the  greatest  exertions  of 
mortal  genius  are  preserved — and  where  a 
palace  has  at  last  been  raised  worthy  of  being 
the  depository  of  the  collected  genius  of  the 
human  race. — It  bears  a  higher  character  than 
that  of  being  the  residence  of  imperial  power; 
it  seems  destined  to  loftier  purposes  than  to 
be  the  abode  of  earthly  greatness ;  and  the  only 
forms  by  which  its  halls  would  not  be  degraded, 
are  those  models  of  ideal  perfection  which  the 
genius  of  ancient  Greece  created  to  exalt  the 
character  of  a  heathen  world. 

Placed  in  a  more  elevated  spot,  and  destined 
to  a  still  higher  object,  the  Pantheon  bears  in 
its  front  the  ti-aces  of  the  noble  purpose  for 
which  it  was  intended. — It  was  intended   to 
be   the  cemeteiy  of  all  the  great  men  who 
had  deserved  well  of  their  country ;   and  it 
bears  the  inscription,  above  its  entrance,  Jiux 
grands  Ames    La    Pulric  rcconnoissnntc.      The 
character  of  its  architecture  is  well  adapted  to 
the  impression  it  is  intended  to  convey,  and 
suits  the  simplicity  of  the  noble  inscription 
which  its  portico  presents.     Its  situation  has 
been  selected  with  singular  taste,  to  aid  the 
effect  which  was  thus  intended.    It  is  placed 
at  the  top  of  an  eminence,  which  shelves  in  a 
declivity  on  every  side ;   and  the  immediate 
approach  is  by  an  immense  flight  of  steps, 
which  form  the  base  of  the  building,  and  in- 
crease the  effect  which  its  magnitude  produces. 
Over  the  entrance  rises  a  portico  of  lofty  pil- 
lars, finely  proportioned,  supporting  a  magni- 
ficent entablature   of   the   Corinthian  order; 
and  the  whole  terminates  in  a  dome  of  vast 
dimensions,  forming  the  highest  object  in  the 
whole  city.     The  impression  which  every  one 
must  feel  in  crossing  its  threshold,  is  that  of 
religious  awe ;  the  individual  is  lost  in  the  great- 
ness of  the  objects  with  which  he  is  surrounded, 
and  he  dreads  to  enter  what  seems  the  abode 
of  a  greater  power,  and  to  have  been  framed 
for   the   purposes  of  more  elevated  worsliiji. 
The  Louvre  might  have  been  fitted  for  tin'  gay 
scenes  of  ancient  sacrifice ;  it  suits  the  hrilliant 
conceptions  of  heathen  mythology ;  and  seems 
the  fit  abode  of  those  ideal  forms,  in  which  the 
imagination  of  ancient  times  imhodiod  iheir 
conceptions  of  divine  perfection;  Imt  the  Pan- 
theon is  adapted   fbr  a   holier  W(.r>hip.  nnd 
accords  with  the  character  of  a  pun-r  h--  iH  ; 
and  the  vastness  and  solitude  of  its  ui.tr...lden 
chambers   awaken   those  feelings  of  human 
weakness,  and  that  sentiment  ol  human  im- 


lOS 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


mortality  which  befit  the  temple  of  a  spiritual 

laiili. 

'I'hc  spectator  is  led,  by  the  sight  of  this 
(treat  im>iMiment  of  sacred  architecture  in  tiie 
Grecian  stvle.  to  compare  it  with  the  CJothic 
rhurrhes  of  France,  and,  in  particular,  with 
the  ("ailudral  of  Beauvais,  the  interior  of 
which  IS  finished  with  greater  delicacy,  and  in 
finer  proportions,  than  any  other  edifice  of  a 
similar  kind  in  that  country.  The  impression 
which  the  inimitable  choir  of  Beauvais  pro- 
duces is  widely  dillerent  from  that  which  we 
felt  on  entering  the  lolly  dome  of  the  Panliicon 
at  Paris.  The  light  pinnacles,  the  fretted  roof, 
the  aspiring  form  of  the  Gothic  edifice,  seemed 
to  have  been  framed  by  the  hands  of  aerial 
beings  ;  and  produced,  even  from  a  distance, 
that  impression  of  grace  and  airiness  which  it 
was  the  peculiar  object  of  this  species  of 
Gothic  architecture  to  excite.  On  passing  the 
high  archway  which  covers  the  western  door, 
and  entering  the  immense  aisles  of  the  Cathe- 
dral, the  sanctity  of  the  place  produces  a  deeper 
impression,  and  the  grandeur  of  the  forms 
awakens  profounder  feelings.  The  light  of 
day  is  excluded,  the  rays  of  the  sun  come  mel- 
lowed through  the  splendid  colours  with  which 
the  windows  are  stained,  and  cast  a  religious 
light  over  the  marble  pavement  which  covers 
the  floor;  while  the  eye  reposes  on  the  har- 
monious forms  of  the  lancet  windows,  or  is 
bewildered  in  the  profusion  of  ornament  with 
which  the  roof  is  adorned,  or  is  lost  in  the 
deep  perspective  of  its  aisles.  The  impres- 
sion which  the  whole  produces,  is  that  of  reli- 
gious emotion,  singularly  suited  to  the  genius 
of  Christianity ;  it  is  seen  in  that  obscure  light 
which  fits  the  solemnity  of  religious  duty,  and 
awakens  those  feelings  of  intense  delight, 
which  prepare  the  mind  for  the  high  strain  of 
religious  praise.  But  it  is  not  the  deep  feeling 
of  humility  and  weakness  which  is  produced 
by  the  dark  chambers  and  massy  pillars  of  the 
Pantheon  at  Paris ;  it  is  not  in  the  mausoleum 
of  the  dead  that  you  seem  to  wander,  nor  on 
the  thoughts  of  the  great  that  have  gone  before 
you,  that  the  mind  revolves ;  it  is  in  the  scene 
of  thanksgiving  that  your  admiration  is  fixed; 
it  is  with  the  emblems  of  hope  that  your  devo- 
tion is  awakened,  and  with  the  enthusiasm  of 
gratitude  that  the  mind  is  filled.  Beneath  the 
gloomy  roof  of  the  Grecian  temple,  the  spirit 
is  concentrated  within  itself;  it  seeks  the  re- 
pose which  solitude  affords,  and  meditates  on 
ihe  fate  of  the  immortal  soul ;  but  it  loves  to 
follow  the  multitude  into  the  Gothic  cathedral, 
to  join  in  the  song  of  grateful  praise  which 
peals  through  its  lengthened  aisles,  and  to 
share  in  the  enthusiasm  which  belongs  to  the 
exercise  of  common  devotion. 

The  Cathedral  of  Notre  Dame  is  the  only 
Gothic  building  of  note  in  Paris,  and  it  is  by 
no  means  equal  to  the  expectations  that  are 
naturally  furmed  i.f  it.  The  style  of  its  arclii- 
t'cture  is  not  that  of  the  finest  Gothic ;  it  has 
neither  the  exquisite  lightness  of  ornament 
which  distinguish  the  summit  of  Gloucester 
Cathedral,  nor  the  fine  lancet  windows  which 
ifive  s(i  unriviilled  a  tn^TUty  to  the  interior  of 
Beauvais,  nor  the  richness  of  roof  which 
coven  'he  tombs  of  Westminster  Abbey.    Its 


character  is  that  of  massy  greatness  ;  its  orna 
ments  are  rich  rather  than  elegant,  and  its  in 
terior  striking,  more  from  its  immense  siz« 
than  the  beauty  of  the  proportion  in  which  itii; 
formed.  In  spite  of  all  these  circumstances, 
however,  the  Cathedral  of  Notre  Dame  pro- 
duces a  deep  impression  on  the  mind  of  the 
beholder:  its  towers  rise  to  a  stupendous 
height  above  all  the  buildings  Avhich  surround 
them ;  while  the  stone  of  every  other  edifice 
is  of  a  light  colour,  they  alone  are  black  with 
the  smoke  of  centuries;  and  exhibit  a  venera- 
ble aspect  of  ancient  greatness  in  the  midst  of 
the  brilliancy  of  modern  decoration  with  whicb 
the  city  is  filled.  Even  the  crowd  of  ornaments 
with  which  they  are  loaded,  and  the  heavy 
proportion  in  which  they  are  built,  are  forgot- 
ten  in  the  eiTect  which  their  magnitude  pro- 
duces ;  they  suit  the  gloomy  character  of  the 
building  they  adorn,  and  accord  with  the  ex- 
pression of  antiquated  power  by  which  its 
aged  forms  are  now  distinguished. 

To  those  who  have  been  accustomed  to  the 
form  of  worship  which  is  established  in  Pro 
testant  countries,  there  is  nothing  so  striking  in 
the  Catholic  churches  as  the  complete  oblivion 
of  rank,  or  any  of  the  distinctions  of  estab 
lished  society  which  there  universally  prevails. 
There  are  no  divisions  of  seats,  nor  any  places 
fixed  for  any  particular  classes  of  society 
All,  of  whatever  rank  or  station,  kneel  alike 
upon  the  marble  pavement;  and  the  w'hole 
extent  of  the  church  is  open  for  the  devotion 
of  all  classes  of  the  people.  You  frequently 
see  the  poorest  citizens  Avith  their  children 
kneeling  on  the  stone,  close  to  those  of  the 
highest  rank,  or  the  most  extensive  fortunes. 
This  custom  may  appear  painful  to  those  who 
have  been  habituated  to  the  forms  of  devotion 
in  the  English  churches ;  but  it  produces  an 
impression  on  the  mind  of  the  spectator  Avhich 
nothing  in  our  service  is  capable  of  effecting. 
To  see  the  individual  form  lost  in  the  im- 
mensity of  the  objects  wath  which  he  is  sur- 
rounded ;  to  see  all  ranks  and  ages  blended  in 
the  exercise  of  common  devotion;  to  see  all 
distinction  forgotten  in  the  sense  of  common 
infirmity,  suits  the  spirit  of  that  religion  which 
was  addressed  to  the  poor  as  w^ell  as  to  the 
rich,  arid  fits  the  presence  of  that  being  before 
whom  all  ranks  are  equal. 

Nor  is  it  M'ithout  a  good  effect  upon  the  feel- 
ings of  mankind,  that  this  custom  has  formed 
a  part  of  the  Catholic  service.  Amidst  that 
degradation  of  the  great  body  of  the  people, 
which  marks  the  greater  part  of  the  Catholic 
countries — amidst  the  insolence  of  aristocratic 
power,  which  the  doctrines  of  the  Catholic 
faith  are  so  well  suited  to  support,  it  is  fitting 
there  should  be  some  occasions  on  which  the 
distinctions  of  the  Avorld  should  be  forgotten; 
some  moments  in  which  the  rich  as  M'ell  as 
the  poor  should  be  humbled  before  a  greater 
power — in  which  they  should  be  reminded  of 
the  common  faith  in  which  they  have  beea 
baptized,  of  the  common  duties  to  which  they 
are  called,  and  the  common  hopes  which  they 
have  been  permitted  to  form. 

High  Mass  was  performed  in  Notre  Dame, 
with  all  the  pomp  of  the  Catholic  service,  for 
the  souls  of  Louis  XVL,  Marte  Antoinette  and 


PARIS  IN  1814. 


103 


the  Dauphin,  on  May  9,  1814,  soon  after  the 
King's  arrival  in  Paris.  The  cathedral  was 
hung  with  black  in  every  part ;  the  brilliancy 
of  day  wholly  excluded,  and  it  was  lighted 
only  by  double  rows  of  wax  tapers,  Avhich 
burned  round  the  coffins,  placed  in  the  centre 
of  the  choir.  It  was  crowded  to  excess  in  every 
part;  all  the  marshals,  peers,  and  dignitaries 
of  France  were  stationed  with  the  royal 
family  near  the  centre  of  the  cathedral,  and 
all  the  principal  officers  of  the  allied  armies 
attended  at  the  celebration  of  the  service. 
The  king  was  present,  though,  without  being 
perceived  by  the  vast  assembly  by  Avhom  he 
was  surrounded;  and  the  Duchess  d'Angou- 
leme  exhibited,  in'  this  melancholy  duty,  that 
mixture  of  firmness  and  sensibility  by  which 
her  character  has  always  been  distinguished. 

It  was  said,  that  there  were  several  persons 
present  at  this  solemn  service  who  had  voted 
for  the  death  of  the  king ;  and  many  of  those 
assembled  must  doubtless  have  been  con- 
scious, that  they  had  been  instrumental  in  the 
death  of  those  for  whose  souls  this  solemn 
service  was  now  performing.  The  greater 
part,  however,  exhibited  the'  symptoms  of  ge- 
nuine sorrow,  and  seemed  t'  participate  in 
the  solemnity  with  unfeigned  devotion.  The 
Catholic  worship  was  here  displayed  in  its 
utmost  splendour;  all  the  highest  prelates  of 
France  were  assembled  to  give  dignity  to  the 
spectacle ;  and  all  that  art  could  devise  was 
exhausted  to  render  the  scene  impressive  in 
the  eyes  of  the  people.  To  those,  however, 
who  '  had  been  habituated  to  the  simplicity 
of  the  English  form,  the  variety  of  unmean- 
ing ceremony,  the  endless  gestures  and  un- 
ceasing bows  of  the  clergy  who  officiated, 
destroyed  the  impression  which  the  solemnity 
of  the  service  would  otherwise  have  produced. 
But  though  the  service  itself  appeared  ridi- 
culous, the  effect  of  the  whole  scene  was 
sublime  in  the  greatest  degree.  The  black 
tapestry  hung  in  heavy  fold^  round  the  sides 
of  the  cathedral,  and  magnified  the  impres- 
sion which  its  vastness  produced.  The  tapers 
which  surrounded  the  coffins  threw  a  red  and 
gloomy  light  over  the  innumerable  multitude 
which  thronged  the  floor;  their  receding  rays 
faintly  illuminated  the  further  recesses,  or 
strained  to  pierce  the  obscure  gloom  in  which 
the  summits  of  the'  pillars  were  lost;  while 
the  sacred  music  pealed  through  the  distant 
aisles,  and  deepened  the  effect  of  the  thousands 
of  voices  which  joined  in  the  strains  of  re- 
pentant prayer. 

Annong  the  exhibitions  of  art  to  which  a 
stranger  is  conducted  immediately  after  his 
arrival  in  the  French  metropolis,  there  is 
none  which  is  more  characteristic  of  the  dis- 
position of  the  people  than  the  Miisee  dcs  Monv- 
mms  Francois,  situated  in  the  Rue  des  Petits 
Augustins.*  This  is  a  collection  of  all  the 
finest  sepulchral  monuments  from  different 
parts  of  France,  particularly  from  the  Cathe- 
dral of  St.  Denis,  where  the  cemetery  of  the 
royal  family  had,  from  time  immemorial, 
been  placed.  It  is  said  by  the  French,  that 
the  collection  of  these  monuments  into  one 
museum  was  the  only  means  of  preserving 
them  from  the  fury  of  the  people  during  the 


Revolution ;  and  certainly  nothing  but  abs< 
lute  necessity  could  have  justified  the  bai 
barous  idea  of  bringing  them  from  the  graves 
they  were  intended  to  adorn,  to  one  spot. 
where  all  associations  connected  with  them 
are  destroyed.  It  is  not  the  mere  survey  of 
the  monuments  of  the  dead  that  is  interesting, 
—not  the  examination  of  the  specimens  of  arl 
by  which  they  may  be  adorned;— it  is  the 
remembrance  of  the  deeds  which  they  are 
intended  to  record,— of  the  virtues  they  are 
destined  to  perpetuate,- of  the  pious  gratitude 
of  Aviiich  they  are  now  the  only  testimony- 
above  all,  of  the  dust  they  actually  cover 
They  remind  us  of  the  great  men  who  formerly 
filled  the  theatre  of  the  world, — they  carry  us 
back  to  an  age  which,  by  a  very  natural  illu- 
sion,  Ave  conceive  to  have  been  both  wiser 
and  happier  than  our  own,  and  present  the 
record  of  human  greatness  in  that  pleas- 
ing distance  when  the  great  features  of  cha- 
racter alone  are  remembered,  when  time  has 
drawn  its  veil  over  the  weaknesses  of  mor- 
tality, and  its  virtues  are  sanctified  by  the 
hand  of  death.  It  is  a  feeling  fitted  to  elevate 
the  soul ;  to  mingle  the  thoughts  of  death 
with  the  recollection  of  the  virtues  by  which 
life  had  been  dignified,  and  renovate  in  everj 
heart  those  high  hopes  of  religion  which 
spring  from  the  grave  of  former  virtue. 

All  this  delightful,  this  purifying  illusion,  is 
destroyed  by  the  way  in  which  the  monuments 
are  collected  in  the  museum  at  Paris.  They 
are  there  brought  together  from  all  parts  of 
France ;  severed  from  the  ashes  of  the  dead 
they  were  intended  to  cover;  and  arranged  in 
systematic  order  to  illustrate  the  history  of  the 
art  whose  progress  they  unfold.  The  tombs 
of  all  the  kings  of  France,  of  all  the  generals 
by  Avhom  its  glory  has  been  extended,  of  the 
statesmen  by  whom  its  power,  and  the  writers 
byAvhom  its  fame  has  been  established,  are 
crowded  together  in  one  collection,  and  heaped 
upon  each  other,  without  any  other  connection 
than  that  of  the  time  in  which  they  were  origi- 
nally raised.  The  museum  accordingly  ex- 
hibits, in  the  most  striking  manner,  the  power 
of  arrangement  and  classification  which  the 
French  possess;  it  is  valuable,  as  containing 
fine  models  of  the  greatest  men  which  France 
has  produced,  and  exhibits  a  curious  speci- 
men of  the  progress  of  art,  from  its  first 
commencement,  to  the  period  of  its  greatest 
perfection;  but  it  has  wholly  lost  that  deep 
and  peculiar  interest  which  belongs  to  th« 
monuments  of  the  dead  in  their  origuiai 
situation. 

Adjoining  to  the  museum,  is  a  garden 
planted  with  trees,  in  which  many  of  liie 
finest  monuments  are  placed;  but  in  whicfi 
the  depravity  of  the  French  taste  api'ears  in 
the  most  striking  manner.  It  is  surroiindcii 
with  high  houses,  and  darkened  by  the  .shade 
of  lofty  buildings:  yet  in  this  glnomv  situa- 
tion, they  have  placed  the  tomb  of  I  enclon 
and  the' united  monument  of  AhH.inl  an.l 
Eloise:  profaning  thus,  by  tl.c  harhar.-ii. 
affectation  of  artificial  taste,  and  ihc  M.li  more 
shocking  imitation  of  ancient  supmtilion,  thf 
remains  of  those  whose  names  .are  rnshnned 
in  every  heart  which  can  Icel  the  kauly  of 


104 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  EStSAi  8. 


moral  exrellcncc,  or  share  in  the  sj'mpalhy 
with  youthful  sorrow. 

How  different  are  the  fcclinps  with  wliich 
an  Englishman  snrvcys  the  untouched  monu- 
menls  of  Enijlish  preatness! — and  treads  the 
floor  of  that  venerable  buildinj^  which  shnnids 
the  remains  of  all  who  have  difrnilied  their 
native  land — in  which  her  patriots,  her  poets, 
and  her  philosophers  "  sleep  with  her  kings, 
and  dipiify  the  scene,"  which  the  rage  of 
popular  fury  has  never  dared  to  profane,  and 
the  hand  of  victorious  power  has  never  been 
able  to  violate ;  where  the  ashes  of  the  im- 
mortal dead  still  lie  in  undisturbed  repose, 
under  tliat  splendid  roof  which  covered  the 
tombs  of  its  earliest  kings,  and  witnessed, 
from  its  first  dawn,  the  infant  glory  of  the 
English  people. — Nor  could  the  remembrance 
of  these  national  monuments  ever  excite  in 
the  mind  of  a  native  of  France,  the  same 
feeling  of  heroic  devotion  which  inspired  the 
sublime  expression  of  Nelson,  as  he  boarded 
the  Spanish  Admiral's  ship  at  St.  Vincent's — 
••  Westminster  Abbey  or  victory  !" 

Though  the  streets  in  Pa'ris  have  an  aged 
and  uncomfortable  appearance,  the  form  of 
the  houses  is  such,  as,  at  a  distance,  to  present 
a  picturesque  aspect.  Their  height,  their 
sharp  and  irregular  tops,  the  vast  variety  of 
forms  which  they  assume  when  seen  from 
different  quarters,  all  combine  to  render  a  dis- 
tant view  of  them  more  striking  than  the  long 
rows  of  uniform  houses  of  wliich  London  is 
composed.  The  domes  and  steeples  of  Paris, 
however,  are  greatly  inferior,  both  in  number 
and  magnificence,  to  those  of  the  English 
capital. 

The  gardens  of  the  Tuileries  and  the 
Luxembourg,  of  which  the  Parisians  think  so 
highly,  and  which  are  constantly  filled  with  all 
ranks  of  citizens,  are  laid  out  with  a  singular- 
ity of  taste,  of  which,  in  this  country,  we  can 
scarcely  form  any  conception.  The  straight 
walks — the  dipt  trees — the  marble  fountains 
are  fast  wearing  out  in  all  parts  of  England; 
they  are  to  be  met  with  only  round  the  man- 
sions of  ancient  families,  and,  even  there  are 
kept  rather  from  the  influence  of  ancient 
prejudice,  or  from  the  afl!ection  to  hereditary 
forms,  than  from  their  coincidence  with  the 
present  taste  of  the  English  people.  They 
arc  seldom,  accordingly,  disagreeable,  with  us, 
to  the  eye  of  the  most  cultivated  taste;  their 
singularity  forms  a  pleasing  variety  to  the 
continued  succession  of  lawns  and  shrub- 
beries which  are  everywhere  to  be  met  with  ; 
and  they  are  regarded  rather  as  the  venerable 
marks  of  ancient  splendour,  than  as  the  bar- 
barous affectation  of  modern  distinction.  In 
France,  the  native  deformity  of  this  taste 
appears  in  its  real  light,  withcmt  the  colouring 
of  any  such  adventitious  circumstances  as 
conceal  it  in  this  country.  It  does  not  exist 
onder  the  soAening  veil  of  ancient  manners; 
its  avenues  do  not  conduct  to  the  decaying 
ftbodc  of  hereditary  greatness — its  gardens  do 
hot  mark  the  scenes  of  former  festivity — its 
f»)unlaiiis  arc  not  covered  with  the  moss  which 
haji  grown  for  centuries.  It  ajipears  as  the  mo- 
del of  present  taste ;  it  is  considered  as  the  indi- 
ra'.io^of  existing  splendour;  and  sought  after 


as  the  form  in  which  the  beauty  of  nature  la 

now  to  be  admired.  All  that  association 
blends  in  the  mind  with  the  style  of  ancient 
gardening  in  England  is  instantly  divested  by 
its  appearance  in  France ;  and  the  whole  im- 
portance is  then  felt  of  that  happy  change  in 
the  national  taste,  whereby  variety  has  been 
made  to  succeed  to  uniformil)',  and  the  imita- 
tion of  nature  to  come  in  the  place  of  the  exhi- 
bition of  art. 

The  remarkable  characteristic  of  the  taste 
of  France  is,  that  this  love  of  artificial  beauty 
continues  with  undiminished  force,  at  a  period 
when,  in  other  nations,  it  has  given  place  to  a 
more  genuine  love  for  the  beauty  of  nature. 
In  them,  the  natural  progress  of  refinement 
has  led  from  the  admiration  of  the  art  of  imita- 
tion to  the  love  of  the  subjects  imitated.  It> 
France,  this  early  prejudice  continues  in  its 
pristine  vigour  at  the  present  moment:  they 
never  lose  sight  of  the  effort  of  the  artist ;  their 
admiration  is  fixed  not  on  the  quality  or  object 
in  nature,  but  on  the  artificial  representation 
of  it;  not  on  the  thing  signified,  but  the  sign. 
It  is  hence  that  they  have  such  exalted  ideas 
of  the  perfection  of  their  artist  David,  whose 
paintings  are  nothing  more  than  a  representa- 
tion of  the  human  figure  in  its  most  extrava- 
gant and  phrenzied  attitudes ;  that  they  are 
insensible  to  the  simple  display  of  real  emo- 
tion, but  dwell  with  delight  upon  the  vehement 
representation  of  it  which  their  stage  exhibits ; 
and  that,  leaving  the  charming  heights  of  Belle- 
ville, or  the  sequestered  banks  of  the  Seine 
almost  wholly  deserted,  they  crowd  to  the  stifi" 
alleys  of  the  Elysian  Fields,  or  the  artificial 
beauties  of  the  gardens  of  Versailles. 

In  the  midst  of  Paris  this  artificial  style  of 
gardening  is  not  altogether  unjUeasing ;  it  is 
in  unison,  in  some  measure,  with  the  regular 
character  of  the  buildings  with  which  it  is 
surrounded ;  and  the  profusion  of  statues  and 
marble  vases  continues  the  impression  which 
the  character  of  their  palaces  is  fitted  to  pro- 
duce. But  at  Versailles,  at  St.  Cloud,  and 
Fontainbleau,  amidst  the  luxuriance  of  vegeta- 
tion, and  surrounded  by  the  majesty  of  forest 
scenery,  it  destroys  altogether  the  effect  which 
arises  from  the  irregularity  of  natural  beauty. 
Every  one  feels  straight  borders,  and  square 
porticoes  and  broad  alie)^s,  to  be  in  vuiison 
with  the  immediate  neighbourhood  of  an  anti- 
quated mansion  ;  but  they  become  painful 
when  extended  to  those  remoter  parts  of  the 
grounds,  when  the  character  of  the  scene  is 
determined  by  the  rudeness  of  uncultivated 
nature. 

There  are  some  occasions,  nevertheless,  on 
which  the  gardens  of  the  Tuileries  present  a  _ 
beautiful  spectacle,  in  spite  of  the  artificial  'fl 
taste  in  which  they  are  formed.  From  the 
warmth  of  the  cliinate,  the  Parisians,  of  all 
classes,  live  much  in  the  open  air,  and  frequent 
the  public  gardens  in  great  numbers  during 
the  continuance  of  the  fine  weather.  In  the 
evening  especially,  they  are  filled  with  citi- 
zens, who  repose  themselves  under  the  shade 
of  the  lofty  trees,  after  the  heat  and  the  fa- 
tigues of  the  day;  and  they  there  present  a 
spectacle  of  more  than  ordinary  interest  and 
beauty.    The  disposition  of  the  French  suit* 


PARIS  IN  1814. 


105 


the  character  of  the  scene,  and  harmonizes 
with  the  impression  which  the  stillness  of  the 
evening  produces  on  the  mind.  There  is 
Done  of  that  rioting  or  confusion  by  -which  an 
assembly  of  the  middling  classes  in  England 
is  too  often  disgraced ;  no  quarrelling  or  in- 
toxication even  among  the  poorest  ranks,  nor 
any  appearance  of  that  degrading  want  which 
destroys  the  jj.easing  idea  of  public  happiness. 
The  people  appear  all  to  enjoy  a  certain  share 
of  individual  prosperity;  their  intercoiirse  is 
conducted  with  unbroken  harmony,  and  they 
seem  to  resign  themselves  to  those  delightful 
feelings  which  steal  over  the  mind  during  the 
stillness  and  serenity  of  a  summer  evening. 
[t  would  seem  as  if  all  the  angry  passions  of 
the  breast  were  soothed  by  the  voice  of  repos- 
ing nature — as  if  the  sounds  of  labour  were 
stilled,  lest  they  should  break  the  harmony  of 
the  scene — as  if  vice  itself  had  concealed  its 
deformity  from  the  overpowering  influence  of 
natural  beauty. 

Still  more  beautiful,  perhaps,  is  the  appear- 
ance of  this  scene  during  the  stillness  of  the 
night,  when  the  moon  throws  her  dubious  rays 
over  the  objects  of  nature.  The  gardens  of 
the  Tuileries  remain  crowded  with  people, 
who  seem  to  enjoy  the  repose  Mdiich  univer- 
sally prevails,  and  from  whom  no  sound  is  to 
be  heard  which  can  break  the  stillness  or  the 
serenity  of  the  scene.  The  regularity  of  the 
forms  is  wholly  lost  in  the  masses  of  light  and 
shadow  that  are  there  displayed ;  the  foliage 
throws  a  checkered  shade  over  the  ground 
beneath,  while  the  distant  vistas  of  the  Elysian 
Fields  are  seen  in  that  soft  and  mellow  light 
by  which  the  radiance  of  the  moon  is  so  pecu- 
liarly distinguished.  After  passing  through 
the  scenes  of  gaiety  and  festivity  which  mark 
these  favourite  scenes  of  the  French  people, 
small  encampments  were  frequently  to  be  seen, 
of  the  allied  troops,  in  the  remote  parts  of  the 
grounds.  The  appearance  of  these  bivouacks, 
composed  of  Cossack  squadrons,  Hungarian 
hussars,  and  Prussian  artillery,  in  the  obscurity 
of  moonlight,  and  surrounded  by  the  gloom  of 
forest  scenery,  was  beyond  measure  striking. 
The  picturesque  forms  of  the  soldiers,  sleeping 
on  their  arms  under  the  shade  of  the  trees,  or 
half  hid  by  the  rude  huts  which  they  had 
erected  for  their  shelter;  the  varied  altitudes 
of  the  horses  standing  amidst  the  wagons  by 
which  the  camp  was  followed,  or  sleeping  be- 
side the  veterans  whom  they  had  borne  through 
all  the  fortunes  of  war ;  the  dark  masses  of  the 
artillery,  dimly  discerned  in  the  shades  of- 
night,  or  faintly  reflecting  the  pale  light  of  the 
moon,  presented  a  scene  of  the  most  beautiful 
description,  in  which  the  rude  features  of  war 
were  softened  by  the  tranquillity  of  peaceful 
life :  and  the  interest  of  present  repose  was 
enhanced  b}^  the  remembrance  of  the  wintry 
storms  and  bloody  fields  through  which  these 
brave  men  had  passed,  during  the  memorable 
campaigns  in  which  they  had  been  engaged. 
The  effect  of  the  whole  was  increased  by  the 
perfect  stillness  Avhich  everywhere  prevailed, 
broken  only  at  intervals  by  the  slow  step  of 
the  sentinel,  as  he  paced  his  rounds,  or  the 
S"weeter  sounds  of  those  beautiful  airs,  which, 
in  a  far  distant  country,  recalled  to  the  Russian 


soldier  the  joys  and  the  lappiness  of  his  native 
land. 

St.  Cloud  was  the  favourite    residence  of 
Bonaparte,  and,  from  this  circumstance,  pos- 
sesses an  interest  which  does  not  belong  to 
the  other  miperial  palaces.     It  stands  high, 
upon   a   lofty  bank  overhanging    the   Seine, 
which  takes  a  bold  sweep  in  the  plain  below; 
and  the  steep  declivity  which  descends  to  its 
banks,  is  clothed  with  magnificent  woods  of 
aged  elms.     The  character  of  the  sccnerv-  is 
bold  and  rugged;— the  trees  are  of  the  wildest 
forms,  and  the  most  stupendous  height,  ani 
the  banks,  for  the  most  part,  steep  and  irregu- 
lar.    It  is   here,  accordinglj-,  that  the  French 
gardening  appears  in  all  its  genuine  deformity; 
and  that  its  straight  walks  and  endless  foun- 
tains display  a  degree  of  formality  and  art, 
destructive  to  the  peculiar  beauty"  by  which 
the  scene  is  distinguished.     These  gardens, 
however,  were  the  favourite  and  private  walks 
of  the  emperor ; — it  was  there  that  he  meditated 
those  schemes  of  ambition  which  were  des- 
tined to   shake    tjie   established    thrones  of 
Europe; — it  was  under  the  shade  of  its  luxu- 
riant foliage  that  he  formed  the  plan  of  all  the 
mighty  projects  which  he  had  iu  contempla- 
tion ; — it  was  in  the  splendid  apartments  of 
its  palace  that  the  Councils  of  France  assem- 
bled, to  revolve  on  the  means  of  permanently 
destroying  the  English  power: — It  was  here 
too,  by  a  most  remarkable  coincidence^  that 
his  destruction  was   finally  accomplished; — 
that  the  last    convention  was  concluded,  by 
which    his    second   dethronement  was  com- 
pleted ; — and  that  the  victorious  arms  of  Eng- 
land dictated  the  tenns  of  surrender   to  his 
conquered  capital. 

St.  Cloud,  in  1814,  was  the  head-quarters 
of  Prince  Schwartzenbcrg ;  and  the  Austrian 
grenadiers  mounted  guard  at  the  gates  of  the 
Imperial  Palace.  The  banks  of  the  Seine, 
below  the  palace,  were  covered  by  an  immense 
bivouac  of  Austrian  troops,  and  the  fires  of 
their  encampment  twinkled  in  the  obscurity 
of  twilight,  amidst  the  low  brushwood  with 
which  the  sides  of  the  river  were  clothed.  The 
appearance  of  this  bivouac,  dimly  discerned 
through  the  rugged  stems  of  lofty  trees,  or 
half-hid  by  the  luxuriant  branches  which  ob- 
scured the  view — the  picturesque  and  varied 
aspect  of  the  camp,  covered  with  wagons,  and 
all  the  accompaniments  of  military  service  ; — 
the  columns  of  smoke  rising  from  the  fires 
with  which  it  was  interspersed,  and  the  in- 
numerable horses  crowded  amidst  the  con- 
fused multitude  of  men  and  carriages,  or  rest- 
ing in  more  sequestered  spots  on  the  sides  of 
the  river,  with  their  forms  finely  rciicctcd  in 
its  unruffled  waters — presented  a  spectacle 
which  exhibited  \var  in  its  most  striking  aspect, 
and  gave  a  character  to  the  scene  which  would 
have  suited  the  romantic  strain  of  Salvator> 
mind. 

St.  Germain,  though  less  picturrsqnely  situ 
ated  than  St.  Cloud,  presents  features  never 
theless,  of  more  than  ordinary  mngnificrnce. 
The  Palace,  now  converted  into  a  school  c. 
military  education  by  Napoleon,  is  a  mean 
irregular  building;  though  it  posses.o-.  .i  err- 
tain  interest,  by  having  been  long  the  icMdcncc 


IM 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


of  the  exiled  house  of  Stuart.  The  situation, 
however,  is  truly  fitted  for  an  imperial  dwcll- 
inp;  it  stands  on  the  cdfre  of  a  hi^h  bank, 
overhan^ins  'he  Seine,  at  the  end  of  a  mafinifi- 
cent  terrace,  a  mile  and  a  half  lonj^,  built  on 
the  projecting  heights  which  edge  the  river. 
The  walk  along  this  terrace  is  the  finest  spec- 
tacle which  the  vicinity  of  Paris  has  to  present. 
It  is  backed  along  its  whole  extent  by  the  im- 
mense forest  of  St.  Germain,  llie  foliage  of 
which  overhangs  the  road,  and  in  the  recesses 
of  which  you  can  occasionally  discern  those 
beautiful  peeps  which  form  the  peculiar  charac- 
teristic of  forest  scenery.  The  steep  bank 
which  descends  to  the  river  is  clothed  with 
orchards  and  vineyards  in  all  the  luxuriance 
of  a  southern  climate,  and,  in  front,  there  is 
spread  beneath  your  feet  the  immense  plain 
in  which  the  Seine  wanders,  whose  waters  are 
descried  at  intervals  through  the  woods  and 
gardens  with  which  its  banks  are  adorned; 
while,  in  the  farthest  distance,  the  towers  of 
St.  Denis,  and  the  heights  of  Paris,  form  an 
irregular  outline  on  the  verge  of  the  horizon. 
It  is  a  scene  exhibiting  the  most  beautiful 
aspect  of  cultivated  nature,  and  would  have 
been  the  fit  residence  for  a  monarch  who  loved 
to  surv'ey  his  subjects'  happiness :  but  it  was 
deserted  bj-  the  miserable  weakness  of  Louis 
XIV.,  because  the  view  terminated  in  the 
cemetery  of  the  kings  of  France,  and  his  en- 
joyment of  it  would  have  been  destroyed  by 
the  thoughts  of  mortal  decay. 

Versailles,  which  that  monarch  chose  as  the 
ordinary  abode  of  his  splendid  court,  is  less 
favourably  situate  for  a  royal  dwelling,  though 
the  view  from  the  great  front  of  the  palace  is 
beautifully  clothed  with  luxuriant  woods.  The 
palace  itself  is  a  magnificent  building  of  im- 
mense extent,  loaded  with  the  riches  of  archi- 
tectural beauty,  but  destitute  of  that  fine  pro- 
portion and  lightness  of  ornament,  which 
spread  so  indescribable  a  charm  over  the 
palace  of  the  Louvre.  The  interior  is  in  a 
state  of  lamentable  deca}^  having  been  pillaged 
at  the  commencement  of  the  revolutionary 
fury,  and  formed  into  a  barrack  for  the  repub- 
lican soldiers,  the  marks  of  whose  violence 
are  still  visible  in  the  faded  splendour  of  its 
magnificent  apartments.  They  still  show,  how- 
ever, the  favourite  apartments  of  Maria  An- 
toinette, the  walls  of  which  are  covered  with 
the  finest  mirrors,  and  some  remains  of  the 
furniture  are  still  preserved,  which  even  the 
licentious  fury  of  the  French  army  seems  to 
have  been  afraid  to  violate.  The -gardens,  on 
which  all  the  riches  of  France,  and  all  the 
«!fr<irts  of  art  were  so  long  lavished,  present  a 
painful  monument  of  the  depravity  of  taste: 
but  the  Petit  Trianon,  which  is  a  little  palace 
built  of  marble,  and  surrounded  by  shrubberies 
in  the  English  style,  exhibits  the  genuine 
beauty  of  which  the  imitation  of  nature  is  sus- 
ceptible. This  palace  contains  a  suite  of 
splendid  apartments,  fitted  up  with  singular 
tafsfc,  and  adorned  with  a  number  of  charming 

Riclnres ;  it  was  the  favourite  residence  of 
Inria  I,nuise,  and  we  were  there  shown  the 
drawing  materials  which  she  used,  and  some 
nnfimshed  sketches  which  she  left,  in  which, 


we  were  informed,  she  much  delighted,  and 
which  bore  the  marks  of  a  cultivated  taste. 

The  Empress  Maria  Louise  was  everywhere 
represented  as  cold,  proud,  and  haughty  in  her 
manner,  and  unconciliating  in  her  ordinary  ad- 
dress. Her  time  was  much  spent  in  private, 
in  the  exercise  of  religious  duty,  or  in  needle- 
work and  drawing;  and  her  favourite  seat  at 
St.  Cloud  was  between  two  windows,  from 
one  of  which  she  had  a  view  over  the  beauti- 
ful woods  which  clothe  the  banks  of  the  river, 
and  from  the  other  a  distant  prospect  of  the 
towers  and  domes  of  Paris. 

Very  different  was  the  character  which  be- 
longed to  the  former  empress,  the  first  wife  of 
Bonaparte,  Josephine.  She  passed  the  close 
of  her  life  at  the  delightful  retreat  of  Mal- 
maison,  a  villa  charmingly  situated  on  the 
banks  of  the  Seine,  seven  miles  from  Paris,  on 
the  road  to  St.  Germain.  This  villa  had  been 
her  favourite  residence  while  she  continued 
empress,  and  formed  her  only  home  after  the 
period  of  her  divorce ; — here  she  lived  in 
obscurity  and  retirement,  without  any  of  the 
pomp  of  a  court,  or  any  of  the  splendour  which 
belonged  to  her  former  rank,  occupied  entirely 
in  the  employment  of  gardening,  or  in  allevi- 
ating the  distresses  of  those  around  her.  The 
shrubberies  and  gardens  were  laid  out  with 
singular  beaut}^  in  the  English  taste,  and  con- 
tained a  vast  variety  of  rare  flowers,  which 
she  had  for  a  long  pei'iod  been  collecting. 
These  grounds  were  to  her  the  source  of  never- 
failing  enjoyment;  she  spent  many  hours  in 
them  every  day,  working  herself,  or  superin- 
tending the  occupations  of  others  ;  and  in  these 
delightful  occupations  seemed  to  return  again 
to  all  the  innocence  and  happiness  of  youth. 
She  M-as  beloved,  to  the  greatest  degree,  by 
all  the  poor  who  inhabited  the  vicinity  of  her 
retreat,  both  for  the  gentleness  of  her  man- 
ner, and  her  unwearied  attention  to  their  suf- 
ferings and  their  wants  ;  and  during  the  whole 
period  of  her  retirement,  she  retained  the 
esteem  and  affection  of  all  classes  of  French 
citizens.  The  Emperor  Alexander  visited  her 
repeatedly  during  the  stay  of  the  allied  armiea 
in  Paris  ;  and  her  death  occasioned  an  univer- 
sal feeling  of  regret,  rarely  to  be  met  with 
amidst  the  corruption  and  selfishness  of  the 
French  metropolis. 

There  was  something  singularly  striking  in 
the  history  and  character  of  this  remarkable 
woman  : — Born  in  an  humble  station,  without 
any  of  the  advantages  which  rank  or  education 
could  afford,  she  was  early  involved  in  all  the 
unspeakable  miseries  of  the  French  revolution, 
and  was  extricated  from  her  precarious  situa- 
tion only  by  being  united  to  that  extraordinary 
man  whose  crimes  and  whose  ambition  have 
spread  misery  through  eveiy  country  of  Eu- 
rope; rising  through  all  the  gradations  of 
rank  through  which  he  passed,  she  ever}'where 
commanded  the  esteem  and  regard  of  all  who 
had  access  to  admire  her  private  virtues ;  and 
when  at  length  she  was  raised  to  the  rank  of 
Empress,  she  graced  the  imperial  throne  with 
all  the  charities  and  virtues  of  an  humbler  sta- 
tion. She  bore,  with  unexampled,magnanimity, 
the  sacrifice  of  power  and  of  influence  which 


PAEIS  IN  1814. 


107 


he  was  compelled  to  make:  she  carried  into 
le  obscurity  of  humble  life  all  the  dignity  of 
lind  which  befitted  the  character  of  an  em- 
ress  of  France  ;  and  exercised,  in  the  delight- 
Lil  occupations  of  country  life,  or  in  the  alle- 
iation  of  the  severity  of  individual  distress, 
lat  firmness  of  mind  and  gentleness  of  dis- 
osition  with  which  she  had  lightened  the 
reight  of  imperial  dominion,  and  softened  the 
igour  of  despotic  power. 

The  Forest  of  Fontainbleau  exhibits  scenery 
f  a  more  picturesque  and  striking  character 
ran  is  to  be  met  with  in  any  other  part  of  the 
orth  of  France.  It  is  situated  forty  miles  from 
'aris,  on  the  great  road  to  Rome,  and  the  ap- 
earance  of  the  country  through  which  this 
Dad  runs,  is,  for  the  most  part,  flat  and  unin- 
;resting.  It  runs  through  a  continued  plain, 
1  a  straight  line  between  tall  rows  of  elm 
■ees,  whose  lower  branches  are  uniformly  cut 
ff  for  fire-wood  to  the  peasantry;  and  exhibits, 
)r  the  most  part,  no  other  feature  than  the 
ontinued  riches  of  agricultural  produce.  At 
le  distance  of  seven  miles  from  the  town  of 
'ontainbleau,  you  first  discern  the  forest, 
overing  a  vast  ridge  of  rocks,  stretching  as  far 
s  the  eye  can  reach,  from  right  to  left,  and 
resenting  a  dark  irregular  outline  on  the  sur- 
ice  of  Ihe  horizon.  The  cultivation  continues, 
'ith  all  its  uniformity,  to  the  very  foot  of  the 
dge  ;  but  the  moment  you  pass  the  boundaries 
f  the  forest,  you  find  }'ourself  surrounded  at 
nee  with  all  the  wildness  and  luxuriance  of 
atural  scenery.  The  surface  of  the  ground 
i  broken  and  irregular,  rising  at  times  into 
ast  piles  of  shapeless  rocks,  and  enclosing  at 
thers  small  valleys,  in  which  the  wood  grows 
1  luxuriant  beauty,  unblighted  by  the  chilling 
lasts  of  northern  climates.  In  these  valleys, 
le  oak,  the  ash,  and  the  beech,  exhibit  the 
eculiar  magnificence  of  forest  scenery,  while, 
n  the  neighbouring  hills,  the  birch  waves  its 
iry  foliage  round  the  dark  masses  of  rock 
'hich  terminate  the  view.  Nothing  can  be 
onceived  more  striking  than  the  scenery 
diich  this  variety  of  rock  and  wood  produces 
1  every  part  of  this  romantic  forest.  At  times 
ou  pass  through  an  unbroken  mass  of  aged 
niber,  surrounded  by  the  native  grandeur  of 
)rest  scenery,  and  undisturbed  by  any  traces 
f  huma,n  habitation,  except  in  those  rude 
aths  which  occasionally  open  a  passing  view 
ito  the  remoter  parts  of  the  forest.  At  others, 
le  path  winds  through  great  masses  of  rock, 
iled  in  endless  confusion  upon  each  other, 
1  the  crevices  of  which,  the  fern  and  the 
eath  grow  in  all  the  luxuriance  of  southern 
egetation;  while  their  summits  are  covered 
y  aged  oaks  of  the  wildest  forms,  whose 
rossing  boughs  throw  an  eternal  shade  over 
le  ravines  below,  and  afford  room  only  to 
iscern  at  the  farthest  distance  the  summits 
f  those  beautiful  hills,  on  which  the  light 
aliage  of  the  birch  trembles  in  the  ray  of  an 
inclouded  sun,  or  waves  on  the  blue  of  a  sum- 
aer  heaven. 

To  those  who  have  had  the  good  fortune  to 
ee  the  beautiful  scenery  of  the  Trosachs  in 
Scotland,  of  Matlock  in  Derbyshire,  or  of  the 
rooded  Fells  in  Cumberland,  it  may  aflxjrd 
lome  idea  of  the  Forest  of  Fontainbleau,  to 


say  that  it  combines  scenery  of  a  similar  de« 
scription  with  the  aged  magnificence  of  Wind- 
sor  Forest.  Over  its  whole  extent  there  are 
scattered  many  detached  oaks  of  vast  dimen- 
sions,  which  seem  to  be  of  an  older  race 
in  the  growth  of  the  forest,— whose  lowest 
boughs  stretch  above  the  top  of  the  wood 
which  surrounds  them,— and  whose  decayed 
summits  afford  a  striking  contrast  to  the 
young  and  luxuriant  foliage  with  which  their 
stems  are  enveloped.  In  May,  1814,  it  was 
occupied  by  the  old  imperial  guard,  which 
still  remained  in  that  station  after  the  abdica- 
tion of  Bonaparte;  and  parties,  or  detached 
stragglers  of  them,  were  frequently  to  be  met 
with  wandering  in  the  most  solitary  parts  of 
the  forest.  Their  warlike  and  weather-beaten 
appearance ;  their  battered  arms  and  worn 
accoutrements ;  the  dark  feathers  of  their  caps, 
and  the  sallow  ferocious  aspect  of  their  coun- 
tenances, suited  the  savage  character  of  the 
scenery  with  which  they  were  surrounded, 
and  threw  over  the  gloom  and  solitude  of  the 
forest  that  wild  expression  with  which  the 
genius  of  Salvator  dignified  the  features  of 
uncultivated  nature. 

The  town  and  palace  of  Fontainbleau  is  sit- 
uated in  a  small  plain  near  the  centre  of  the 
forest,  and  surrounded  on  all  sides  by  the 
rocky  ridges  with  which  it  is  everywhere  in- 
tersected. The  palace  is  a  large  irregular 
building,  composed  of  many  squares,  and 
fitted  up  in  the  inside  with  the  utmost  splen- 
dour of  imperial  magnificence.  The  apart- 
ments in  which  Napoleon  dwelt  during  his 
stay  in  the  palace,  after  the  capture  of  Paris 
by  the  allied  troops ;  and  the  desk  at  which 
he  always  wrote,  and  where  his  abdication 
was  signed,  are  there  shown.  It  is  covered 
with  white  leather,  scratched  over  in  every 
direction,  and  marked  with  innumerable  wip- 
ings  of  the  pen,  among  which  his  own  name, 
Napoleon,  frequently  written  as  in  a  hur- 
ried and  irregular  hand,  was  to  be  seen; 
and  one  sentence  which  began,  "Que  Dieu, 
Napoleon,  Napoleon."  The  servants  in  the 
palace  agreed  in  stating,  that  the  emperor's 
gaiety  and  fortitude  of  mind  never  deserted 
him  during  the  ruin  of  his  fortune;  that  he 
was  engaged  in  his  writing-chamber  during 
the  greater  part  of  the  day,  and  walked  for 
two  hours  on  the  terrace,  in  close  conversa- 
tion with  Marshal  Ney.  Several  olRcers()f 
the  imperial  guard  repeated  the  speech  which 
he  made  to  his  troops  on  leaving  them  afier 
his  abdication  of  the  throne,  which  was  precise- 
ly what  appeared  in  the  English  new.spapers. 
So  great  was  the  enthusiasm  produced  by  this 
speech  among  the  soldiers  present,  that  il 
was  received  with  shouts  and  cries  of  Vive 
I'Empereur,  a  Paris,  a  Paris!  and  wiien  he 
departed  under  the  custody  of  tlic  allied  com- 
missioners, the  whole  army  wept ;  tlu-re  was 
not  a  dry  eye  in  the  multitude  who  were  as- 
sembled to  witness  his  departure.  Lven  lh« 
imperial  guard,  who  had  been  trained  in  scenes 
of  suffering  from  their  first  entry  into  the 
service— who  had  been  inured  for  a  long  course 
of  years  to  the  daily  sight  of  human  rnif^'^rY. 
and  had  constantly  made  a  sport  of  all  thn 
afUictions  which  are  fitted  to  move  llic  hun.an 


T0« 


ALISON'S  mSCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS, 


heart,  ^hnnvi  in  the  j^cncral  grief;  they  seemed 
to  forget  the  lU-gradation  in  which  tlieir  com- 
tnander  was  involved,  the  hardsliips  to  which 
the)-  had  been  exposed,  and  the  destruction 
u-hich  he  had  brought  upon  their  brethren  in 
arms ;  the)"  remembered  him  when  he  stood 
victorious  on  the  ficKl  of  Austerlitz,  or  passed 
in  triumph  through  the  gates  of  Moscow,  and 
shed  over  the  fail  of  their  emperor  tliose  tears 
of  genuine  sorrow  which  they  denied  to  the 
deepest  scenes  of  private  suflering,  or  the  most 
aggravated  instances  of  individual  distress. 

The  infantry  of  the  old  guard  was  frequently 
to  be  seen  drawn  up  in  line  in  the  streets  of 
Fontainbleau.  and  their  appearance  was  such 
as  fully  answered  the  idea  we  had  formed  of 
that  body  of  veteran  soldiers,  who  had  borne 
the  French  eagles  through  every  capital  of 
Europe.  Their  aspect  was  bold  and  martial ; 
there  was  a  keenness  in  their  eyes  which  be- 
spoke the  characteristic  intelligence  of  the 
French  soldiers,  and  a  ferocity  in  the  expres- 
sion of  their  countenances  which  seemed  to 
have  been  unsubdued  even  by  the  unparalleled 
disasters  in  which  their  country  had  been  in- 
Tolved.  The  people  of  the  town  itself  com- 
plained in  the  bitterest  terms  of  their  licen- 
tious conduct,  and  repeatedly  said  that  they 
dreaded  them  more  as  friends  than  the  Cos- 
sack? themselves  as  enemies.  Tliey  seemed 
to  harbour  the  most  unbounded  resentment 
against  the  people  of  this  country ;  their  coun- 
tenances bore  thp  expression  of  the  strongest 
enmity  against  the  English.  Wha.tever  the 
atrocity  of  their  conduct ;  however  it  might 
have  been  to  the  people  of  their  own,  as  well  as 
every  other  country,  it  was  impossible  not 
to  feel  the  strongest  emotion  at  the  sight  of 
the  veteran  soldiers  whose  exploits  had  so 
long  rivctted  the  attention  of  all  M-ho  felt  an 
interest  in  the  civilized  Avorld.  These  were 
the  men  who  first  raised  the  glory  of  the  re- 
publican armies  on  the  plains  of  Italy ;  who 
sur\'-ived  the  burning  climate  of  Egypt,  and 
chained  victory  to  the  imperial  standards  at 
Jena,  at  Fricdland  and  Austerlitz — who  fol- 
lowed the  career  of  victory  to  the  walls  of  the 
Kremlin,  and  marched  undaunted  through  the 
ranks  of  death  amid  the  snows  of  Russia ; — 
who  witnessed  the  ruin  of  France  under  the 
walls  of  Leipsic,  and  struggled  to  save  its 
falling  fortune  on  the  heights  of  Laon ;  and 
who  preserved,  in  the  midst  of  national  humi- 
liation, and  when  surrounded  by  the  mighty 
foreign  ppwcrs,  that  undaunted  air  and  un- 
shaken firmness,  which,  even  in  the  moment 
of  defeat,  commanded  the  respect  of  their  an- 
taponi>ts  in  arms. 

There  is  no  scenery  round  Paris  so  striking 
as  the  Forest  of  Fontainbleau,  but  the  heights 
of  Belleville  exhibit  nature  in  a  more  pleasing 
aspect,  and  are  distinguished  by  features  of  a 
gentler  character.  Montmartre,  and  the  ridge 
of  Ifellcville,  form  those  celebrated  heights 
which  command  Paris  on  the  northern  side, 
and  which  were  so  obstinately  contested  be- 
tween the  allies  and  the  French,  on  the  30th 
March,  1814,  previous  to  the  capture  of  Paris 
by  the  allied  sovereigns.  Montmartre  is  covered 
for  the  most  part  with  liouses,  and  presents 
nothing  to  attract  the  eye  of  the  observer,  ex- 


cept the  extensive  view  which  is  to  be  met 
with  at  its  summit.  The  heights  of  Belleville 
are  varied  with  wood,  with  orchards,  vine- 
yards, and  gardens,  interspersed  with  cottages 
and  villas,  and  cultivated  with  the  utmost 
care.  There  are  few  enclosures,  but  the  whole 
extent  of  the  ground  is  thickly  studded  with 
walnuts,  fruit-trees,  and  forest  timber,  which, 
from  a  distance,  give  it  the  appearance  of  one 
continued  wood.  On  a  nearer  approach,  how- 
ever, you  find  it  intersected  in  every  direction 
by  small  paths,  which  wind  among  the  vine- 
yards, or  through  the  woods  with  which  the 
hills  are  covered,  and  present,  at  every  turn, 
those  charming  little  scenes  which  form  the 
peculiar  characteristic  of  woodland  scenery. 
The  cottages,  half  hid  by  the  profusion  of 
fruit-trees,  or  embosomed  in  the  luxuriant 
woods,  with  which  they  are  everywhere  sur- 
rounded, increase  the  interest  which  the  scene- 
ry itself  is  fitted  to  produce  ;  they  combine  the 
delightful  idea  of  the  peasant's  enjoyment  with 
the  beauty  of  the  spot  on  which  his  dwelling 
is  placed;  and  awaken,  in  the  midst  of  the 
boundless  luxuriance  of  vegetable  nature, 
those  deeper  feelings  of  moral  delight,  which 
spring  from  the  contemplation  of  human  happi- 
ness. 

The  efiect  of  the  charming  scener}'  on  the 
heights  of  Belleville,  is  much  increased  by 
the  distant  objects  which  terminate  some  parts 
of  the  view.  To  the  east,  the  high  and  gloomy 
towers  of  Vincennes  rise  over  the  beautiful 
woods  with  which  the  sides  of  the  hill  are 
adorned ;  and  give  an  air  of  solemnity  to  the 
scene,  arising  from  the  remembrance  of  the 
tragic  events  of  which  it  was  the  theatre.  Tc 
the  sovtth,  the  domes  and  spires  of  Paris  can 
occasionally  be  discovered  through  the  open- 
ings of  the  wood  with  which  the  foreground 
is  enriched,  and  present  the  capital  at  that 
pleasing  distance,  when  the  minuter  parts  of 
the  buildings  are  concealed,  when  its  promi- 
nent features  alone  are  displa)-ed,  and  the 
whole  is  softened  by  the  obscure  light  which 
distance  throws  over  the  objects  of  nature. 
To  an  English  mind,  the  eff"ect  of  the  whole  is 
infinitely  increased,  by  the  animating  asso- 
ciations with  which  this  scenery  is  connected, 
— by  the  remembrance  of  the  mighty  struggle 
between  freedom  and  slavery,  which  was  here 
terminated; — of  the  heroic  deeds  which  were 
here  performed,  and  the  unequalled  magnani- 
mity which  was  here  displayed.  It  was  here 
that  the  expiring  efl"orts  of  military  despotism 
were  overthrown — that  the  armies  of  Russia 
stood  triumphant  over  the  power  of  France, 
and  nobly  avenged  the  ashes  of  their  own  ca- 
pital, by  sparing  that  of  their  prostrate  enemy 

At  this  time  the  traces  of  the  recent  strug- 
gle were  visibly  imprinted  on  the  villages  and 
woods  with  which  the  hill  is  covered.  The 
marks  of  blood  were  still  to  be  discerned  on 
the  chaussee  which  leads  through  the  village 
of  Pantin;  the  elm  trees  which  line  the  road 
were  cut  asunder  or  bored  through  with  can- 
non shot,  and  their  stems  riddled  in  many 
parts,  with  the  incessant  fire  of  the  grape  shot. 
The  houses  in  La  Villette,  Belleville,  and  Pantin, 
were  covered  with  the  marlcs  of  musket  shot; 
the  windows  of  manj  were  shattered,  or  wholly 


THE  LOUVRE   IN    1814. 


109 


tstroyed,  and  the  interior  of  the  rooms  broken 
r  the  balls  which  seemed  to  have  pierced 
'ery  part  of  the  building.  So  thickly  were 
e  houses  in  some  places  covered  with  these 
arks,  that  it  appeared  almost  incredible  how 
ly  one  could  have  escaped  from  so  destruc- 
/e  a  fire.  Even  the  beautiful  gardens  with 
hich  the  slope  of  the  heights  are  adorned, 
id  the  inmost  recesses  of  the  wood  of  Ro- 
ainville,  bore,  throughout,  the  marks  of  the 
;sperate  struggles  which  they  had  lately  wit- 
;ssed,  and  exhibited  the  symptoms  of  frac- 
re  or  destruction  in  the  midst  of  the  luxu- 
ance  of  natural  beauty; — yet,  though  they 
id  so  recently  been  the  scene  of  mortal  com- 
it ;  though  the  ashes  of  the  dead  lay  yet  in 
;aps  on  different  parts  of  the  field  of  battle, 
le  prolific  powers  of  nature  were  undecayed : 
le  vines  clustei'ed  round  the  broken  fragments 
:  the  instruments  of  war, — the  corn  spread  a 
veeter  green  over  the  fields,  which  were  yet 
et  with  human  blood,  and  the  trees  waved 
ith  renovated  beauty  over  the  uncoffined  re- 
tains of  the  departed  brave;  emblematic  of 
le  decay  of  man,  and  of  the  immortality  of 
ature. 

The  French  have  often  been  accused  of  sel- 
shness,  and  the  indifference  which  they  often 
lanifest  to  the  fate  of  their  relations  affords 
10  much  reason  to  believe  that  the  social  af- 
ictions  have  little  permanent  influence  on  their 
linds.  They  exhibit,  however,  in  misfortunes 
fa  different  kind — in  calamities  which  really 
ress  upon  their  own  enjoyments  of  life — the 
ime  gayety  of  heart,  and  the  same  undisturbed 
ijuanimity   of  disposition.    That   gayety   in 


misfortune,  which  is  so  painful  to  every  ob- 
server,  when  it  is  to  be  found  in  the  midst  of 
family  distress,  becomes   delightful    when   it 
exists  under  the  deprivation  of  the  selfish  gra- 
tification to  which  the  individual  had  been  ac- 
customed.   Both  here,  and  in  other  parts  of 
France,  where  the  houses  of  the  peasants  had 
been  wholly  destroyed  by  the  allied  armies, 
there  was  much  to  admire  in  the  ciiiinnimity 
of  mind  with  which  these  poor  people  bore 
the  loss  of  all  their  property.    For  au  extent 
of  thirty  miles  in  one  direction,  towards  the 
north  of  Champagne,  every  house  near  the 
great  road  had  been  burned  or  pillaged  for  the 
firewood  which  it  contained,  both  by  the  French 
and  allied  armies,  and  the  people  were  every 
where  compelled  to  sleep  in  the  open  air.    The 
men  were  everywhere  rebuilding  their  fallen 
walls,  with  a  cheerfulness  which  never  would 
have  existed  in  England  under  similar  circum- 
stances ;  and  the  little  children  laboured  in  the 
gardens  during  the  da}',  and  slept  under  the 
vines  at  night,  Avithout  exhibiting  any  signs 
of  distress  for  their  disconsolate  situation.    In 
many  places  we   saw  groups  of  these   little 
children  in  the  midst  of  the  ruined  houses,  or 
under  the  shattered  trees,  playing    with   the 
musket  shot,  or  trying  to  roll  the  cannon  balls 
by  which  the  destruction  of  their  dwellings 
had  been   effected: — exhibiting  a  picture   of 
youthful  joy  and  native  innocence,  while  sport 
ing  with  the  instruments  of  human  destruc 
tion,  which  the  genius  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds 
would  have  moulded  into  the  expression  of 
pathetic  feeling,  or  employed  as  the  means  of 
moral  improvement. 


THE  LOUVEE  IN  1814/ 


To  those  who  have  had  the  good  fortune  to 
ee  the  pictures  and  statues  which  are  pre- 
erved  in  the  Louvre,  all  description  of  these 
rorks  must  appear  superfluous ;  and  to  those 
iho  have  not  had  this  good  fortune,  such  an 
ttempt  could  convey  no  adequate  idea  of  the 
bjects  which  are  described.  There  is  nothing 
(lore  uninteresting  than  the  catalogue  of  pic- 
ures  which  areto  be  found  in  the  works  of  many 
aodern  travellers ;  nor  any  thing  in  general 
aore  ridiculous  than  the  i-avings  of  admira- 
ion  with  which  this  catalogue  is  described, 
.nd  with  which  the  reader  in  general  is  little 
lisposed  to  sympathize.  Without  attempting, 
herefore,  to  enumerate  the  great  works  which 
ire  there  to  be  met  with,  it  is  better  to  aim  at 
lothing  but  the  delineation  of  the  f^cncral  rha- 
■ader  by  which  the  different  schools  of  paini- 
ng are  distinguished,  and  the  great  features 
n  which  they  all  differ  from  the  sculpture  of 
mcient  times. 


•Written  during  a  resiflence  at  Paris  in  May  and 
fune,  1814,  and  piiblislied  in  "Travels  in  France,"  in 
1814-15,  to  the  first  volume  of  which  the  author  con- 
ributed  a  few  chapters. 


For  an  attempt  of  this  kind,  the  Louvre  pre- 
sents singular  advantages,  from  the  unparal- 
leled collection  of  paintings  of  every  school 
and  description  which  are  there   to   be   met 
with,   and  the   facility  with  which   you   can 
there  trace  the  progress  of  the  art  from  its 
first  beginning  to  the  period  of  its  greatest 
perfection.     And  it  is  in  this  view  that  the 
collection  of  these  works  into  one  museum, 
however  much  to  be  deplored  as  the  work  of 
unprincipled  ambition,  and  however  much  it 
may  have  diminished  the  impression  which 
particular  objects,  from  the  influence  of  asso- 
elation,  produced  in  their  native  place,  is  yet 
calculated  to  produce  the  greatest  of  all  im- 
provements  in  the   progress  of  the  nrl;    hV 
divesting    particular   schools   and    P;"-"'^-"'''' 
works  of  the  unbounded  influence  winch  th« 
effect  of  early  association,  or  the  pr.-judiop.s  oi 
national  feeling,  have  given  then  '""'•-■";''": 
ginal   situation,  and  placing  ihcm  "••"■'■^  •''f'' 
real  nature  is  to  be  judged  of  hv  a  more  ex- 
tended circle,  and  subjected  to  the  examination 
of  more  impartial  sentiments.  „j^,,,_ 

The  first  hall  of  the  Louvre,  in  the  oiclur* 


no 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS, 


pallcry,  is  filled  with  paintings  of  the  French 
M-liooi.  Tiie  principal  artists  whose  works 
nrf  here  exhibited,  arc  Le  IJrun,  Gaspar  and 
Ntcolas  r<iussin,  Clavidc  Lorrain,  Vernet,  and 
the  mixlcrn  painters  Gerard  and  David.  Tiie 
prneral  character  of  the  schocd  of  French  his- 
torical painting,  is  the  expression  of  passion 
our/  vii'li-ni  niioiiim.  The  Colouring  is  for  the 
most  part  brilliant;  the  canvas  crowded  with 
figures,  and  the  incident  selected,  that  in  which 
the  painter  might  have  the  best  opportunity  of 
displaying  his  knowledge  of  the  human  frame, 
or  the  varied  expression  of  the  human  counte- 
nance. In  the  pictures  of  the  modern  school 
of  French  painting,  this  peculiarity  is  pushed 
to  an  extravagant  length,  and,  fortunately  for 
the  art,  displays  the  false  principles  on  which 
(he  system  of  their  composition  is  founded.  The 
moment  seized  is  uniformly  that  of  the  strongest 
and  most  violent  passion ;  the  principal  actors 
in  the  piece  arc  represented  in  a  state  of  phren- 
zied  exertion,  and  the  whole  anatomical  know- 
ledge of  the  artist  is  displayed  in  the  endless 
contortions  into  which  the  human  frame  is 
thrown.  In  David's  celebrated  picture  of  the 
three  lloraiii,  this  peculiarity  appears  in  the 
most  striking  light.  The  works  of  this  artist 
may  excite  admiration,  but  it  is  the  limited 
and  artificial  admiration  of  the  schools;  of 
those  who  have  forgot  the  end  of  the  art  in  the 
acquisition  of  the  technical  knowledge  with 
which  it  is  accompanied,  or  the  display  of  the 
technical  powers  which  its  execution  in- 
volves. 

The  paintings  of  Vernet,  in  this  collection, 
are  perhaps  the  finest  specimens  of  that  beau- 
tiful master,  and  they  entitle  him  to  a  higher 
place  in  Uie  estimation  of  mankind  than  he 
seems  yet  to  have  obtained  from  the  generality 
of  observers.  There  is  a  delicacy  of  colour- 
ing, a  unity  of  design,  and  a  harmony  of  ex- 
pression in  his  works,  which  accord  \vell  with 
the  simplicity  of  the  subjects  which  his  taste 
has  selected,  and  the  general  effect  which  it 
was  his  object  to  produce.  In  the  representa- 
tion of  the  sun  dispelling  the  mists  of  a  cloudy 
morning;  of  his  setting  rays  gilding  the  waves 
of  a  western  sea ;  or  of  that  undefined  beauty 
which  moonlight  throws  over  the  objects  of 
nature,  the  works  of  this  ailist  are  perhaps 
unrivalled. 

The  paintings  of  Claude  are  by  no  means 
equal  to  what  might  have  been  expected,  from 
the  cclibriiy  which  his  name  has  acquired,  or 
the  matchless  beauty  which  the  engravings 
from  him  possess.  They  are  but  eleven  in 
number,  and  cannot  be,  in  any  degree,  com- 
pared with  those  which  are  to  be  found  in  Mr. 
AiKjerstein's  collection.  To  those,  however, 
whii  have  been  accustomed  to  study  the  de- 
'i:'i)>.  of  this  great  master,  through  the  me- 
dniiii  of  the  engraved  copies,  and  above  all, 
in  the  unrivalled  works  of  Woollct,  the  sight 
f>f  the  original  pictures  must,  perhaps  at 
all  times,  create  a  feeling  of  disappointment. 
Th<Te  is  a  unity  of  cfiecl  in  the  engravings 
which  can  never  be  met  with  amidst  the  dis- 
traction of  colouring  in  the  original  pictures; 
and  the  imtigination  clothes  the  beautiful 
khades  of  the  copy  with  finer  tints  than  even 
the  pencil  of  Claude  has  been  able  to  supply. 


"  I  have  shown  you,"  said  Corinne  to  Oswald, 
"St.  Peter's  for  the  first  time,  when  the  bril. 
liancy  of  its  decorations  might  appear  in  full 
splendour,  in  the  rays  of  the  sun:  I  reserve 
for  you  a  finer,  and  a  more  profound  enjoy 
ment,  to  behold  it  by  the  light  of  the  moon." 
Perhaps  there  is  a  distinction  of  the  same 
Icind  between  the  gaudy  brilliancy  of  varied 
colours,  and  the  chaster  simplicity  of  uniform 
shadows ;  and  it  is  probably  for  this  reason, 
that  on  the  first  view^  of  a  picture  which  you 
have  long  admired  in  the  simplicity  of  en- 
graved effect,  you  involuntarily  recede  from 
the  view,  and  seek  in  the  obscure  light,  and 
uncertain  tint,  which  distance  produces,  to 
recover  that  uniform  tone  and  general  charac- 
ter, M-hich  the  splendour  of  colouring  is  so  apt 
to  destroy.  It  is  a  feeling  similar  to  that  which 
Lord  Byron  has  so  finely  described,  as  arising 
from  the  beauty  of  moonlight  scenery: —         i 

"  Mellow'd  to  that  tender  liglit  ^ 

Wliich  Heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies." 

The  Dutch  and  Flemish  school,  to  which 
you  next  advance,  possesses  merit,  and  is  dis- 
tinguished by  a  character  of  a  very  different 
description.  It  was  the  well-known  object  of 
this  school,  to  present  an  exact  and  faithful 
imilation  of  nature ;  to  exaggerate  none  of  its 
faults,  and  enhance  none  of  its  excellencies, 
but  exhibit  it  as  it  really  appears  to  the  eye  of 
an  ordinary  spectator.  Its  artists  selected,  in 
general,  some  scene  of  humour  or  amusement, 
in  the  discovery  of  which,  the  most  ignorant 
spectators  might  discover  other  sources  of 
pleasure  from  those  which  the  merit  of  the  art 
itself  afforded.  They  did  not  pretend  to  aim 
at  the  exhibition  of  passion  or  powerful  emo- 
tion:  their  paintings,  therefore,  are  free  from 
that  painful  display  of  theatrical  effect,  which 
characterizes  the  French  school ;  their  object 
was  not  to  represent  those  deep  scenes  of  sor- 
row or  suffering,  which  accord  with  the  pro- 
found feelings  which  it  was  the  object  of  the 
Italian  school  to  awaken  ;  they  want,  therefore, 
the  dignity  and  grandeur  which  the  works  of 
the  greater  Italian  painters  possess.  Their 
merit  consists  in  the  faithful  delineation  of 
those  ordinary  scenes  and  common  occur- 
rences which  are  familiar  to  the  eye  of  the  most 
careless  observer.  The  power  of  the  painter, 
therefore,  could  be  displayed  only  in  the  mi 
nuteness  of  the  finishing,  or  the  brilliancy  of 
the  effect:  and  he  endeavoured,  by  the  power- 
ful contrast  of  light  and  shade,  to  give  a 
higher  character  to  his  work's  than  the  nature 
of  their  subjects  could  otherwise  admit.  The 
pictures  of  Teniers,  Ostade,  and  Gerard  Dow, 
possess  these  merits,  and  are  distinguished  by 
this  character  in  the  highest  degree ;  but  their 
qualities  are  so  well  known  in  this  country,  as 
to  render  any  observations  on  them  super 
fluous.  There  is  a  very  great  collection  here 
preserved,  of  the  works  of  Rembrandt,  and 
their  design  and  effect  hear,  in  general,  a 
higher  character  than  belongs  to  most  of  the 
works  of  this  celebrated  master. 

In  one  respect,  the  collection  in  the  Louvre 
is  altogether  unrivalled;  in  the  number  and 
beauty  of  the  Wouvermans  which  are  there  ta 
be  met  wilii ;  nor  is  it  possible,  without  haV' 
ing  seen  it,  to  appreciate,  with  any  degree  of 


THE  L0U\TIE  iN  1814. 


lU 


jti5  .lee,  the  variety  of  design,  the  accuracy  of 
drawing,  or  delicacy  of  finishing,  which  dis- 
tinguish his  works  from  those  of  any  other 
painter  of  a  similar  description.  There  are 
forty  of  his  pieces  there  assembled,  all  in  the 
fa.cst  s.ate  of  preservation,  and  all  displaying 
the  same  unrivalled  beauty  of  colouring  and 
execution.  In  their  design,  however,  they 
widely  differ ;  and  they  exhibit,  in  the  most 
striking  manner,  the  real  object  to  which 
paiating  should  be  applied,  and  the  causes 
of  the  errors  in  which  its  composition  has 
been  involved.  His  works,  for  the  most 
part,  are  crowded  with  figures;  his  subjects 
are  in  general  battle-pieces,  or  spectacles  of 
military  pomp,  or  the  animated  scenes  which 
the  chase  presents;  and  he  seems  to  have  ex- 
hausted all  the  efforts  of  his  genius,  in  the 
variety  of  incident  and  richness  of  execution, 
which  these  subjects  are  fitted  to  afford.  From 
the  confused  and  indeterminate  expression 
however,  which  the  multitude  of  their  objects 
exhibit,  the  spectator  turns  with  delight  to 
those  simpler  scenes  in  which  his  mind  seems 
to  have  reposed,  after  the  fatigues  which  it 
had  undergone ;  to  the  representation  of  a 
single  incident,  or  the  delineation  of  a  certain 
occurrence — to  the  rest  of  the  traveller  after 
the  fatigues  of  the  day — to  the  repose  of  the 
horse  in  the  intermission  of  labour — to  the  re- 
turn of  the  soldier,  after  the  dangers  of  the 
campaign  ; — scenes  in  which  every  thing  com- 
bines for  the  uniform  character,  and  where 
the  genius  of  the  artist  has  been  able  to  give 
to  the  rudest  occupations  of  men,  and  even  to 
the  objects  of  animal  life,  the  expression  of 
genuine  poetical  feeling. 

The  pictures  of  Vandyke  and  Rubens  belong 
to  a  much  higher  school  than  that  which  rose 
out  of  the  wealth  and  the  limited  taste  of  the 
Dutch  people.    There  are  sixty  pictures  of  the 
latter   of  these   masters   in  the  Louvre,  and, 
combined  with  the  celebrated  gallery  in  the 
Luxembourg  palace,  they  form  the   finest  as- 
semblage  of  them  which  is  to  be  met  with  in 
the  world.     The  character  of  his  works  diflers 
essentially  from  that  both  of  the  French  and 
the  Dutch  schools :  he  was  employed,  not  in 
painting    cabinet   pictures   for  wealthy  mer- 
chants, but  in  designing  great  altar  pieces  for 
splendid    churches,    or    commemorating   the 
glory  of  sovereigns  in  imperial  galleries.  The 
greatness  of  his   genius   rendered  him  fit  to 
attempt  the  representation  of  the  most  com- 
plicated and  difficult  objects  ;  but  in  the  confi- 
dence of  this   genius,  he  seems  to  have  lost 
sight  of  the  genuine  object  of  composition  in 
his  art.     He  attempts  what  it  is  impossible  for 
painting  to  accomplish.     He  aims  at  telling  a 
whole  story  by  the  expression  of  a  single  pic- 
ture ;  and  seems  to  pour  forth  the  profusion 
of  his   fancy,  by  crowding  his  canvas  with  a 
multiplicity  of  figures,  which  serve   no  other 
purpose   than   that   of    showing   the   endless 
power  of  creation  which  the  author  possessed. 
In  each  figure,  there  is  great  vigour  of  concep- 
tion, and  admirable  power  of  execution  ;  but 
the  whole  possesses  no  general  character,  and 
produces  no  permanent  emotion.     There  is  a 
mixture  of  allegory  and  truth  in  many  of  his 
greatest  works,  which   is  always  painful;  a 


grossness  in  his  conception  of  the  female  form, 
which  destroys  the  symmetry  of  female  beauty 
and  a  wildness  of  imagination  in  his  genera. 
design,  which  violates  the  feelings  of  ordinary 
taste.  You  survey  his  pictures  with  astonish- 
ment— and  the  power  of  thought  and  the  bril- 
liancy of  colouring  which  they  display;  bu 
they  produce  no  lasting  impression  on  the 
mind ;  they  have  struck  no  chord  of  feeling  or 
emotion,  and  you  leave  them  with  no  other 
feeling,  than  that  of  regret,  that  the  confusion 
of  objects  destroys  the  effect  which  each  ia 
itself  might  be  fitted  to  produce.  And  if  one 
has  made  a  deeper  impression ;  if  you  dweU 
on  it  with  that  delight  which  it  should  ever  b« 
the  object  of  painting  to  produce,  you  find 
that  your  pleasure  proceeds  from  a  single 
figure,  or  the  expression  of  a  detached  part  of 
the  picture;  and  that  in  the  contemplation  of 
it  you  have,  without  being  conscious  of  it, 
detached  your  mind  from  the  observation  of 
all  that  might  interfere  with  its  characteristic 
expression,  and  thus  preserved  that  unity  of 
emotion  which  is  essential  to  the  existence  of 
the  emotion  of  taste,  but  which  the  confusion 
of  incident  is  so  apt  to  destroy. 

It  is  in  the  Italian  school,  however,  that  the 
.collection  in  the  Louvre  is  most  unrivalled, 
and  it  is  from  its  character  that  the  general 
tendency  of  the  modern  school  of  historical 
painting  is  principally  to  be  determined. 

The  general  object  of  the  Italian  school  ap- 
pears to  be  the  expression  of  passion.  The 
peculiar  subjects  which  its  painters  were 
called  on  to  represent,  the  suflcrings  and  death 
of  our  Saviour,  the  varied  misfortunes  to 
which  his  disciples  were  exposed,  or  the  mul- 
tiplied persecutions  which  the  early  fathers  of 
the  church  had  to  sustain,  inevitably  pre- 
scribed the  object  to  which  their  genius  was 
to  be  directed,  and  the  peculiar  character 
which  their  works  were  to  assume.  They 
have  all,  accordingly,  aimed  at  the  expression 
of  passion,  and  endeavoured  to  excite  the  pity, 
or  awaken  the  sympathy  of  the  spectator; 
though  the  particular  species  of  passion  which 
they  have  severally  selected  has  varied  with 
the  turn  of  mind  which  the  artist  possessed. 

The  works  of  Dominichino  and  of  the  Ca- 
raccis,  of  which  there  are  a  very  great  num- 
ber, incline,  in  general,  to  the  representation 
of  what  is  dark  or  gloomy  in  character,  or 
what  is  terrific  and  appalling  in  suff"ering. 
The  subjects  which  the  first  of  these  masters 
has  in  general  selected,  are  the  cells  of  monks, 
the  energy  of  martyrs,  the  death  of  saints,  or 
the  sufferings  of  the  crucifixion  ;  and  the  dark- 
blue  coldness  of  his  colouring,  combined  with 
the  depth  of  his  shadows,  accord  well  with  the 
gloomy  character  which  his  compositions  pos- 
sess. The  Caraccis,  amidst  the  vanctv  of  ob- 
jects which  their  genius  has  embrace.!.  I.a\e 
dwelt,  in  general,  upon  the  expression  o(  sor- 
n,w-of  that  deep  and  profound  sorrow  «hch 
the  subjects  of  sacred  history  were  so  finedto 
afford,  and  which  was  so  well  a.  apfd  in  that 
religious  emotion  which  it  was  Ihcir  object  to 

'""cuTdo  Reni,  Cario  Maratti,  and  M";"'";  J/* 

distinguished  by  a  g•'"''^'^'^''"'■•:^ ':'  5 dis 
expression  of  tenderness  and  su-cctncss  of  dis 


lis 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


position :  and  the  subjects  which  they  have 
chosrn  arc,  for  the  most  part,  those  which 
wen-  liticd  lor  tlie  display  of  this  predominant 
cxproMtiii ; — tlie  Holy  Family,  the  niu;ht  into 
Ejiypt,  the  youlh  of  St.  John,  the  penitence  of 
the  Magdalene.  While,  in  common  with  all 
their  brethren,  they  have  aimed  at  the  expres- 
sion of  emotion,  it  was  an  emotion  of  a  softer 
kind  than  that  which  arose  from  the  energy 
of  passion,  or  the  violence  of  sulTering;  it  was 
the  emotion  produced  by  more  permanent 
feelings,  and  less  turbulent  afleclions;  and 
from  the  character  of  this  emotion,  their  exe- 
cution has  assumed  a  peculiar  cast,  and  their 
composition  been  governed  by  a  peculiar 
principle.  Their  colouring  is  seldom  brilliant ; 
there  is  a  subdued  tone  pervading  the  greater 
part  of  their  pictures;  and  they  have  limited 
themselves,  in  general,  to  the  delineation  of  a 
single  figure,  or  a  small  group,  in  which  a 
single  character  of  mind  is  prevalent. 

There  are  only  six  paintings  bj'  Salvator 
Rosa  in  this  collection,  but  they  bear  that  wild 
and  original  character  which  is  proverbially 
known  to  belong  to  the  works  of  this  great 
artist.  One  of  his  pieces  is  particularly 
striking,  a  skirmish  of  horse,  accompanied  by 
all  the  scenery  in  which  he  so  peculiarly  de- 
lighted. In  the  foreground  is  the  ruins  of  an 
old  temple,  with  its  lofty  pillars  finely  displayed 
in  shadow  above  the  summits  of  the  horizon ; 
— in  the  middle  distance  the  battle  is  dimly 
discerned  through  the  driving  rain,  which  ob- 
scures the  view;  while  the  back  ground  is 
closed  by  a  vast  ridge  of  gloomy  rocks,  rising 
into  a  dark  and  tempestuous  sky.  The  cha- 
racter of  the  whole  is  that  of  sullen  magnifi- 
cence ;  and  it  aflbrds  a  striking  instance  of  the 
power  of  great  genius,  to  mould  the  most 
varied  ot)jects  in  nature  into  the  expression 
of  one  uniform  poetical  feeling. 

Very  different  is  the  expression  which  be- 
longs to  the  softer  pictures  of  Correggio — of 
that  great  master,  whose  name  is  associated 
in  every  one's  mind  with  all  that  is  gentle  or 
delicate  in  the  imitation  of  nature.  Perhaps 
it  was  from  the  force  of  this  impression  that 
his  works  seldom  completely  come  up  to  the 
expectations  which  are  formed  of  them.  They 
are  but  eight  in  number,  and  do  not  compre- 
hend the  finest  of  his  compositions.  Their 
general  character  is  that  of  tenderness  and 
delicacy:  there  is  a  softness  in  his  shading  of 
the  human  form  which  is  quite  unrivalled,  and 
a  harmony  in  the  general  tone  of  his  colour- 
ing, which  is  in  perfect  unison  with  the  cha- 
racteristic expression  which  it  was  his  object 
to  produce.  There  is  a  want  of  unity,  how- 
Bver,  in  the  composition  of  his  figures,  which 
docs  not  accord  with  this  harmony  of  execu- 
•ion  ;  you  dwoll  rather  on  the  fine  expression 
ofindividual  form,  than  the  combined  tendency 
of  the  whole  group,  and  leave  the  picture  with 
the  impression  of  the  beauty  of  a  single  coun- 
tenance, rather  than  the  general  character  of 
the  whole  design.  He  has  represented  nature 
«n  Its  most  engaging  aspect,  and  given  to  in- 
lividual  figures  all  the  charms  of  ideal  beauty ; 
«ut  he  wants  that  high  strain  of  spiritual  fecl- 
nig.  which  belongs  only  to  the  works  of  Ra- 
phael. 


There  is  but  one  picture  by  Carlo  Dolci  in 
the  Louvre  ;  but  it  alone  is  sufiicient  to  mark 
the  exquisite  genius  which  its  author  j)os- 
sessed.  It  is  of  small  dimensions,  and  repre- 
sents the  Holy  Family,  with  the  Saviour  asleep. 
The  finest  character  of  design  is  here  com- 
bined with  the  utmost  delicacy  of  execution ; 
the  softness  of  the  shadows  exceeds  that  of 
Correggio  himself;  and  the  dark-blue  colour- 
ing which  prevails  over  the  whole,  is  in  perfect 
unison  with  the  expression  of  that  rest  and 
quiet  which  the  subject  requires.  The  sleep 
of  the  Infant  is  perfection  itself — it  is  the  deep 
sleep  of  youth  and  of  innocence,  M'hich  no 
care  has  disturbed,  and  no  sorrow  embittered 
— and  in  the  unbroken  repose  of  which  the 
features  have  relaxed  into  the  expression  of 
perfect  happiness.  All  the  features  of  the 
picture  are  in  unison  with  this  expression, 
except  in  the  tender  anxiety  of  the  virgin's 
eye;  and  all  is  at  rest  in  the  surrounding  ob- 
jects, save  where  her  hand  gentlj^  removes  the 
veil  to  contemplate  the  unrivalled  beauty  of  the 
Saviour's  countenance. 

Without  the  softness  of  shading  or  the  har- 
mony of  colour  which  Correggio  possessed, 
the  works  of  Raphael  possess  a  higher  cha- 
racter, and  aim  at  the  expression  of  a  sublimer 
feeling  than  those  of  any  other  artist  Avhom 
modern  Europe  has  produced.  Like  all  his 
brethren,  he  has  often  been  misled  from  the 
real  object  of  his  art,  and  tried,  in  the  energy 
of  passion,  or  the  confused  expression  of 
varied  figures,  to  multiply  the  eflect  which  his 
composition  might  produce.  Like  all  the  rest, 
he  has  failed  in  efTecting  what  the  constitution 
of  the  human  mind  renders  impossible,  and  in 
this  very  failure,  warned  every  succeeding  age 
of  the  vanity  of  the  attempt  which  his  tran- 
scendent genius  was  unable  to  effect.  It  is  this 
fundamental  error  that  destroj^s  the  eflect,  even 
of  his  finest  pieces;  it  is  this,  combined  with 
the  unapproachable  nature  of  the  presence 
which  it  reveals,  that  has  rendered  the  transfi>; 
guration  itself  a  chaos  of  genius  rather  than 
model  of  ideal  beauty;  nor  will  it  be  deemed 
a  presumptuous  excess,  if  sufch  sentiments  are 
expressed  in  regard  to  this  great  author,  since 
it  is  from  his  own  works  alone  that  we  havel 
derived  the  means  of  appreciating  his  imper- 
fections. 

It  is  in  his  smaller  pieces  that  the  genuine! 
character  of  Raphael's  paintings  is  to  be  seeaj 
— in  the  figure  of  St.  Michael  subduing  the 
demon ;  in  the  beautiful  tenderness  of  the 
Virgin  and  Child;  in  the  unbroken  harmonj 
of  the  Holy  Family  ;  in  the  wildness  andl 
piety  of  the  infant  St.  John; — scenes,  in  whichf 
all  the  objects  of  the  picture  combine  for  thel 
preservation  of  one  uniform  character,  andl 
wher'^  the  native  fineness  of  his  mind  appears! 
undisturbed  by  the  display  of  temporary  pas- 
sion, or  the  painful  distraction  of  varied  suf-^ 
fcring. 

There  are  no  pictures  of  the  English  school 
in  llie  Louvre,  for  the  arms  of  France  nevei 
prevailed  in  our  island.     From  the  splendid^ 
character,  however,  which  it  early  assumed 
under  the  distinguished  guidance  of  Sir  Jo.shuaJ 
Reynolds,  and  from  the  high  and  philosophicalj 
principles  which  he  at  first  laid  down  for  the! 


THE  LOUVRE  m   1814. 


113 


government  of  the  art,  there  is  every  reason 
to  believe  that  it  ultimately  will  rivalthe  cele- 
brity of  foreign  genius:  And  it  is  in  this  view 
that  the  continuance  of  the  gallery  of  the 
Louvre,  in  its  present  situation,  is  principally 
to  be  wished  by  the  English  nation— that  the 
English  artists  may  possess  so  near  their  own 
country  so  great  a  school  for  composition  and 
design;  that  the  imperfections  of  foreign 
schools  may  enlighten  the  views  of  English 
genius;  and  that  the  conquests  of  the  French 
arms,  by  transferring  the  remains  of  ancient 
taste  to  these  northern  shores,  may  throw  over 
its  rising  art  that  splendour  which'has  hitherto 
been  confined  to  the  regions  of  the  sun. 

The  great  object,  therefore,  of  all  the  modern 
schools  of  historical  painting,  seems  to  have 
I  been  the  delineation  of  an  affecting  scene  or  in- 
teresling  occurrence;  they  have  endeavoured  to 
tell  a  story  by  the  variety  of  incidents  in  a 
single  picture ;  and  seized,  for  the  most  part, 
the  moment  when  passion  was  at  its  greatest 
I  height,  or  suffering  appeared  in  its  most  ex- 
^  cruciating  form.     The  general  character,  ac- 
cording]}^  of  the  school,  is  the  expression  of 
passion  or  violent  suffering;  and  in  the  pro- 
secution of  this  object,  they  have  endeavoured 
to  exhibit  it  under  all  its  aspects,  and  display 
j  all  the  eflects  which  it  could  possibly  produce 
{  on  the  human  form,  by  the  different  figures 
I  which    they  have  introduced.     While  this  is 
I  the  general  character  of  the  whole,  there  are 
f  of  course  numerous  exceptions;    and  many 
I  of  its  greatest  painters  seem,  in  the  representa- 
i  tion  of  single  figures,  or  in  the  composition 
I;  cf  smaller  groups,  to  have  had  in  view  the  ex- 
^pression  of  less  turbulent  afl^ections;  to  have 
aimed  at  the  display  of  settled  emotion  or  per- 
manent feeling,  and  to  have  excluded  eveiy 
thing  from  their  composition  which  was  not 
in  unison  with  this  predominant  expression. 

The  Sculptm-e  Gallery,  which  contains  above 
two  hundred  remains  of  ancient  statuary,  marks 
in  the  most  decided  manner  the  different  ob- 
jects to  which  this  noble  art  was  applied  in 
ancient  times.  Unlike  the  paintings  of  modern 
Europe,  their  figures  are  almost  uniformly  at 
rest;  they  exclude  passion  or  violent  suffering 
from  their  design ;  and  the  moment  which  they 
select  is  not  that  in  which  a  particular  or  tran- 
sient emotion  may  be  displayed,  but  in  which 
the  settled  character  of  mind  may  be  expressed. 
With  the  two  exceptions  of  the  Laocoon  and 
the  fighting  Gladiator,  there  are  none  of  the 
statues  in  the  Louvre  which  are  not  the  repre- 
sentation of  the  human  figure  in  a  state  of 
repose ;  and  the  expression  which  the  finest 
possess,  is  invariably  that  permanent  expres- 
sion which  has  resulted  from  the  habitual 
frame  and  character  of  mind.  Their  figures 
seem  to  belong  to  a  higher  class  of  beings  than 
that  in  which  we  are  placed ;  they  indicate  a 
state  in  which  passion,  anxiety,  and  emotion 
are  no  more;  and  where  the  unruflled  repose 
of  mind  has  moulded  the  features  into  the  per- 
fect expression  of  the  mental  character.  Even 
the  countenance  of  the  Venus  de  Medicis,  the 
most  beautiful  which  it  has  ever  entered  into 
the  mind  of  man  to  conceive,  and  of  which  no 
copy  gives  the  slightest  idea,  bears  no  trace 
of  emotion,  and  none  of  the  marks  of  human 
8 


feehrg;  it  is  the  settled  expression  of  celestial 
beauty,  and  even  the  smile  on  her  lip  is  not 
the  fleeting  smile  of  temporary  joy,  but  the 
lastmg  expression  of  that  heavenly  fceline 
which  sees  in  all  around  it  the  grace  and  love- 
liness which  belongs  to  itself  alone.  It  ap- 
proaches nearer  to  that  character  which  some- 
times marks  the  countenance  of  female  beauty 
when  death  has  stilled  the  passions  of  the 
world ;  but  it  is  not  the  cold  expression  of  pasi 
character  which  survives  the  period  of  mortal 
dissolution ;  it  is  the  living  expression  of  pre- 
sent existence,  radiant  with  the  beams  of  im- 
mortal life,  and  breathing  the  air  of  eternal 
happiness. 

The  paintings  of  Raphael  convey  the  mosi 
perfect  idea  of  earthly  beauty ;  and  they  de- 
note the  expression  of  all  that  is  finest  and 
most  elevated  in  the  character  of  the  female 
mind.  But  there  is  a  "human  meaning  in 
their  eye,"  and  they  bear  the  marks  of  that 
anxiety  and  tenderness  which  belong  to  the 
relations  of  present  existence.  The  Venus 
displays  the  same  beauty,  freed  from  the  cares 
which  existence  has  produced ;  and  her  lifeless 
eye-balls  gaze  upon  the  multitude  which  sur- 
round her,  as  on  a  scene  fraught  only  with  the 
expression  of  universal  jo}-. 

In  another  view,  the  Apollo  and  the  Venus 
appear  to  have  been  intended  by  the  genius 
of  antiquity,  as  expressive  of  the  character  of 
mind  which  distinguishes  the  difl!erent  sexes ; 
and  in  the  expression  of  this  character,  they 
have  exhausted  all  which  it  is  possible  for 
human  imagination  to  produce  upon  the  sub- 
ject. The  commanding  air,  and  advanced  step 
of  the  Apollo,  exhibit  man  in  his  noblest  aspect, 
as  triumphing  over  the  evils  of  physical  na- 
ture, and  restraining  the  energy  of  his  dispo- 
sition, in  the  consciousness  of  resistless  power: 
the  averted  eye,  and  retiring  grace  of  the  Ve- 
nus, are  expressive  of  the  modesty,  gentleness 
and  submission,  wliich  form  the  most  beauti- 
ful features  oiihe  female  character. 

Not  en'ial,  as  their  sex  not  nqual  seemed, 
For  valour  He,  and  contemplation,  formed. 
For  l)«aiity  Slie,  and  sweet  allractive  grace, 
He  for  God  onl}',  She  for  God  in  Him. 

These  words  were  said  of  our  first  parents 
by  our  greatest  poet,  after  the  influence  of  a 
pure  religion  had  developed  the  real  nature  of 
the  female  character,  ami  determined  tlie  place 
which  woman  was  to  hold  in  the  scale  of  na 
ture ;  but  the  idea  had  been  expressed  in  a 
still  finer  manner  two  thousand  years  before, 
by  the  sculptors  of  antiquity;  and  amidst  all 
the  degradation  of  ancient  manners,  the  pro- 
phetic genius  of  Grecian  taste  contemplated 
that  ideal  perfection  in  the  character  of  the 
sexes,  which  was  destined  to  form  the  boun- 
dary of  human  progress  in  the  remotest  ages 
of  human  improvement. 

The  Apollo  strikes  a  stranger  with  all  it,s 
grandeur  on  the  first  aspect;  subs(V|U'Mit  exa- 
mination can  add  nothing  to  the  furcf  of  the 
impression  which  is  then  received.  The  V  e- 
nus  produces  at  first  less  effect,  but  gams  upon 
the  mind  at  every  renewal,  till  it  rivets  the 
affections  even  more  than  the  greatness  of  its 
unequalled  rival. 

The  Dying  Gladiator  is  perhaps,  artcr  the 


Ill  ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 

(WO  which   liave   hcen  mentioned,  (he  finest '  stroy.  The  poor  Russian  soldier,  whose  know- 


statue  which  Ihc  Louvre  contains.  The  mo 
ment  clioscn  is  finely  adapted  for  the  expres- 
sion of  ideal  beauty,  from  a  subject  connected 
with  painful  ideas.  It  is  not  the  moment  of 
cnersy  or  slru'^'^linc:,  when  the  frame  is  con- 
vulsed \vith  the  exertion  it  is  maliinT,  or  the 
countenance  is  deformed  by  the  tumult  of  pas- 
sion ;  it  is  the  moment  of  jxpiring  nature, 
wlien  the  fijiure  is  relaxed  by  the  weakness  of 
decay,  and  the  mind  is  softened  by  the  approach 
of  death  ;  when  the  ferocity  of  combat  is  for- 
gotten in  the  extinction  of  the  interest  which 
it  had  excited,  when  every  unsocial  passion  is 
stilled  by  the  weakness  of  exhausted  nature, 
and  the  mind,  in  the  last  moments  of  life,  is 
fraught  with  finer  feelings  than  had  belonged 
to  the  character  of  previous  existence.  It  is 
a  moment  similar  to  that  in  which  Tasso  has 
so  beautifully  described  the  change  in  Clorin- 
da's  mind,  after  she  had  been  mortally  wound- 
ed by  the  hand  of  Tancred,  hut  in  which  he 
was  enaliled  to  give  her  the  inspiration  of  a 
greater  faith,  and  the  charity  of  a  more  gentle 
religion : — 

Amico  h'ai  vinto  :  io  te  perdon.     Pordona 
Tu  .inrora,  al  corpo  no  rlu;  nulla  pave 
All'  alma  si :  deli  per  Iri  profja  ;  e  dona 
nattesiiio  a  nio,  cirosiii  iiiia  colpa  lave; 
In  qiicste  voci  lancuiile  rij^uona 
Un  non  so  clic  di  tlebilo  e  soave 
Ch'  al  cor  pli  scende,  ed  osni  sdeeno  ainmorza, 
Egli  ocelli  a  lagriniar  gl'  invoglia  e  sforza. 

The  statues  of  antiquity  were  addressed  to 
the  multitude  of  the  people ;  they  were  intended 
to  awaken  the  devotion  of  all  classes  of  citi- 
zens— to  be  felt  and  judged  by  all  mankind. 
They  are  free,  therefore,  from  all  the  peculiar- 
ities of  national  taste;  they  are  purified  from 
all  the  peculiarities  of  local  circumstances ; 
they  have  been  rescued  from  that  miserable 
degradation  to  which  art  is  uniformly  exposed, 
by  taste  being  confined  to  a  limited  society. 
They  have  assumed,  in  consequence,  that  ge- 
neral character,  which  might  suit  the  universal 
feelings  of  our  nature,  and  that  pei'manent  ex- 
pression which  might  speak  to  the  heart  of 
men  through  every  succeeding  age.  The  ad- 
miration, accordingly,  for  those  works  of  art 
has  been  undiminished  by  the  lapse  of  time; 
they  excite  the  same  feelings  at  the  present 
time,  as  when  tl.sy  came  fresh  from  the  hand 
of  the  Grecian  artist,  and  are  regarded  by  all 
nations  with  the  same  veneration  on  the  banks 
of  the  Seine,  as  when  they  sanctified  the 
temples  of  Athens,  or  adorned  the  gardens  of 
Rome. 

Even  the  nidest  nations  seem  to  have  felt 
the  force  of  this  impression.  The  Hungarians 
and  the  Cossacks,  during  the  slay  of  the  allied 
armies  in  Paris,  ignorant  of  the  name  or  the 
celebrity  of  those  works  of  art,  seemed  yet  to 
take  a  delight  in  the  survey  of  the  statues 
cf  antiquity,  and  in  passing  through  the  long 
line  of  marbled  greatness  which  the  Louvre 
presents,  stopt  involuntarily  at  the  sight  of  the 
Venus,  or  clustered  round  the  foot  of  the  pe- 
destal of  the  Apollo; — indirating  thus,  in  the 
expression  of  unafi'eeled  fi'eliiiL',  the  fiirc3  of 


ledge  of  art  was  limited  to  the  crucifix  which 
he  had  borne  in  his  bosom  from  his  native 
land,  still  felt  the  power  of  ancient  beauty,  and 
in  the  spirit  of  the  Athenians,  who  erected  an 
altar  to  the  UnknoAvn  God,  did  homage  in  si- 
lence to  that  xuiknown  spirit  wiiich  had  touched 
a  new  chord  in  his  untutored  heart. 

The  character  of  art  in  every  country  ap- 
pears to  have  been  determined  by  the  disposi- 
tion  of  the  people  to  whom  it  was  addressed, 
and  the  object  of  its  composition  to  have  va- 
ried with  the  purpose  it  was  called  on  to  fulfil. 
The  Grecian  statues  Avcre  designed  to  excite 
the  devotion  of  a  cultivated  people;  to  imbody 
their  conceptions  of  divine  perfection ;  to  real- 
ize the  expression  of  that  character  of  mind 
which  they  imputed  to  the  deities  whose  tem- 
ples they  Avere  to  adorn :  it  was  grace,  or 
strength,  or  majesty,  or  youthful  power,  which 
they  were  to  represent  by  the  figures  of  Venus, 
of  Hercules,  of  Jupiter,  or  of  Apollo.  Their 
artists  accordingly  were  led  to  aim  at  the  ex- 
pression of  general  characler :  to  exclude  pas- 
sion, or  emotion,  or  suffering,  from  their  de- 
sign, and  represent  their  figures  in  that  state 
of  repose  where  the  permanent  expression  of 
mind  ought  to  be  displayed.  It  is  perhaps  in 
this  circumstance  that  is  to  be  found  the  cause 
both  of  the  peculiarity  and  the  excellence  of 
the  Grecian  statuary. 

The  Italian  painters  were  early  required  to 
efliect  a  different  object.  Their  pictures  were 
destined  to  represent  the  sufferings  of  nature ;  to 
display  the  persecution  or  death  of  our  Saviour, 
the  anguish  of  the  Holy  Famil)',  the  hery)ibm 
of  martyrs,  the  resignation  of  devotion.  In 
the  infancy  of  the  arts,  accordinglj%  they  were 
led  to  study  the  expression  of  passion,  of 
suff^ering,  and  emotion;  to  aim  at  rousing  the 
pity,  or  exciting  the  sympathy  of  the  spectators ; 
and  to  endeavour  to  characterize  their  paint- 
ings by  the  representation  of  temporary  pas- 
sion, not  the  expression  of  permanent  charac- 
ter. Those  beautiful  pictures  in  which  a  dif- 
ferent object  seems  to  have  been  followed — in 
which  the  expression  is  that  of  permanent 
emotion,  not  transient  passion,  while  they  cap- 
tivate our  admiration,  seem  to  be  exceptions 
from  the  general  design,  and  to  have  been 
suggested  by  the  peculiar  nature  of  the  subject 
represented,  or  a  particular  firmness  of  mind 
in  the  artist.  In  these  causes  we  may  perhaps 
discern  the  origin  of  the  peculiar  character 
of  the  Italian  school. 

In  the  French  school,  the  character  and 
manners  of  the  people  seem  to  have  carried 
this  peculiarity  to  a  still  greater  length.  Their 
character  led  them  to  seek  in  every  thing  for 
stage  effect;  to  admire  the  most  extravagant 
and  violent  representations,  and  to  value  the 
efforts  of  art,  not  in  proportion  to  their  imita- 
tion of  the  qualities  of  nature,  but  in  propor- 
tion to  their  resemblance  to  those  artificial 
qualities  on  which  their  admiration  was 
fiuinded.  The  vehemence  of  their  manner,  on 
the  most  ordinary  occasions,  rendered  the 
most  extravagant  gestures  requisite   for  the 


that  genuine  taste  for  the  beauty  of  nature,  I  display  of  real  passion;  and  their  drama  ac« 
which  all  the  rudeness  of  savage  manners,  and  '  cordingly  exhibits  a  mixture  of  dignity  of  sen* 
nil  the  ferocity  of  war  had  not  been  able  to  de-  j  timent,  with  violence  of  gesture,  beyond  mea- 


THE  LOUVRE  IN  1814. 


116 


sore  surprising  to  a  foreign  spectator.  The 
same  disposition  of  the  people  has  influenced 
the  character  of  their  historical  painting ;  and 
it  is  to  be  remembered,  that  the  French  school 
of  painting  succeeded  the  establishment  of  the 
French  drama.  It  is  hence  that  they  have  ge- 
nerally selected  the  moment  of  theatrical  effect 
—the  moment  of  phrenzied  passion,  or  unpa- 
ralleled exertion,  and  that  their  composition  is 
distinguished  by  so  many  striking  contrasts, 
and  so  laboured  a  display  of  momentary  effect. 
The  Flemish  or  Dutch  school  of  painting 
was  neither  addressed  to  the  devotional  nor 
the  theatrical  feelings  of  mankind ;  it  was 
neither  intended  to  awaken  the  sympathy  of 
religious  pity,  nor  excite  the  admiration  of 
artificial  dispositions  —  it  was  addressed  to 
wealthy  men  of  vulgar  capacities,  capable  of 
appreciating  only  the  merit  of  minute  detail, 
or  the  faithfulness  of  exact  imitation.  It  is 
hence  that  their  painting  possesses  excellencies 
and  defects  of  so  peculiar  a  description ;  that 
they  have  carried  the  minuteness  of  finishing 
to  so  unparalleled  a  degree  of  perfection ;  that 
the  brilliancy  of  their  lights  has  thrown  a 
splendour  over  the  vulgarity  of  their  subjects, 
and  that  they  are  in  general  so  utterly  destitute  of 
all  the  refinement  and  sentiment  which  sprung 
from  the  devotional  feelings  of  the  Italian 
people. 

The  subjects  which  the  Dutch  painters 
chose  were  subjects  of  low  humour,  calcu- 
lated to  amuse  a  rich  and  uncultivated  people: 
the  subjects  of  the  French  school  were  heroic 
adventure,  suited  to  the  theatrical  taste  of  a 
more  elevated  society:  the  subjects  of  the 
Italian  school  were  the  incidents  of  sacred 
history,  suited  to  the  devotional  feelings  of  a 
religious  people.  In  all,  the  subjects  to  which 
painting  was  applied,  and  the  character  of  the 
art  itself,  was  determined  by  the  peculiar  cir- 
cumstances or  disposition  of  the  people  to 
whom  it  was  addressed :  so  that,  in  these  in- 
stances, there  has  really  happened  what  Mr. 
Addison  stated  should  ever  be  the  case,  that 
"the  taste  should  not  conform  to  the  art,  lut 
the  art  to  the  taste." 

The  object  of  statuarj'  should  ever  be  the 
same  to  which  it  was  always  confined  by  the 
ancients,  viz.  the  representation  of  characteti. 
The  very  materials  on  which  the  sciilptor  has 
to  operate,  render  his  art  unfit  for  the  expres- 
sion either  of  emotion  or  passion ;  and  the 
figure,  when  finished,  can  bear  none  of  the 
marks  by  which  they  are  to  be  distinguished. 
It  is  a  figure  of  cold,  and  pale,  and  lifeless 
marble,  without  the  varied  colour  which  emo- 
tion produces,  or  the  living  eye  which  passion 
animates.  The  eye  is  the  feature  which  is 
expressive  of  present  emotion ;  it  is  it  which 
varies  with  all  the  changes  which  the  mind 
undei'goes ;  it  is  it  which  marks  the  difference 
between  joy  and  sorrow,  between  love  and 
hatred,  between  pleasure  and  pain,  between 
life  and  death.  But  the  eye,  with  all  the  end- 
less expressions  which  it  bears,  is  lost  to  the 
sculptor;  its  gaze  must  ever  be  cold  and  life- 
less to  him;  its  fire  is  quenched  in  the  stillness 
of  the  tomb.  A  statue,  therefore,  can  never  be 
expressive  of  living  emotion ;  it  can  never  ex- 
press those  transient  feelings  which  mark  the 


play  of  the  living  mind  It  is  an  abstractioE 
of  character  which  has  no  relation  to  present 
existence;  a  shadow  in  which  all  the  perma 
nent  features  of  the  mind  are  expressed,  but 
none  of  the  passions  of  the  mind  are  shown : 
like  the  figures  of  snow,  which  the  magic  of 
Okba  formed  to  charm  the  solitude  of  Leila's 
dwelling,.rit  bears  the  character  of  the  human 
form,  but  melts  at  the  warmth  of  human  feeling. 
While  such  is  the  object  to  which  statuary 
would  appear  to  be  destined,  painting  embraces 
a  wider  range,  and  is  capable  of  more  varied 
expression :  it  is  expressive  of  the  living  form ; 
it  paints  the  eye  and  opens  the  view  of  the 
present  mind ;  it  imitates  all  the  fleeting  changes 
which  constitute  the  signs  of  present  emotion. 
It  is  not,  therefore,  an  abstraction  of  character 
which  the  painter  is  to  represent ;  not  an  ideal 
form,  expressive  only  of  the  qualities  of  per- 
manent character ;  but  an  actual  being,  alive 
to  the  impressions  of  present  existence,  and 
bound  by  the  ties  of  present  affection.  It  is  in 
the  delineation  of  these  affections,  therefore, 
that  the  power  of  the  painter  principally  con 
sists ;  in  the  representation,  not  of  simple  cha- 
racter, but  of  character  influenced  or  subdued 
by  emotion.  It  is  the  representation  of  the  joy 
of  youth,  or  the  repose  of  age ;  of  the  sorrow 
of  innocence,  or  the  penitence  of  guilt;  of  the 
tenderness  of  parental  affection,  or  the  gra- 
titude of  filial  love.  In  these,  and  a  thousand 
other  instances,  the  expression  of  the  emotion 
constitutes  the  beauty  of  the  picture ;  it  is  that 
which  gives  the  tone  to  the  character  which  it 
is  to  bear;  it  is  that  which  strikes  the  chord 
which  vibrates  in  every  human  heart.  The 
object  of  the  painter,  therefore,  is  the  ex- 
pression of  EMOTiox,  of  that  emotion  which 
is  blended  with  the  character  of  the  mind 
which  feels,  and  gives  to  that  character  the 
interest  which  belongs  to  the  events  of  present 
existence. 

The  object  of  the  painter  being  the  repre- 
sentation of  emotion  in  all  the  varied  situations 
which  life  produces,  it  follows,  that  every  thing 
in  his  picture  should  be  in  unison  with  the 
predominant  expression  which  he  wishes  it  to 
bear ;  that  the  composition  should  be  as  sim- 
ple as  is  consistent  with  the  development  of 
this  expression ;  and  the  colouring,  such  as 
accords  with  the  character  by  which  this  emo- 
tion is  distinguished.     It  is  here  that  the  genius 
of  the  artist  is  principally  to  be  displayed,  in 
the  selection  of  such  figures  as  suit  the  general 
impression  which  the  whole  is  to  produce;  • 
and  the  choice  of  such  a  tone  of  colouring,  as 
harmonizes  with  the  feeling  of  mind  which  it 
is  his  object  to  produce.     The  distraction  of  va 
ried  colours — the  confusion  of  difterent  figures — 
the  contrast  of  opposite  expressions,  complete- 
ly destroy  the  effect  of  the  composition ;  they 
fix  the  mind  to  the  observation  of  what  is  par- 
ticular in  the  separate  parts,  and  prevent  that 
uniform    and   general   emotion  which    arises 
from  the  perception  of  one  uniform  expression 
in  all  the  parts  of  which  it  is  composed.     It  is 
in  this  very  perception,  however,  that  the  sourCB 
of  the  beauty  is  to  be  found ;  it  i;i  in  the  unde- 
fined feeling  to  which  it  gives  rise,  that  the 
delight  of  the  emotion  of  taste  consists.    Like 
the  harmony  of  sounds  in  musical  composi* 


116 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


don,  it  produces  an  effect,  of  Avhich  we  are 
unable  to  give  any  account;  but  vhich  we 
feci  to  be  instantly  destroyed  by  the  jarrinj;^ 
sound  of  a  different  note,  or  the  discordant 
effect  of  a  foreign  expression.  It  is  in  the  ne- 
glect of  this  great  principle  that  the  defect  of 
many  of  the  first  pictures  of  modern  times  is 
to  be  found — in  the  confused  multitude  of  un- 
necessary figures — in  the  contradictory  ex- 
pression of  separate  parts — in  the  distracting 
brilliancy  of  gorgeous  colours :  in  the  laboured 
displaj',  in  short,  of  the  power  of  the  artist,  and 
the  utter  dereliction  of  the  object  of  the  art. 
The  great  secret,  on  the  other  hand,  of  the 
beauty  of  the  most  exquisite  specimens  of  mo- 
dern art,  lies  in  the  i^impUcity  of  expression 
which  they  bear,  in  their  production  of  one 
uniform  emotion,  from  all  the  parts  of  one 
harmonious  composition.  For  the  production 
of  this  unity  of  emotion  the  surest  means  will 
be  found  to  consist  in  the  selection  of  as  feiv 
figures  as  is  consistent  with  the  development 
of  the  characteristic  expression  of  the  com- 
position ;  and  it  is,  perhaps,  to  this  circum- 
stance, that  we  are  to  impute  the  imequalled 
charm  which  belongs  to  the  pictures  of  single 
figures,  or  small  groups,  in  which  a  single  ex- 
pression is  alone  attempted. 

Both  painting  and  sculpture  are  wholly 
unfit  for  the  representation  of  passiox,  as 
EXPRESSED  BT  MOTION ;  and  that  to  attempt  to 
delineate  it,  necessarily  injures  the  effect  of 
the  composition.  Neither,  it  is  clear,  can  ex- 
press actual  motion:  they  should  not  attempt, 
therefore,  to  represent  those  passions  of  the 
mind  which  motion  alone  is  adequate  to  ex- 
press. The  attempt  to  delineate  violent 
passion,  accordingly,  uniformly  produces  a 
painful  or  a  ridiculous  effect:  it  does  not 
even  convey  any  conception  of  the  passion 
itself,  because  its  character  is  not  known  by 
the  expression  of  any  single  moment,  but  by 
the  rapid  changes  Avhich  result  from  the  per- 
turbed state  into  which  the  mind  is  thrown. 
It  is  hence  that  passion  seems  so  ridiculous 
when  seen  at  a  distance,  or  without  the  cause 
of  its  existence  being  known:  and  it  is  hence, 
that  if  a  human  figure  were  petrified  in  any 
of  the  stages  of  passion  it  would  have  so 
painful  or  insane  an  appearance.  As  painting, 
therefore,  cannot  exhibit  the  rapid  changes 
in  which  the  real  expression  of  passion  con- 
sists, it  should  not  attempt  its  delineation  at 
all.  Its  real  object  is,  the  expression  of  emotion, 
'  i)f  that  more  settled  state  of  the  human  mind 
whoa  the  changes  of  passion  are  gone — when 


the  countenance  is  moulded  into  the  expre* 
sion  of  permanent  feeling,  and  the  existence 
of  this  feeling  is  marked  by  the  permanent 
expression  which  the  features  have  assumed. 

The  greatest  artists  of  ancient  and  modem 
times,  accordingly,  have  selected,  even  in  the 
representation  of  violent  exertion,  that  mo- 
ment of  temporary  repose,  when  a  perraanen' 
expression  is  given  to  the  figure.  Even  the 
LaocOon  is  not  in  a  state  of  actual  exertion : 
it  is  represented  in  that  moment  when  the  last 
effort  has  been  made  ;  when  straining  against 
an  invincible  power  has  given  to  the  figure 
the  aspect  at  last  of  momentary  repose ;  and 
when  despair  has  placed  its  settled  mark  on 
the  expression  of  the  countenance.  The  fight- 
ing Gladiator  is  not  in  a  state  of  present  acti- 
vity, but  in  that  moment  when  he  is  preparing 
his  mind  for  the  future  and  final  contest,  and 
when,  in  this  deep  concentration  of  his 
powers,  the  pause  which  the  genius  of  the 
artist  has  given,  expresses  more  distinctly  to 
the  eye  of  the  spectator  the  determined  cha- 
racter of  the  combatant,  than  all  that  the 
struggle  or  agony  of  the  combat  itself  could 
afterwards  display. 

The  Grecian  statues  in  the  Louvre  may  be 
considered  as  the  most  perfect  works  of 
human  genius,  and  every  one  must  feel  those 
higher  conceptions  of  human  form,  and  of 
human  nature,  which  the  taste  of  ancient  sta- 
tuary had  formed.  It  is  not  in  the  moment  of 
action  that  it  has  represented  man,  but  in  the 
moment  after  action,  when  the  tumult  of 
passion  has  ceased,  and  all  that  is  great  or 
dignified  in  moral  nature  remains.  It  is  not 
Hercules  in  the  moment  of  earthly  combat, 
when  every  muscle  Avas  swollen  with  the 
strength  he  was  exerting;  but  Hercules,  in 
the  moment  of  transformation  into  a  nobler- 
being,  when  the  exertion  of  mortality  has 
passed,  and  his  powers  seem  to  repose  in  the 
tranquillity  of  heaven ;  not  Apollo,  v.hen 
straining  his  youthful  strength  in  drawing  the 
boAv;  but  Apollo,  when  the  weapon  was  dis- 
charged, watching,  with  unexulting  eye,  its 
resistless  course,  and  serene  in  the  enjo)^- 
ment  of  immortal  power.  And  inspired  by 
these  mighty  ex*amples,  it  is  not  St.  Michael 
when  struggling  with  the  demon,  and  marring 
the  beauty  of  angelic  form  by  the  violence  of 
earthly  passion,  that  Raphael  represents;  but 
St.  Michael,  in  the  moment  of  unrufiled  tri- 
umph, restraining  the  might  of  almighty 
power,  and  radiant  with  the  beams  of  eleraal 
mercy. 


TYROL. 


117 


tyeol; 


It  is  a  common  observation,  that  the  cha- 
racter of  a  people  is  in  a  great  measure  influ- 
enced by  their  local  situation,  and  the  nature 
of  the  scenery  in  which  they  are  placed  ;  and 
it  is  impossible  to  visit  the  Tyrol  without  being 
convinced  of  the  truth  of  tJie  remark.  The 
entrance  of  the  mountain  region  is  marked 
by  as  great  a  diversity  in  the  aspect  and  man- 
ners of  the  population,  as  in  the  external 
objects  with  which  they  are  surrounded  ;  nor 
is  the  transition,  from  the  level  plain  of  Lom- 
bardy  to  the  rugged  precipices  of  the  Alps, 
greater  than  from  the  squalid  crouching  ap- 
pearance of  the  Italian  peasant  to  the  mar- 
tial air  of  the  free-born  mountaineer. 

This  transition  is  so  remarkable,  that  it 
attracts  the  attention  of  the  most  superficial 
observer.  In  travelling  over  the  states  of  the 
north  of  Italy,  he  meets  everywhere  Avith  the 
symptoms  of  poverty,  meanness,  and  abject 
depression.  The  beautiful  slopes  which  de- 
scend from  the  Alps,  clothed  with  all  that  is 
beautiful  and  luxuriant  in  nature,  are  inha- 
bited for  the  most  part  by  an  indigent  and 
squalid  population,  among  whom  you  seek 
in  vain  for  any  share  of  that  bounty  with 
which  Providence  'has  blessed  their  country. 
The  rich  plains  of  Lombardy  are  cultivated 
by  a  peasantry  whose  condition  is  hardly 
superior  to  that  of  the  Irish  cottager ;  and 
while  fhe  effeminate  proprietors  of  the  soil 
waste  their  days  in  inglorious  indolence  at 
Milan  and  Verona,  their  unfortunate  tenantry 
are  exposed  to  the  merciless  rapacity  of  bai- 
liffs and  stewards,  intent  only  upon  augment- 
ing the  fortunes  of  their  absent  superiors.  In 
towns,  the  symptoms  of  general  distress  are, 
if  possible,  still  more  apparent.  While  the 
opera  and  the  Corso  are  crowded  with  splen- 
did equipages,  the  lower  classes  of  the  people 
are  involved  in  hopeless  indigence: — The 
churches  and  public  streets  are  crowded  with 
-beggars,  whose  wretched  appearance  marks 
but  too  truly  the  i-eality  cf  the  distress  of 
which  they  complain — while  their  abject  and 
crouching  manner  indicates  the  entire  politi- 
cal degradation  to  which  they  have  so  long 
been  subjected.  At  Venice,  in  particular,  the 
total  stagnation  of  employment,  and  the  misery 
of  the  people,  strikes  a  stranger  the  more 
forcibly  from  the  contrast  which  they  afford 
to  the  unrivalled  splendour  of  her  edifices, 
and  the  glorious  recollections  with  which  her 
history  is  filled.  As  he  admires  the  gorgeous 
magnificence  of  the  piazza  St.  Marco,  or  winds 
through  the  noble  palaces  that  still  rise  with 
tmdecaying  beauty  from  the  waters  of  the 
Adriatic,  he  no  longer  wonders  at  the  astonish- 
ment with  which  the  stern  crusaders  of  the 
north  gazeii  at  her  marble  piles,  and  feels  the 
rapture  of  the  Roman  emperor,  when  he  ap- 
proached, "where  Venice  sat  in  state  throned 
on  her  hundred  isles ;"  but  in  the  mean  and 

*  Blackwood's  Magazine,  Sept.  1819.     Written  from 
notes  made  during  a  tour  in  Tyre  I  in  the  preceding  year. 


pusillanimous  race  by  which  they  are  now 
inhabited,  he  looks  in  vain  for  the  descendants 
of  those  great  men  who  leapt  from  their 
gallies  on  the  towers  of  Constantinople,  and 
stood  forth  as  the  bulwark  of  Christendom 
against  the  Ottoman  power;  and  still  less, 
when  he  surveys  the  miserable  population 
with  which  he  is  surrounded,  can  he  go  back 
in  imagination  to  those  days  of  liberty  and 
valour,  when 

"  Venice  once  was  dear. 

The  pleasant  place  of  all  festivity, 

The  revel  of  the  earth,  the  masque  of  Italy." 

From  such  scenes  of  national  distress,  and 
from  the  melancholy  spectacle  of  despotic 
power  ruling  in  the  abode  of  ancient  freedom, 
it  is  with  delight  that  the  traveller  enters  the 
fastnesses  of  the  Alps,  where  liberty  has  im- 
printed itself  in  indelible  characters  on  the 
character  and  manners  of  the  people.  In 
every  part  of  the  Tyrol  the  bold  and  martial 
air  of  the  peasantry,  their  athletic  form  and 
fearless  eye,  bespeak  the  freedom  and  inde- 
pendence which  they  have  enjoyed.  In  most 
instances  the  people  go  armed;  and  during 
the  summer  and  autumn  they  wear  a  musket 
hung  over  their  shoulders,  or  some  other  of- 
fensive weapon.  Universally  they  possess 
oflensive  weapons  and  are  trained  early  to  the 
use  of  them,  both  by  the  expeditions  in  search 
of  game,  of  which  they  are  passionately  fond 
— and  by  the  annual  duty  of  serving  in  the 
trained  bands,  to  which  every  man  capable  of 
bearing  arms  is,  without  exception,  subjected. 
It  was  in  consequence  of  this  circumstance, 
in  a  great  measure,  that  they  were  able  to 
make  so  vigorous  a  resistance,  with  so  little 
preparation,  to  the  French  invasion ;  and  it  is 
to  the  same  cause  that  is  chiefly  to  be  ascribed 
that  intrepid  and  martial  air  by  which  they  are 
distinguished  from  almost  every  other  peasant- 
ry in  Europe. 

Their  dress  is  singularly  calculated  to  add  to 
this  impression.  That  of  the  men  consists, 
for  the  most  part,  of  a  broad-brimmed  hat, 
ornamented  by  a  feather;  a  jacket  tight  to  the 
shape,  wath  a  broad  girdle,  richly  ornamented, 
fastened  in  front  by  a  large  buckle  of  costly 
workmanship;  black  leather  breeches  ana 
gaiters,  supported  over  the  shoulders  by  two 
broad  bands,  generally  of  scarlet  or  blue, 
which  are  joined  in  front  by  a  cross  belt  of 
the  same  colour.  They  frequently  wear  pis- 
tols in  their  girdle,  and  have  either  a  rifle  or 
cloak  slung  over  their  shoulders.  The  colours 
of  the  dresses  vary  in  the  different  parts  of 
the  country,  as  they  do  in  the  cantons  of  Swit- 
zerland; but  they  are  always  of  bnlhani 
colours,  and  ornamented,  particularly  round 
the  breast,  with  a  degree  of  richness  which 
appears  extraordinary  in  the  labouring  classes 
of  the  community.  Their  girdles  and  clasps, 
with  the  other  more  costly  parts  of  their  cloth- 
ing,  are  handed  down  from  generation  to 
generation,  and  worn  on  Sundays  and  festi- 


118 


ALISON'S  MISCETXANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


vals,  with  scrupulous  care,  by  the  great-graiul- 
sons  of  those  by  whom  they  were  originally 
purchased. 

The  dress  of  the  women  is  grotesque  and 
singular  in  the  extreme.  Generally  speaking, 
the  waists  arc  worn  long,  and  the  petticoats 
exceedingly  short;  and  the  colours  of  their 
clothes  are  as  bright  and  various  as  those  of 
the  men.  To  persons  habituated  however  to 
the  easy  and  flowing  attire  of  our  own  coun- 
trywomen, t>.?  form  and  style  of  this  ciress 
appears  particularly  unbecoming;  nor  can  we 
altogether  divest  ourselves  of  those  ideas  of 
ridicule  which  we  are  accustomed  to  attach  to 
such  antiquated  forms,  both  on  the  stage  and 
in  the  pictures  of  the  last  generation.  Among 
the  peasant  girls,  you  often  meet  with  much 
beauty;  but,  for  the  most  part,  the  women  of 
the  Tyrol  are  not  nearly  so  striking  as  the 
men;  an  observation  which  seems  applicable 
to  most  mountainous  countries,  and  to  none 
more  than  to  the  West  Highlands  of  Scotland. 

It  is  of  more  importance  to  observe  thai  t'l" 
Tyrolese  peasantry  are  everywhere  courteous 
and  pleasing  in  their  demeanor,  both  towards 
strangers  and  their  own  countr3'men.  In  this 
respect,  their  manners  have  sometimes  been 
misrepresented.  If  a  traveller  addresses  them 
in  a  style  of  insolence  or  reproach,  which  is  too 
often  used  towards  the  lower  orders  in  France 
or  Italy,  he  will  in  all  probability  meet- with  a 
repulse,  and  if  the  insult  is  carried  further,  he 
may,  perhaps,  have  cause  permanently  to  re- 
pent the  indiscretion  of  his  language.  For  the 
Tyrolese  are  a  free  people;  and  though  sub- 
ject to  a  despotic  government,  their  own  state 
preserves  its  liberty  as  entire  as  if  it  acknow- 
ledged no  superior  to  its  own  authority.  The 
peasantry  too  are  of  a  keen  and  enthusiastic 
temper;  grateful  to  the  last  degree  for  kind- 
ness or  condescension,  but  feelingly  alive  on 
the  other  hand  to  any  thing  like  contempt  or 
derision  in  the  manner  of  their  superiors. 
Dwelling  too  in  a  country  Avhere  all  are  equal, 
and  where  few  noble  families  or  great  proprie- 
tors are  to  be  found,  they  are  little  accustomed 
to  brook  insults  of  any  kind,  or  to  submit  to 
language  from  strangers  which  they  would 
not  tolerate  from  their  own  coimtrymen.  A 
similar  temper  of  mind  may  be  observed 
among  the  Scotch  Highlanders;  it  has  been 
noticed  in  the  mountains  of  Ncpaul  and  Cabul, 
and  has  long  characterized  the  Arabian  tribes ; 
and  indeed  it  belongs  generally  to  all  classes 
of  the  people  in  those  situations  where  the 
debasing  effects  of  the  progress  of  Avealth,  and 
the  division  of  labour  have  not  been  felt,  and 
where,  from  whatever  causes,  the  individuals 
in  the  lower  ranks  of  life  are  called  into  active 
and  strenuous  exertion,  and  compelled  to  act 
for  themselves  in  the  conduct  of  life. 

If  a  stranger,  however,  behaves  towards  the 
Tyrolese  peasantry  with  the  ordinary  courtesy 
with  which  an  Englishman  is  accustomed  to 
address  the  people  of  his  own  country,  there 
is  no  part  of  the  world  in  which  he  will  meet 
with  a  more  cordial  reception,  or  where  he  will 
find  a  more  affectionate  or  grateful  return  for 
the  smallest  acts  of  kindness.  Among  these 
untutored  people,  the  gratitude  for  any  good 
dred  on  the  part  of  their  superiors,  is  not,  as  in 


more  civilized  states,  the  result  of  any  habitual 
awe  for  their  rank,  or  of  any  selfish  considera- 
tion of  the  advantage  to  be  derived  from  culti- 
vating their  good  will.  It  is  the  spontane- 
ous effusion  of  benevolent  feeling,  of  feeling 
springing  from  therm  corrupted  dictates  of  their 
hearts,  and  enhanced  by  the  feudal  attachment 
with  which  they  naturally  are  inclined  to  re- 
gard those  in  a  higher  rank  than  themselves. 
Though  the  Tyrolese  are  entirely  free,  and 
though  the  emperor  possesses  but  a  nominal 
sovereignty  over  them,  yet  the  Avarm  feelings 
of  feudal  fidelity  have  nowhere  maintained 
their  place  so  inviolate  as  among  their  moun- 
tains; and  this  feeling  of  feudal  respect  and 
affection  is  extended  by  them  to  the  higher 
classes,  whenever  they  behave  towards  them 
with  any  thing  like  kindness  or  gentleness  of 
manners.  It  has  arisen  from  the  peculiar 
situation  of  their  country,  in  which  there  are 
few  of  the  higher  orders,  Avhere  the  peasantry 
possess  almost  the  entire  land  of  which  it 
conP!5-ts,  and  w'l^r?,  at  the  same  time,  the 
bonds  of  feudal  attachment  have  been  preserved 
with  scrupulous  care,  for  political  reasons,  by 
their  indulgent  government,  that  the  peasantry 
have  united  the  independence  and  pride  of  re- 
publican states  with  the  devoted  and  romantic 
fidelity  to  their  sovereign,  which  characterizes 
the  inhabitants  of  monarchical  realms.  Like 
the  peasants  of  Switzerland,  they  regard  them- 
selves as  composing  the  state,  and  would  dis- 
dain to  crouch  before  any  other  power.  Like 
the  Highlanders  of  Scotland,  they  are  actuated 
by  the  Avarmest  and  most  enthusiastic  loyalty 
towards  their  sovereign,  and  like  them  they 
have  not  scrupled  on  many  occasions  to  ex- 
pose their  lives  and  fortunes  in  a  doubtful  and 
often  hopeless  struggle  in  his  cause.  From 
these  causes  has  arisen,  that  singular  mixture 
of  loyalty  and  independence,  of  stubbornness 
and  cour4esy,  of  republican  pride  and  chival- 
rous fidelity,  by  which  their  character  is  dis- 
tinguished from  that  of  every  other  people  in 
Europe. 

Honesty  may  be  regarded  as  a  leading  fea- 
ture in  the  character  of  the  Tyrolese,  as  indeed 
it  is  of  all  the  German  people.  In  no  situation 
and  under  no  circumstances  is  a  stranger  in 
danger  of  being  deceived  by  them.  They  will, 
in  many  instances,  sacrifice  their  own  in- 
terests rather  than  betray  what  they  consider  so 
sacred  a  duty  as  that  of  preserving  inviolate 
their  faith  with  foreigners.  In  this  respect 
their  conduct  aflbrds  a  very  striking  contrast 
to  the  conduct  of  the  French  and  Italians, 
whose  rapacity  and  meanness  have  long  been 
observed  and  commented  on  by  every  traveller. 
Yet,  amidst  all  our  indignation  at  that  charac- 
ter, it  may  well  be  doubted,  Avhether  it  does  not 
arise  naturally  and  inevitably  from  the  system 
of  {Tovernment  to  which  they  have  had  the* 
misfortune  to  be  subjected.  Honesty  is  avirtue 
practised  and  esteemed  among  men  who  have 
a  character  io  support,  and  who  feel  their  own 
importance  in  the  scale  of  society.  Generally 
it  will  be  found  to  prevail  in  proportion  to  the 
weight  which  is  attached  to  individual  charac- 
ter ;  that  is,  to  the  freedom  which  the  people 
enjoy.  Cheating,  on  the  other  hand,  is  the 
usual  and  obvious  resource  of  slaves,  of  men 


TYROL. 


119 


who  have  never  been  taught  to  respect  them- 
selves, and  whose  personal  qualities  are  en- 
tirely overlooked  by  the  higher  orders  of  the 
Etate.  If  England  and  Switzerland  and  the 
Tyrol  had  been  subjected  by  any  train  of  un- 
fortunate events  to  the  same  despotism  which 
nas  degraded  the  character  of  the  lower  orders 
in  France  and  Italy,  they  would  probably  have 
had  as  little  reason  as  their  more  servile  neigh- 
bours to  have  prided  themselves  on  the  honesty 
and  integrity  of  their  national  character. 

Perhaps  the  most  remarkable  feature  in  the 
character  of  the  Tyrolese,  is  their  uniform 
PIETY,  a  feeling  which  is  nowhere  so  univer- 
sally diffused  as  among  their  sequestered  val- 
leys. The  most  cursory  view  of  the  country 
is  sufficient  to  demonstrate  the  strong  hold 
which  religion  has  taken  of  the  minds  of  the 
peasantry.  Chapels  are  built  almost  at  every 
half  mile  on  the  principal  roads,  in  which  the 
passenger  may  perform  his  devotions,  or  which 
may  awaken  the  thoughtless  mind  to  a  recol- 
lection of  its  religious  duties.  The  rude  efforts 
of  art  have  there  been  exerted  to  pourtray  the 
leading  events  in  our  Saviour's  life;  and  in- 
numerable figures,  carved  in  wood,  attest,  in 
every  part  of  the  country,  both  the  barbarous 
taste  of  the  people,  and  the  fervour  of  their 
religious  impressions.  Even  in  the  higher 
parts  of  the  mountains,  where  hardly  any  ves- 
tiges of  hunran  cultivation  are  to  be  found,  in 
the  depth  of  untrodden  forests,  or  on  the  sum- 
mit of  seemingly  inaccessible  cliffs,  the  symbols 
of  devotion  are  to  be  found,  and  the  cross  rises 
everywhere  amidst  the  wilderness,  as  if  to 
mark  the  triumph  of  Christianity  over  the 
greatest  obstacles  of  nature.  Nor  is  it  only  in 
solitudes  or  deserts  that  the  %'estiges  of  their 
devotion  are  to  be  found.  In  the  valleys  and 
in  the  cities  it  still  preserves  its  ancient  sway 
over  the  people.  On  the  exterior  of  most 
houses  the  legend  of  some  favourite  saint,  or 
the  sufferings  of  some  popular  martyr,  are  to 
be  found ;  and  the  poor  inhabitant  thinks  him- 
self secure  from  the  greater  evils  of  life  imder 
the  guardianship  of  their  heavenly  aid.  In 
every  valley  numerous  spires  are  to  be  seen 
rising  amidst  the  beauty  of  the  surroiinding 
scene,  and  reminding  the  traveller  of  the  piety 
of  its  simple  inhabitants.  On  Sunday  the  ivholc 
people  flock  to  church  in  their  neatest  and 
gayest  attire  ;  and  so  great  is  the  number  who 
thus  frequent  these  places  of  worship,  that  it 
is  not  unfrequent  to  see  the  peasants  kneeling 
on  the  turf  in  the  church3'ard  where  mass  is 
performed,  from  being  unable  to  find  a  place 
within  its  walls.  Regularly  in  the  evening 
prayers  are  read  in  every  family ;  and  the 
traveller  who  passes  through  the  villages  at 
.the  hour  of  twilight,  often  sees  through  their 
latticed  windows  the  young  and  the  old  kneel- 
ing together  round  their  humble  fire,  or  is 
warned  of  his  approach  to  human  habitation,  by 
hearing  their  evening  hymns  stealing  through 
the  silence  and  solitude  of  the  forest. 

Nor  is  their  devotion  confined  to  acts  of 
external  homage,  or  the  observance  of  an  un- 
meaning ceremony.  Debased  as  their  religion 
is  by  the  absurdities  and  errors  of  the  Catholic 
form  of  worship,  and  mixed  up  as  it  is  with  in- 
numerable legends  and  visionary  tales,  it  yet 


preserves  enough  of  the  pure  spirit  of  its  divine 
origin  to  influence,  in  a  great  degree,  the  con- 
duct of  their  private  lives.  The  Tyrolese  have 
not  yet  learned  that  immorality  in  private  life 
may  be  pardoned  by  the  observance  of  certain 
ceremonies,  or  that  the  profession  of  faith 
purchases  a  dispensation  from  the  rules  of 
obedience.  These,  the  natural  and  the  usual 
attendants  of  the  Catholic  faith  in  richer  states, 
have  not  reached  their  poor  and  sequestered 
valleys.  The  purchase  of  absolution  by  money 
is  there  almost  unknown.  In  no  part  of  the 
world  are  the  domestic  or  conjugal  duties 
more  strictly  or  faithfully  observed:  and  in 
none  do  the  parish  priests  exercise  a  stricter 
or  more  conscientious  control  over  the  conduct 
of  their  flock.  Their  influence  is  not  weakened, 
as  in  a  more  advanced  state  of  society,  by  a 
discordance  of  religious  tenets;  nor  is  the  con- 
sideration due  to  this  sacred  function,  lost  in 
the  homage  paid  to  rank,  or  opulence,  or  power. 
Placed  in  the  midst  of  a  people  who  acknow- 
ledge no  superiors,  and  who  live  almost  univer- 
sally from  the  produce  of  their  h-tle  domains, 
and  strangers  alike  to  the  arts  of  luxury,  and 
the  seductions  of  fashion,  the  parish-priest  is 
equally  removed  from  temptation  himself, 
and  relieved  from  guarding  against  the  great 
sources  of  wickedness  in  others.  He  is  at 
once  the  priest,  and  the  judge  of  his  parish ; 
the  infallible  criterion  in  matters  of  faith,  and 
the  umpire,  in  the  occasional  disputes  which 
happen  among  them.  Hence  has  arisen  that  re- 
markable veneration  for  their  spiritual  guides, 
by  which  the  peasantry  are  distinguished ;  and 
it  is  to  this  cause  that  we  are  to  ascribe  the 
singular  fact  that  their  priests  were  their  prin- 
cipal leaders  in  the  war  with  France,  and  that 
while  their  nobles  almost  universally  kept 
back,  the  people  followed  with  alacrity  the  call 
of  their  pastors,  to  take  up  arms  in  support  of 
the  Austrian  cause. 

In  one  great  virtue,  the  peasants  in  this 
country  (in  common  it  must  be  owned  with 
most  Catholic  states)  are  particularly  worthy 
of  imitation.  The  virtue  of  charity,  which  is 
too  much  overlooked  in  many  Protestant 
kingdoms,  but  which  the  Catholic  religion  so 
uniformly  and  sedulously  enjoins,  is  there 
practised,  to  the  greatest  degree,  and  by  all 
classes  of  the  people.  Perhaps  there  are  few 
countries  in  which,  owing  to  the  absence  of 
manufactures  and  great  towns,  poverty  ap- 
pears so  rarel}',  or  in  which  the  great  body  of 
the  people  live  so  universally  in  a  state  of 
comfort.  Yet,  whenever  wretchedness  does  ap- 
pear, it  meets  with  immediate  and  effectual 
relief.  Nor  is  their  charity  confined  to  actual 
mendicants,  but  extends  to  all  whom  accident 
or  misfortune  has  involved  in  casual  distress. 
Each  valley  supports  its  own  poor;  and  the 
little  store  of  every  cottage,  like  the  meal  of 
the  Irish  cottager,  is  always  open  to  any  one 
who  really  requires  its  assistance.  This  be- 
nevolent disposition  springs,  no  doubt,  in  a 
great  measure  from  the  simple  state  in  which 
society  exists  among  these  remote  districts: 
but  it  is  to  be  ascribed  not  less  to  the  efforts 
of  the  clerg)',  who  incessantly  enjoin  this  great 
Christian  dut}%  and  point  it  out  as  the  chief 
means    of    atoning   for  past 


120 


AMSON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESsAVcs. 


Much  as  vre  may  lament  the  errors  of  the 
CaMiolic,  aiul  clearly  as  we  may  see  its  tcii- 
dciiCy  (at  least  in  its  more  corrupt  forms)  to 
nourish  private  immorality,  and  extinguish 
civil  liberty,  it  is  yet  impossible  to  deny,  that, 
in  the  great  duty  of  Christian  charily,  which 
it  invariably  enjoins,  it  has  atoned  for  a  multi- 
tude of  sins  ;  and  to  suspect  that  amidst  the 
austerity  and  severit}'  of  tlic  presbytcriaii  dis- 
cipline, we  have  too  much  lost  sight  of  the 
charity  of  the  gospel;  and  that  witii  us  a  pre- 
tended indignation  for  the  vices  which  involve 
so  many  of  the  poor  in  distress,  too  often  serves 
as  a  pretext  for  refusing  to  minister  that  relief 
to  which,  from  whatever  cause  it  has  arisen, 
our  Saviour  tells  us  that  it  is  entitled. 

There  is  something  singularly  delightful  in 
the  sway  which  religion  thus  maintains  in 
these  savage  and  sequestered  regions.  In 
ancient  times,  we  are  informed  these  moun- 
tains were  inhabited  by  the  Rhsetians,  the 
fiercest  and  most  barbarous  of  the  tribes, 
who  dwelt  in  the  fastnesses  of  the  mountains, 
and  of  whose  savage  manners  Livy  has  given 
so  striking  an  account  in  his  description  of 
Hannibal's  passage  of  the  Alps.  Many  Roman 
legions  were  impeded  in  their  progress,  or 
thinned  of  their  numbers,  by  these  cruel  bar- 
barians ;  and  even  after  they  were  reduced  to 
ftubjectiou,  by  the  expedition  of  Drusus,  it  was 
still  esteemed  a  service  of  the  utmost  danger  to 
leave  the  high  road,  or  explore  the  remote  re- 
cesses of  the  coimtry.  Hence  the  singular  fact, 
almost  incredible  in  modern  limes,  that  even 
in  the  da)'S  of  Plin}'-,  several  hundred  years 
after  the  first  passage  of  these  mountains  by 
the  Roman  troops,  the  source  of  both  the  Rhine 
and  the  Iser  were  unknown ;  and  that  the  na- 
turalist of  Rome  was  content  to  state,  a  century 
after  the  establishment  of  a  Roman  station  at 
Sion,  that  the  Rhone  took  its  rise  "  in  the  most 
hidden  parts  of  the  earth,  in  the  region  of  per- 
petual night,  amidst  forests  for  ever  inacces- 
sible to  human  approach."  Hence  it  is  too, 
that  almost  all  the  inscriptions  on  the  votive 
offerings  which  have  been  discovered  in  the 
ruins  of  the  temple  of  Jupiter  roininus,  at  the 
summit  of  the  great  St.  Bernard,  and  many  of 
which  come  down  to  a  late  period  in  the  history 
of  the  empire,  speak  of  the  gratitude  of  the  pas- 
sengers for  having  escaped  the  exti-aordinary 
pciiis  of  the  journey.  The  Roman  authors  al- 
ways speak  of  the  Alps  with  expressions  of  dis- 
may and  horror,  as  the  scenes  of  only  winter  and 
desolation,  and  as  the  abodes  of  barbarous  tribes. 
"Nivesccsloprope  immista:,  tectainformiaim- 
posita  rupibus  pecora  jumenta  quetorrida  fri- 
gore  homines  intonsi  elinculli,allimaliainani- 
maque  omnia  rigentia  gelu  cetera  visu  quam 
dictu  foediora  tcrrorem  renovarunt."*  No  at- 
tempt accordingly  appears  to  have  been  made 
by  any  of  the  Romans  in  later  times  to  explore 
the  remoter  recesses  of  the  mountains  now  so 
familiar  to  every  traveller ;  but  wiiile  the  empe- 
rors constructed  magnificent  highways  across 
their  summits  to  connect  Italy  with  the  northern 
provinces  of  the  empire,  they  snlTcrcd  the  val- 
leys on  cither  side  to  remain  in  tiieir  pristine 
state  of  barbarism,  and  hastened  into  remoter 

•  Liv.  Iib.21. 


districts  to  spread  the  cultivation  of  which  the 
Alps,  M-ith  their  savage  inhabitants,  seemed  to 
ihcm  incapable. 

What  is  it  then  which  has  wrought  so  won- 
derful a  change  in  the  manners,  the  habits, 
and  the  condition  of  the  inhabitants  of  those 
desolate  regions  1  What  is  it  which  has  spread 
cultivation  through  wastes,  deemed  in  ancient 
times  inaccessible  to  human  improvement,  and 
humanized  the  manners  of  a  people  remarkable 
only,  under  the  Roman  sway,  for  the  ferocity 
and  barbarism  of  their  institutions  ?  From 
M-hat  cause  has  it  happened  that  those  savage 
mountaineers,  who  resisted  all  the  acts  of  civi- 
lization by  which  the  Romans  established  their 
sway  over  mankind,  and  continued,  even  to  the 
overthrow  of  the  empire,  impervious  to  all  the 
efforts  of  ancient  improvement,  should,  in  later 
times,  have  so  entirely  changed  their  charac- 
ter, and  have  appeared,  even  from  the  first 
dawn  of  modern  civilization,  mild  and  humane 
in  their  character  and  manners'!  From  whal 
but  from  the  influence  of  Reiigiox — of  that  re- 
ligion which  calmed  the  savage  feelings  of  the 
human  mind,  and  spread  its  beneficial  in- 
fluence among  the  remotest  habitations  of  men; 
and  which  prompted  its  disciples  to  leave  the 
luxiu'ies  and  comforts  of  southern  climates,  to 
diffuse  knowledge  and  humanity  through  in- 
hospitable realms,  and  spread,  even  amidst  the 
regions  of  winter  and  desolation,  the  light  and 
the  blessings  of  a  spiritual  faith. 

Universally^  it  has  been  observed  through- 
out the  whole  extent  of  the  Alps,  that  the 
earliest  vestiges  of  civilization,  and  the  fiirst 
traces  of  order  and  industry  which  appeared 
after  the  overthrow  of  the  Roman  empire,  Avere 
to  be  found  in  the  immediate  neighbourhood 
of  the  religious  establishments;  and  it  is  to 
the  unceasing  efforts  of  the  clergy  during  the 
centuries  of  barbarism  which  followed  that 
event,  that  the  judicious  historian  of  Switzer- 
land ascribes  the  early  civilization  and  hu- 
mane disposition  ofthe  Helvetic  tribes.*  Placed  ' 
as  we  are  at  a  distance  from  the  time  when 
this  great  change  was  effected,  and  accustomed 
to  manners  in  which  its  influence  has  long 
ago  been  established,  we  can  hardly  conceive 
the  difliculties  with  which  the  earlier  profess- 
ors of  our  faith  had  to  struggle  in  subduing 
the  cruel  propensities,  and  calming  the  re- 
vengeful passions,  that  subsisted  among  the 
barbarous  tribes  who  had  conquered  Europe; 
nor  would  we,  perhaps,  be  inclined  to  credit 
the  accounts  of  the  heroic  sacrifices  which 
were  then  made  by  numbers  of  great  and  good 
men  who  devoted  themselves  to  the  conver- 
sion of  the  Alpine  tribes,  did  not  their  institu- 
tions remain  to  this  day  as  a  monument  of 
their  virtue ;  and  did  we  not  still  see  a  number 
of  benevolent  men  who  seclude  themselves 
from  the  M-orld,  and  dwell  in  the  regions  of 
perpetual  snow,  in  the  hope  of  rescuing  a  few 
individuals  from  a  miserable  death.  When 
the  traveller  on  the  summit  of  the  St.  Bernard 
reads  the  warm  and  touching  expressions  of 
gratitude  M'ith  which  the  Roman  travellers  re* 
corded  in  the  temple  of  Jupiter  their  gratitude 
fi)r  having  escaped  the  dangers  of  the  pass, 

♦  Planta,  vol.  i.  p.  17,  &c. 


TYROL 


lai 


fven  in  the  days  of  Adrian  and  the  Antonines, 
and  reflects  on  the  perfect  safety  with  which 
he  can  now  traverse  the  remotest  recesses  of 
the  Alps,  he  will  think  with  thankfulness  of 
the  religion  by  which  this  wonderful  change 
has  been  effected,  and  with  veneration  of  the 
saint  whose  name  has  for  a  thousand  years 
been  affixed  to  the  pass  where  his  influence 
first  reclaimed  the  people  from  their  barbarous 
life  ;  and  in  crossing  the  defile  of  Mount  Bren- 
ner, where  the  abbej'-  of  Wilten  first  offered 
an  asylum  to  the  pilgrim,  he  will  feel,  with  a 
late  eloquent  and  amiable  writer,  how  fortunate 
it  is  "that  religion  has  penetrated  these  fast- 
nesses, impervious  to  human  power,  and  spread 
her  influence  over  solitudes  where  human  laws 
are  of  no  avail ;  that  where  precaution  is  impos- 
sible and  resistance  useless,  she  spreads  her  in- 
visible ffigis  over  the  traveller,  and  conducts 
him  secure  under  her  protection  through  all  the 
dangers  of  his  way.  When,  in  such  situations, 
he  reflects  upon  his  security,  and  recollects 
that  these  mountains,  so  savage  and  so  well 
adapted  to  the  purposes  of  murderers  and 
banditti,  have  not,  in  the  memory  of  man, 
been  stained  with  human  blood,  he  ought  to 
do  justice  to  the  cause,  and  gratefulh^  acknow- 
ledge the  beneficial  influence  of  religion.  Im- 
pressed with  these  reflections,  he  will  behold, 
with  indulgence,  perhaps  even  with  interest, 
the  crosses  which  frequently  mark  the  brow  of 
a  precipice,  and  the  little  chapels  hollowed  out 
of  the  rock  where  the  road  is  narrowed ;  he 
will  consider  them  as  so  many  pledges  of  se- 
curity; and  rest  assured,  that,  as  long  as  the 
pious  mountaineer  continues  to  adore  the 
'Good  Shepherd,'  and  to  beg  the  prayer  of  the 
'afflicted  mother,'  he  will  never  cease  to  be- 
friend the  traveller,  nor  to  discharge  the  duties 
of  hospitality."* 

It  must  he  admitted,  at  the  same  time, 
that  the  Tyrolese  are  in  the  greatest  degree 
superstitious,  and  that  their  devotion,  warm 
and  enthusiastic  as  it  is,  is  frequently  mis- 
placed in  the  object  of  its  worship.  There  is 
probably  no  country  in  which  the  belief  in 
supernatural  powers,  in  the  gift  of  prophecy 
to  particular  individuals,  and  the  agency  of 
spiritual  beings  in  human  affairs,  is  more  uni- 
versally established.  It  forms,  indeed,  part  of 
their  religious  creed,  and  blends  in  the  most 
singular  manner  with  the  legendary  tales  and 
romantic  adventures  which  they  have  attached 
to  the  history  of  their  saints.  But  we  would 
err  most  egregiously,  if  we  imagined  that  this 
superstition  with  which  the  whole  people  are 
tinged,  savours  at  all  of  a  weak  or  timid  dis- 
position, or  that  it  is  any  indication  of  a  de- 
graded national  character.  It  partakes  of  the 
savage  character  of  the  scenery  in  which  they 
dwell,  and  is  ennobled  by  the  generous  senti- 
ments which  prevail  among  the  lowest  classes 
of  the  people.  The  same  men  who  imagine 
that  they  see  the  crucifix  bend  its  head  in  the 
dusk  of  the  evening,  and  who  hear  the  rattle 
of  arms  amid  the  solitude  of  the  mountains, 
are  fearless  of  death  when  it  approaches  them 
through  the  agency  of  human  power.  It  is  a 
strong  feeling  of  religion,  and  a  disposition  to 

♦  Eustace,  i.  9S. 


see,  in  all  the  events  by  which  they  are  sur- 
rounded, the  marks  of  divine  protection,  which 
is  the  foundation  oi their  superstition;  aiid  the 
more  strongly  that  they  feel  reliance  on  spi- 
ritual interposition,  the  less  inclined  are  thej 
to  sink  under  the  reverses  of  a  tempcrary 
life. 

There  is  a  wide  distinction  between  supersti- 
tion and  tlie  belief  in  sorcery  or  witchcraft. 
The  latter  is  the  growth  of  weakness  and 
credulity,  and  prevails  most  among  men  of  a 
timid  disposition,  or  among  ignorant  and  bar- 
barous nations.  The  former,  though  it  is 
founded  on  ignorance,  and  yields  to  the  ex- 
perience and  knowledge  of  mankind,  yet 
springs  from  the  noblest  principles  of  our 
nature,  and  is  allied  to  every  thing  by  which 
the  history  of  our  species  has  been  dignified 
in  former  times.  It  will  not  be  pretended,  that 
the  Grecian  states  were  deficient  either  in 
splendour  of  talents  or  heroism  of  conduct, 
yet  superstition,  in  its  grossest  form,  attached 
itself  to  all  their  thoughts,  and  influenced  alike 
the  measures  of  their  statesmen  and  the  dreams 
of  their  philosophers.  The  Roman  writers 
placed  in  that  very  feeling  which  we  would 
call  superstition,  the  most  honourable  charac- 
teristic of  their  people,  and  ascribed  to  it  the 
memorable  series  of  triumphs  by  which  the 
history  of  the  republic  was  distinguished. 
"  Nulla  inquam  republia  aut  major  aut  sanctior 
fuit,"  says  Livy;  and  it  is  to  their  deep  sense 
of  religion  that  Cicero  imputes  the  unparalleled 
success  with  which  the  arms  of  the  republic 
were  attended.*  Yet  the  religious  feeling  which 
was  so  intimately  blended  with  the  Roman 
character,  and  which  guided  the  actions  and 
formed  the  minds  of  the  great  men  who  adorned 
her  history,  was  for  the  most  part  little  else  than 
that  firm  reliance  on  the  spccicd  interposition 
of  Providence,  which  is  the  origin  of  supersti- 
tion. The  Saracens,  during  the  wars  which 
followed  the  introduction  of  the  Mohammedan 
faith,  were  superstitious  to  the  highest  degree, 
yet  with  how  many  brilliant  and  glorious  qua- 
lities was  their  character  distinguished,  when 
they  triumphantly  carried  the  Crescent  of 
Mohammed  from  the  snows  of  the  Himraaleh  to 
the  shores  of  the  Atlantic.  The  crusaders  even 
of  the  highest  rank,  believed  firmly  in  the  mi- 
racles and  prophecies  which  were  said  to 
have  accompanied  the  march  of  the  Christian 
army;  nor  is  it  perhaps  possible  to  find  in 
history  an  example  of  such  extraordinary  con- 
sequences as  followed  the  supposed  discovery 
of  the  Holy  Lance  in  the  siege  of  Antioch;  yel 
who  will  deny  to  these  great  men  the  praise 
of  heroic  enterprise  and  noble  manners  1 
Human  nature  has  nowhere  appeared  in  such 
glorious  colours  as  in  the  Jerusalem  Delivered 
of  Tasso,  where  the  firmness  and  constancy 
of  the  Roman  patriot  is  blended  with  the 
courtesy  of  chivalrous  manners,  and  the  ex- 
alted piety  of  Christian  faith  ;  yet  supersti- 
tion formed  a  part  of  the  character  of  ail  his 
heroes ;  the  courage  of  Tancred  failed  when 
he  heard  the  voice  of  Clorinda  in  the  charmed 
tree  ;  and  the  bravest  of  his  comrades  trembled 
when  they  entered  the  enchanted  forest,  wheui 

*  Liv.  lib.  i. ;  Cic.  de  Off.  lib.  i.  c.  U 


12S 


ALISON'S  MISCELT  ANEOL^  ESSAYS. 


•*E«ce  all  hfir  He  la  selva  un  sunn  repente, 
Che  par  rimliiimlii)  di  torreii  clio  tronio, 
EM  inoriiiiinir  iN^;;!!  Aiijilii  in  liii  si  seiite, 
E'l  piaiito  (l"omla,  ilio  I'ni  scogli  gciiie." 

Examples  of  this  kind  may  teach  us,  tliat 
although  superstition  in  the  age  and  among  the 
society  in  which  we  live  is  the  mark  of  a  feeble 
mind,  yet  that  in  less  enlightened  ages  or  parts 
of  the  Avorld,  it  is  the  mark  only  of  an  ardent 
and  enthiisiastic  ..Isposition,  such  as  is  tiie 
foundation  of  every  tiling  that  is  great  or 
generous  in  character,  or  elevated  and  spiritual 
in  feeling.  A  people,  in  fact,  strongly  impressed 
with  religious  feeling,  and  to  whom  experi- 
ence has  not  taught  the  means  by  which  Pro- 
vidence acts  in  human  affairs,  must  be  svpcrsli- 
tious;  for  it  is  the  universal  propensity  of  un- 
instructed  man,  to  imagine  that  a  special  in- 
terposition of  the  Deity  is  necessary  to  accom- 
plish the  manifestation  of  his  will,  or  the  ac- 
complishment of  his  purposes  in  human  affairs. 
Nor  is  there  anything  impossible  or  absurd 
in  such  a  supposition.  It  might  have  been, 
tnat  futun;  eve;..^  wen  to  be  revealed  on  par- 
ticular occasions  to  mankind,  as  they  were 
during  the  days  of  ancient  prophecy,  and  that 
the  course  of  human  events  was  to  be  main- 
tained by  special  interpositions  of  divine  power. 
Experience  alone  teaches  us,  that  this  is  not 
the  case  ;  it  alone  shows,  that  the  intentions 
of  Providence  are  carried  into  effect  through 
the  intervention  of  human  agents,  and  that 
the  laws  of  the  moral  world  work  out  their 
own  accomplishment  by  the  voluntary  acts 
of  free  agents.  When  we  see  how  difficult  it 
is  to  make  persons  even  of  cultivated  under- 
standing comprehend  this  subject  even  in  the 
present  age,  and  with  all  the  experience  which 
former  times  have  furnished,  we  may  cease 
to  wonder  at  the  superstition  which  prevails 
among  the  peasants  of  the  T3'rol;  we  may 
believe,  that  situated  as  they  are,  it  is  the  na- 
tural effusion  of  a  pious  spirit  untaught  by  the 
experience  of  other  ages  ;  and  we  may  discern, 
in  the  extravagancies  of  their  legendary  creed, 
not  less  than  in  the  sublime  piety  of  Newton, 
the  operation  of  those  common  laws  by  which 
man  is  bound  to  his  Creator. 

The  scenery  of  Tyrol,  and  of  the  adjacent 
provinces  of  Styria  and  Carinthia,  is  singular- 
ly adapted  to  nourish  romantic  and  supersti- 
tious ideas  among  the  peasantry.  In  every 
part  of  the  world  the  grandeur  of  mountain 
scenery  has  been  found  to  be  the  prolific  parent 
of  superstition.  It  was  the  mists,  and  the  bine 
lakes,  and  the  sounding  cataracts  of  Caledonia, 
which  gave  birth  to  the  sublime  but  gloomy 
dreams  of  Ossian.  The  same  cause  has 
operated  to  a  still  greater  degree  among  the 
Alps  of  Tyrol.  The  sublimity  of  the  objects 
with  which  man  is  there  surrounded — the 
resistless  power  of  the  elements  which  he 
finds  continually  in  action — the  utter  insig- 
nificance of  his  own  species,  when  compared 
with  the  gigantic  objects  in  which  he  is  placed, 
conspire  to  produce  that  distrust  of  himself, 
and  that  disposition  to  cling  to  higher  powers, 
which  is  the  foundation  of  superstitious  feel- 
ing. In  cities  and  in  plains,  the  labour  of 
man  effaces  in  a  certain  degree  these  impres- 
scns ;  the  works  which  he  has  there  accumu- 


lated, come  to  withdraw  the  attention  from  the 
distant  magnificence  of  nature;  while  the 
weakness  oi'  the  individual  is  forgotten  in  tho 
aggregate  force  of  numbers,  or  in  tiie  distrac- 
tions of  civilized  life.  But  amidst  the  solitude 
of  the  Alps  no  such  change  can  take  place. 
The  greatest  works  of  man  appear  there  as 
nothing  amidst  the  stupendous  objects  of  na« 
ture;  the  distractions  of  artificial  society  are 
unknown  amongst  its  simple  inhabitants;  and 
the  individual  is  left  in  solitude  to  receive  the  im- 
pressions which  the  sublime  scenery  in  which 
he  is  placed  is  fitted  to  produce.  Upon  minds 
so  circumstanced  the  changes  of  external  na- 
ture come  to  be  considered  as  the  immediate 
work  of  some  invisible  power;  the  shadows 
that  fall  in  the  lakes  at  sunrise,  are  interpreted 
as  the  indication  of  the  approach  of  hostile 
bands — the  howl  of  the  winds  through  th« 
forests  is  thought  to  be  the  lamentations  of  the 
dead,  who  are  expiating  their  sins — and  th«, 
mists  that  flit  over  the  summits  of  the  moun- 
tains, seem  to  be  the  distant  skirts  of  vast 
armies  borne  in  the  whirlwind,  and  treading 
in  the  storm. 

The  Gothic  ruins  with  which  the  Tyrol  is 
filled,  contribute  in  a  remarkable  manner  to 
keep  alive  these  superstitious  feelings.  In 
many  of  the  vall'jys  old  castles  of  vast  dimen 
sions  are  percht.-d  on  the  summit  of  lofty  crags 
or  raise  their  mouldering  towers  high  on  thi* 
mountains  above  the  aged  forests  with  which 
they  are  surrounded.  These  castles,  once  tho 
abode  of  feudal  power,  have  long  since  beet 
abandoned,  or  have  gradually  gone  to  decay, 
without  being  actually  dismantled  by  the  pro 
prietors.  With  all  of  them  the  people  connec' 
some  romantic  or  terrible  exploit;  and  the 
bloody  deeds  of  feudal  anarchy  are  remem- 
bered with  terror  by  the  peasants  who  dwell 
in  the  villages  at  their  feet.  Lights  are  often 
observed  at  night  in  towers  which  have  been 
uninhabited  for  centuries  ;  and  bloody  figures 
have  been  distinctly  seen  to  flit  through  their 
deserted  halls.  The  armour  which  still  hangs 
on  the  walls  in  many  of  the  greater  castles, 
has  been  observed  to  move,  and  the  plumes 
to  wave,  when  the  Tyrolese  army  were  victo- 
rious in  war.  Groans  are  still  heard  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  dungeons  where  the  vic- 
tims of  feudal  tyranny  were  formerly  slain; 
and  the  cruel  baron,  who  persecuted  his  peo- 
ple in  his  savage  passion  for  the  chase,  is 
often  heard  to  shriek  in  the  forests  of  the 
Unterberg,  and  to  howl  as  he  flies  from  the 
dogs,  whom  he  had  trained  to  the  scent  of 
human  blood. 

Superstitions,  too,  of  a  gentler  and  more  holy 
kind,  have  arisen  from  the  devout  feelings  of 
the  people,  and  the  associations  connected  with 
jiarticular  spots  where  persons  of  extraordi- 
nary sanctity  have  dwelt.  In  many  of  the 
farthest  recesses  of  the  mountains,  on  the  verge 
of  perpetual  desolation,  hermits  in  former  times 
fixed  their  abode ;  and  the  imagination  of  the 
peasants  still  fancies  that  their  spirits  hover 
around  the  spot  where  their  earthly  trials  were 
endured.  Shepherds  who  have  jiassed  in  the 
gloom  of  the  evening  by  the  cell  where  the 
bones  of  a  saint  are  laid,  relate  that  they  dis- 
tinctly heard    his  voice  as  he   repeated    his 


tvrol.. 


123 


svening  prayers,  and  saw  his  form  as  he  knelt 
before  the  crucifix  which  the  piety  of  succeed- 
ing ages  had  erected  in  his  hermitage.  The 
image  of  many  a  patron  saint  has  been  seen 
to  shed  tears,  when  a  reverse  has  happened  to 
the  Tyrolese  arms ;  and  the  garlands  which 
are  hung  round  the  crosses  of  the  Virgin  wither 
when  the  hand  which  raised  them  has  fallen 
in  battle.  Peasants  who  have  been  driven  by 
a  storm  to  take  shelter  in  the  little  chapels 
which  are  scattered  over  the  country,  have 
seen  the  crucifix  bow  its  head;  and  solemn 
music  is  heard  at  the  hour  of  vespers,  in  the 
higher  chapels  of  the  mountains.  The  distant 
pealing  of  the  organ,  and  the  chant  of  innu- 
merable voices  is  there  distinctly  perceptible ; 
and  the  peasant,  when  returning  at  night  from 
the  chase,  often  trembles  Avhen  he  beholds  fu- 
nereal processions,  clothed  in  white,  marching 
in  silence  through  the  gloom  of  the  forests,  or 
slowly  moving  on  the  clouds  that  float  over 
the  summit  of  the  mountains. 

A  country  so  circumstanced,  abounding  with 
every  thing  that  is  grand  and  beautiful  in  na- 
tural scenery,  filled  with  Gothic  castles,  over 
which  i-uin  has  long  ago  thrown  her  softening 
hand,  peopled  by  the  phantoms  of  an  extrava- 
gant yet  sublime  superstition,  and  still  inha- 
bited by  a  valiant  and  enthusiastic  people, 
£<?ems  of  all  others  to  be  the  fit  theatre  of  poeti- 
cal fancy.  It  is  truly  ciitraordinary  therefore, 
that  no  poet  has  appeared  to  glean  the  legends 
and  ballads  that  are  scattered  through  this  in- 
terestingcountry,to  perpetuate  the  aerial  beings 
with  which  superstition  has  filled  its  wilds, 
and  to  dignify  its  mouldering  castles  with  the 
recital  of  the  many  heroic  and  romantic  ad- 
ventures which  have  occurred  within  their 
walls.  When  we  recollect  the  unparalleled 
interest  which  the  genius  of  the  present  day 
has  given  to  the  traditions  and  the  character 
of  the  Scottish  people,  it  is  impossible  not  to 
regret,  that  no  kindred  mind  has  immortalized 
the  still  more  wild  and  touching  incidents  that 
have  occurred  amidst  the  heroic  inhabitants 
and  sublime  scenery  of  the  Tyrol  Alps.  Let 
us  hope,  that  the  military  despotisih  of  Austria 
will  not  long  continue  to  smother  the  genius, 
by  restraining  the  freedom  of  those  higher 
classes  of  her  people  where  poetical  talents  are 
to  be  found ;  and  that,  before  the  present  tra- 
ditions are  forgotten,  or  the  enthusiasm  which 
the  war  has  excited  is  subsided,  there  may  yet 
arise  the  Scott  of  the  south  of  Europe. 

The  great  circumstance  which  distinguishes 
the  Tyrolese  from  their  neighbours,  the  Swiss, 
to  whom  in  many  respects  they  bear  a  close 
resemblance,  is  in  the  animation  and  cheerful- 
ness of  their  character.  The  Swiss  are  by  na- 
ture a  grave  and  heavy  people  ;  nor  is  this  pe- 
culiar character  the  result  of  their  republican 
institutions,  for  we  are  told  by  Planta,  that  their 
stupidity  had  become  proverbial  in  France  be- 
fore the  time  of  their  republic.  The  Tyrolese, 
on  the  other  hand,  are  a  cheerful  and  lively 
people,  full  of  fire  and  animation,  enthusiasti- 
cally devoted  to  their  favourite  pursuits,  and 
extremely  warm  in  their  resentments.  Public 
games  are  frequent  in  every  valley ;  and  the 
keen  penetrating  look  of  the  peasants  shows 
with  what  alacrity  the}'-  enter  into  any  subject 


in  which  they  are  interested.  This  striking 
diflerence  in  the  national  character  of  the  two  ' 
people  appears  in  their  diflerent  modes  of  con 
ducting  war.  Firm  in  the  maintenance  of  their 
purpose,  and  undaunted  in  the  discharge  of 
military  duty,  the  Swiss  are  valuable  chiefly 
for  their  stubborn  qualities — for  that  obstinate 
courage  on  which  a  commander  can  rely  with 
perfect  certainty  for  the  maintenance  of  an/ 
position  which  may  be  assigned  for  their  de- 
fence. It  was  their  stubborn  resistance,  ac 
cordingly,  which  first  laid  the  foundation  of  ihe 
independence  of  their  republic,  and  which 
taught  the  Imperialists  and  the  Burgundians 
at  Laupen  and  Morat,  that  the  pride  of  feudal 
power,  and  the  ardour  of  chivalrous  enter- 
prise, may  seek  in  vain  to  crush  "  the  might 
that  slumbers  in  a  peasant's  arm."  In  later 
times  the  same  disposition  has  been  evinced 
in  the  conduct  of  the  Swiss  Guards,  in  the 
Place  Carousel,  all  of  whom  were  massacred 
at  their  post,  without  the  thought  of  capitula- 
tion or  retreat  being  once  stirred  amongst  them. 
The  Tyrolese,  on  the  other  hand,  are  more 
distinguished  by  their  fiery  and  impetuous 
mode  of  fighting.  In  place  of  waiting,  like  the 
Swiss  infantry,  the  charges  of  their  enemies, 
they  rush  on  unbidden  to  the  attack,  and  often 
accomplish,  b}^  the  hardihood  of  the  enterprise, 
what  more  cautious  troops  could  never  suc- 
ceed in  effecting.  In  this  respect  they  resemble 
more  nearly  the  Highland  clans,  who,  in  the 
rebellion  in  1745,  dashed  with  the  broadsword 
on  the  English  regiments ;  or  the  peasants  of 
La  Vendee,Avho,without  cannon  or  ammunition, 
assaulted  the  veteran  bands  of  the  republic, 
and  by  the  fury  of  their  onset,  frequently  de- 
stroyed armies  with  whom  they  would  have 
been  utterly  unable  to  cope  in  a  more  regular 
system  of  warfare. 

One  reflection  there  is,  which  may  be  drawn 
from  the  determined  valour  of  the  Tyrolese, 
and  their  success  against  the  disciplined  armies 
of  France,  Avhich  it  is  of  the  utmost  importance 
to  impress  steadily  on  our  minds.  It  is  this ; 
that  the  changes  in  the  art  of  war  in  modern 
times  has  produced  w  alteration  on  the  ability 
of  freedom  to  resist  the  aggressions  of  despotic 
poAvers ;  but  that  still,  as  in  ancient  times,  the 
discipline  and  the  numbers  of  arbitrary  govern- 
ments are  alike  unavailing  against  the  stub- 
born valour  of  a  free  people.  In  every  age, 
and  in  every  part  of  the  world,  i^xamples  are 
to  be  found  of  the  defeat  of  great  and  power- 
ful armies  by  the  cool  and  steady  resistance 
which  characterizes  the  inhabitants  of  free 
states.  This  is  matter  of  proverbial  remark ; 
but  it  is  of  the  more  importance  to  observe, 
that  this  g.meral  steadiness  and  valour,  which 
seek  for  no  support  but  in  the  courage  of  the 
individual,  can  be  attained  only  by  the  diffusion 
of  civil  liberty,  and  that  the  value  of  such  qua- 
lities is  as  strongly  felt  in  modern  wars  as  it 
was  in  airy  former  period  of  the  world.  It  is 
related  by  Homer,  that  at  the  siege  of  Troy, 
the  Trojan  troops,  in  whom  the  vicinity  of 
Asia  had  introduced  the  customs  of  oriental 
warfare,  and  the  feelings  of  oriental  despotism, 
supported  each  other's  courage  by  shouts  and 
cries  during  the  heat  of  the  battles;  while  the 
Grecians,  in  whom,  as  Mitford  has  obsen-ed, 


%l 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


,   the  monarchical  forra  of  government  M'as  even 
then  tempered  by  a  strong  mixture  of  republi- 
can freedom,*  stood  firm, .in  perfect  silerrc, 
M'ailing  the  command  of.  (heir   chiefs.     Tnc 
passage  is  remarkable,  as  it  shows  how  early, 
jn  the  history  of  mankind,  the  great  lines  of 
distinction  between  the  courage  of  freemen  and 
slaves  was  drawn;  nor  c.au  we  perhaps  any- 
wliere  find,  in  the  subsequent  annals  of  the 
world,  a  closer  resemblance  to  what  occurred 
in  the  struggle  between  English  freedom  and 
French  despotism  on   the  field  of   Waterloo. 
"  The  Grecian  phalanx,"  says  the  poet, "  march- 
ed in  close  order,  the  leaders  directing  each 
his  own  band.     The  rest  were  mute;    inso- 
much, that  you  would  say,  in  so  great  a  multi- 
tude there  was  no  voice.     Such  was  the  silence 
with  which  they  respectfully  watched  for  the 
word  of  command  from  their  officers.    But  the 
cries  of  the  Trojan  army  resembled  the  blcat- 
mg  of  sheep  when  they  are  driven  into  the 
fold,  and  hear  the  cries  of  their  lambs.     Nor 
did  the  voice  of  one  people  rise  from  their 
lines,  but  a  confused  mixture  of  many  tongues."f 
The  same  distinction  has  been  observed  in  all 
periods  of  the  world,  between  the  native  un- 
bending courage  of  freemen,  and  the  artificial 
or  transitory  ardour  of  the  troops  of  despotic 
states.     It  was  thus  that  the  three  hundred 
Spartans  stood  the  shock  of  a  mighty  army  in 
the  defile  of  Thermopyloe  ;  and  it  was  from  the 
influence  of  the  same  feeling,  that,  with  not  less 
devoted  valour,  the  fifteen  hundred  Swiss  died 
in  the  cemetery  of  St.  James,  in  the  battle  of 
Basle.      The   same   individual  determination 
which  enabled  the  citizens  of  Milan  to  over- 
throw the  whole   feudal    power  of   Frederic 
Barbarossa  on  the  plain  of  Legnano,  animated 
the  shepherds  of  the  Alps,  when  they  trampled 
under  foot  the  pride  of  the  imperial  nobility 
on  the  field  of  Sempach,  and  annihilated  the 
chivalry  of  Charles  the  Bold  on  the  shores  of 
Morat.     It  was  among  the  free  inhabitants  of 
the  Flemish  provinces,  that  Count  Tilly  found 
the  materials  of  those  brave  Walloon  guards, 
who,  as  contemporary  writers  inform  us,  might 
be  knocked  down  or  trampled  under  foot,  but 
could  not  be  constrained  to  fly  by  the  arms  of 
Gustavus  at  the  battle  of  Leipsic;t  and  the 
celebrity  of  the  Spanish  infantry  declined  from 
the  time  that  the  liberties  of  Arragon  and  Cas- 
tile were  extinguished  by  Charles  V.     "  There 


*_^Mitford,  i.  158. 

•f-"ilf  T(5r'^  itraaovTcpai  Anvawv  KivyiVTO  i])d\ayyes 
NM^t/icwf  iriXciiiw^c.  KcXcve  fii  olaiv  tKa^oi 
'WyCfidvoif  o'l^i'  HWoi  dkhv  iVai' — oiSe  kc  4)a(r); 
Toaaov  Xanv  cjrcaOai  t^oi'r'  cv  ^{fDcaiv  avSr]v — 
"Ziy'i  SetitSrrf  urmavTopaf  aiid>X  it  vaaiv 
Tcvxca  noiKiX'  tXaiine,  ra  ciiUvot  is-ix^oiVTO. 
Tcoitf  S\  vht'  6'tci  TToXviraiiOvos  duSpos  cv  aiiXq 
Mwpi'ui  cs'fiKaaiv  dficXySfitvai  ya\a  XevKfv, 
'Al^rixii  ncnaKvtat,  aKoinvaai  Sira  dpvwv 
"Sis  "VfiiMoyv  (lXaA»jT(5f  dva  s'Tpariv  tvpiv  optopci. 
Oi  ynp  ndnToyv  ticv  hfioi  $060;,  ovS'  ta  yij/JWf, 
'AXXu  yXiZaa'  IfjijiiKTO'  ^roXiicXTiTOt  i'  eerav  avlpci. 

Iliad  iv.  427. 

t  Memoirs  of  a  Cavalier,  by  Defoe. 


is  ample  room,"  as  a  late  eminent  writer*  has 
well  observed,  "  for  national  exultation  at  th« 
names  of  Cress}-,  Poitiers,  and  Azincour.  Sc 
great  was  the  disparity  of  numbers  upon  those 
famous  da3-s,  that  we  cannot,  with  the  French 
historian,  allribute  the  discomfiture  of  their 
hosts  merely  to  mistaken  tactics  and  too  im- 
petuous valour.  They  yielded  rather  to  the 
intrepid  steadiness  in  danger,  which  had  al- 
ready become  the  characteristic  of  our  English 
soldiers,  and  which,  during  four  centuries,  has 
ensured  their  superiority  wherever  ignorance 
or  infatuation  has  not  led  them  into  the  field. 
But  these  victories,  and  the  qualities  that  se- 
cured them,  must  chiefly  be  ascribed  to  the 
freedom  of  our  constitution  and  the  superior 
condition  of  the  people.  Not  the  nobility  of 
England,  not  the  feudal  tenants,  won  the  battles 
of  Cressy  and  Poitiers,  for  these  were  fully 
matched  in  the  ranks  of  France,  but  the  yeo- 
men who  drew  the  boAv  Avith  strong  and  steady 
arms,  accustomed  to  its  use  in  their  native 
fields,  and  rendered  fearless  by  personal  com- 
petence and  civil  freedom.f 

Now,  after  all  that  we  have  heard  of  the  art 
of  war  being  formed  into  a  regular  system,  of 
the  soldier  being  reduced  to  a  mere  machine, 
and  of  the  progress  of  armies  being  made  the 
subject  of  arithmetical  calculation ;  it  is  truly 
consoling  to  find  the  discomfiture  of  the  great- 
est and  most  disciplined  army  which  the  world 
has  ever  seen,  brought   about  by  the   same 
cause  which,  in  former  times,  have  so  often 
given  victory  to  the  cause  of  freedom ;  to  find 
the  victories  of  Naefels  and  Morgarten  renew 
ed  in  the  triumph  of  the  Tyrolese  patriots,  ano 
the  ancient  cuperiority  of  the  English  3'eomanry 
asserted,  as  in  the  days  of  Cressy  and  Azin- 
cour, on  the  field  of  Waterloo.     Nor  is  it  per- 
haps the  least  remarkable  fact  of  that  memo- 
rable day,  that  while  the  French  army,  like  the 
Trojans  of  old,  animated  their  courage  by  in- 
cessant cries ;  the  English  battalions,  like  the 
Greek  phalanxes,  waited  in  silence  the  charge 
of  their  enemies  :  proving  thus,  in  the  severest 
of  all  trials,  that  the  art  of  war  has  made  tmj 
change  on  the  qualities  essential  in  the  soldier; 
and  that  the  determined  courage  of  freemen  is 
still   able,  as   in  the  daj-s  of  Marathon    and 
Platosa,  to  overcome  the  utmost  efforts  of  mili- 
tary power.    It  is  interesting  to  find  the  same 
qualities  distinguishing  the  armies  of  a  free 
people  in  such  distant  periods  of  the  world; 
and  it  is  the  fit  subject,  not  merely  of  national 
pride,  but  of  universal  thankfulness,  to  disco- 
ver, that  there  are  qualities  in  the  composition 
of  a  great  army  which  it  is  beyond  the  power 
of  despotism  to  command  ;  and  that  the  utmost 
eflx)rls  of  the  military  art,  aided  by  the  strongest 
incitements    to    military    distinction,   cannot 
produce   that   steady   and   unbending  valour 
which  springs  from  the  enjoyment  of  civn 

LlDKnTT. 


*  Hallam's  Middle  Agee,  i.  74. 
t  Froissart,  i.e.  162. 


FRANCE  IN  1S33. 


1S5 


FRANCE  IN  m3A%.i,--ii< 


.7 


Obsertatioxs  made  on  the  spot  by  one  who 
has  long  regarded  the  political  changes  of 
France  with  interest,  may  possibly  be  of  ser- 
vice, in  conveying  to  the  public  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Channel  some  idea  of  the  present 
state  and  future  prospects  of  a  nation,  avow- 
edly folk  wed  as  the  leader  by  the  liberal  party 
all  over  t.ie  world,  in  the  great  work  of  politi- 
cal regeneration.  Such  a  sketch,  drawn  with 
no  feeling  of  political  or  national  animosity, 
but  with  every  wish  for  the  present  and  future 
happiness  of  the  great  people  among  whom  it 
is  composed,  may  possibly  cool  many  visionary 
hopes,  and  extinguish  some  ardent  anticipa- 
tions ;  but  it  will  at  least  demonstrate  what  is 
the  result,  in  the  circumstances  where  it  has 
been  most  triumphant,  of  democratic  ascend- 
ency; and  prepare  the  inhabitants  of  Great 
Britain  for  the  fate,  and  the  government  which 
awaits  them,  if  they  continue  to  follow  the 
footsteps  of  the  French  liberals  in  the  career 
which  has  been  recently  brought,  on  this  side 
of  the  channel,  to  so  triumphant  a  conclusion. 

Most  of  the  educated  inhabitants  of  Great 
Britain  visited  France,  during  the  restoration; 
many  of  them  at  different  times.  Every  one 
thought  he  had  acquired  some  idea  of  the 
political  state  and  prospects  of  the  country, 
and  was  enabled  to  form  some  anticipations 
as  to  its  future  destiny.  We  are  now  enabled 
.to  say,  that  most  of  these  views  were  partial 
or  erroneous.  They  were  so,  not  so  much 
from  defect  in  the  observation  of  France,  as 
ignorance  of  the  political  principles  and  pas- 
.sions  which  were  at  work  amongst  its  inha- 
bitants ;  from  want  of  experience  of  the  result 
of  democratic  convulsions ;  from  judging  of  a 
country  over  which  the  wave  of  revolution 
had  passed,  with  the  ideas  drawn  from  one 
■which  had  expelled  its  fur}-.  We  observed 
France  accurately  enough;  but  we  did  so  with 
English  eyes ;  we  supposed  its  inhabitants  to 
be  actuated  by  the  feelings  and  interests,  and 
motives,  which  were  then  at  work  among  our- 
selves ;  and  could  form  no  conception  of  the 
new  set  of  principles  and  desires  which  are 
stirred  up  during  the  agitation  of  a  revolution. 
In  this  respect  our  powers  of  observation  are 
now  materially  improved.  We  have  had  some 
experience  during  the  last  three  years  of  de- 
mocratic convulsion ;  we  know  the  passion 
and  desires  which  are  developed  by  arraying 
the  lower  orders  against  the  higher.  We  have 
acquired  an  acquaintance  with  the  signs  and 
marks  of  i-e volution ary  terror.  Standing  thus 
on  the  confines  of  the  two  systems  ;  at  the  ex- 
tremity of  English  liberty,  and  the  entrance  of 
French  democracy,  we  are  now  peculiarly 
qualified  to  form  an  accurate  opinion  of  the 
tendency  of  these  opposite  principles  of  go- 

*  Blackwood's  Magazine,  October  and  December, 
1833. — Written  during  a  residence  at  Paris,  and  in  the 
north  (jf  France,  in  the  autumn  of  that  year. 


vernment  ;  we  know  the  landinarks  of  ths 
civilization  which  is  receding  from  the  view 
and  have  gained  some  acquaintance  with  the 
perils  of  that  which  is  approaching;  and  com- 
bining recent  with  former  experience  in  our 
own  and  the  neighbouring  country,  can  fona 
a  tolerably  accurate  idea  of  the  fate  which 
awaits  them  and  ourselves. 

The  leading  circumstance  in  the  present 
condition  of  France,  which  first  strikes  an 
English  observer,  and  is  the  most  important 
feature  it  exhibits  in  a  political  point  of  view, 
is  the  enormous  and  apparently  irresistible 
power  of  the  central  govcrnmoit  at  Paris  over 
all  the  rest  of  France.  This  must  appear 
rather  a  singular  result  after  forty  years  of 
ardent  aspirations  after  freedom,  but  neverthe- 
less nothing  is  more  certain,  and  it  constitutes 
the  great  and  distinguishing  result  of  the  Re- 
volution. 

Such  has  been  the  centralization  of  powei 
by  the  various  democratic  assemblies,  who,  at 
different  times,  have  ruled  the  destinies  of  this 
great  country,  that  there  is  hardly  a  vestige  of 
power  or  influence  now  left  to  the  provinces. 
All  the  situations  of  emolument  of  every  de- 
scription, from  the  highest  to  the  lowest,  in 
every  department  and  line  of  life,  are  in  the 
gift  of  government.  No  man,  in  a  situation 
approaching  to  that  of  a  gentleman,  can  rise 
either  in  the  civil  or  military  career  in  an)^ 
part  of  France,  unless  he  is  promoted  by  the 
central  ofiices  at  Paris.  These  are  general 
expressions,  which  convey  no  definite  idea.  A 
few  examples  will  render  the  state  of  the 
country  in  this  particular  more  intelligible. 

The  Chamber  of  Peers,  Avho  now  hold  their 
situations  only  for  life,  are  appointed  by  the 
Crown. 

The  whole  army,  now  four  hundred  thou- 
sand strong,  is  at  the  disposal  of  government. 
All  the  officers  in  that  great  body  of  course 
receive  their  appointment  from  the  War-ofiice 
at  Paris. 

The  navy,  no  inconsiderable  force,  is  also 
appointed  by  the  same  power. 

The  whole  artificers  and  officers  connected 
with  the  engineers  and  artillery,  a  most  nu- 
merous body  in  a  country  so  beset  with  fortifi- 
cations and  fortresses  as  France,  derive  their 
appointments  from  the  central  government. 

The  custom-house  officers,  an  immense 
body,  whose  huts  and  stations  are  set  down  at 
short  distances  all  round  France,  are  all  no- 
minated by  the  central  office  at  Paris. 

The  whole  mayors  of  communes,  with  their 
"  adjoints,"  amounting  over  all  France  to 
eighty-eight  thousand  persons,  are  appointed 
by  the  central  government,  or  the  prefects  of 
departments  whom  they  have  nominated. 

The  post-olTice,  in  every  department  through- 
out  the  kingdom,  is  exclusively  filled  by  the 
servants  of  government. 


I2rt 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


The  police,  an  immense  force,  having  not 
.ess  than  eighty  thousand  employes  in  constant 
occupation,  and  Avhicli  extends  its  iron  net 
over  the  whole  country,  are  all  appointed  by 
the  minister  at  the  head  of  that  department. 

The  clergy  over  the  whole  country  receive 
their  salaries  from  government,  and  are  ap- 
pointed by  the  crown. 

The  whole  teachers  of  youth  of  every  de- 
scription, in  all  public  or  established  semina- 
ries, whether  parochial  or  departmental,  are 
appointed  by  the  minister  of  public  instruc- 
tion. 

The  management  of  the  roads,  bridges,  and 
chaussees,  throughout  all  the  kingdom,  is  in- 
trusted to  persons  appointed  by  the  crown.  No 
man  can  break  a  stone,  or  mend  a  bridge,  or 
repair  a  pavement,  from  Calais  to  Bayonne, 
nnless  he  is  in  the  service  of  government;  and 
all  the  labourers  on  the  roads  have  an  uniform 
hat,  with  the  words  "Cantonnier,"  or  "  Pon- 
lonnier,"  upon  it,  indicating  that  they  are  in 
the  service  of  the  state. 

The  post-horses  over  all  France  are  under 
the  control  of  the  crown.  Not  only  the  post- 
masters, but  every  postillion  from  Brest  to 
Marseilles,  and  Strasburg  to  Bourdeaux,  are 
nominated  by  the  government.  No  additional 
hand  can  be  added  in  the  remotest  relay  of 
horses  without  the  authority  of  the  Parisian 
bureaux.  On  all  the  great  roads  in  the  north 
of  France  there  are  too  few  postillions,  and 
travellers  are  daily  detained  hours  on  the 
road,  not  because  horses  are  awanting,  but 
because  it  has  not  pleased  the  ministers  of  the 
interior  to  appoint  a  sufficient  number  of  pos- 
tillions for  the  dillerent  stations.  In  the  south, 
the  case  is  the  reverse ;  the  postillions  are  too 
numerous,  and  can  hardly  live,  from  the  divi- 
sion of  their  business  among  so  many  hands; 
but  the  mandate  has  gone  forth  from  the 
Tuileries,  and  obedience  must  be  the  order  of 
the  da)^. 

The  whole  diligences,  stage-coaches,  mails, 
and  conveyances  of  every  description  which 
convey  travellers  by  relays  of  horses  in  every 
part  of  France,  must  employ  the  post-horses 
and  postillions  appointed  at  the  different  sta- 
tions by  the  crown.  No  private  individual  or 
company  can  run  a  coach  with  relays  with 
their  own  horses.  They  may  establish  as 
many  coaches  as  they  choose,  but  they  must 
all  be  drawn  by  the  royal  horses  and  postillions, 
if  they  do  not  convey  the  travellers  m  voiliu-icr 
with  the  same  horses  all  the  way.  This  great 
monopoly  was  established  by  an  arret  of  the 
Directory,  9th  December,  1798,  which  is  in 
these  terms ;  "  Nul  autre  que  les  maitres  de 
poste,  munis  d'une  commission  speciale,  ne 
pourra  efablirde  relais  particuliers,  relayer  ou 
conduire  a  titre  do  louage  des  voyageurs  d'un 
relais  a  un  autre,  a  peine  d'etre  contraint  de 
pa)'er  par  forme  d'indcmnite  le  prix  de  la 
course,  au  profit  des  maitres  de  poste  et  des 
postilions  qui  auront  6ti  frusfres." 

The  whole  firemen  throughout  France  are 
organized  in  battalions,  and  wear  a  uniform 
like  soldiers,  and  are  appointed  by  govern- 
ment. 

The  whole  judges,  superior  and  inferior, 
over  the  whole  kingdom,  as  well  as  the  prcfels, 


sous-prefets,  procureurs  du  roi,  and  in  gen^ 
ral  all  the  legal  offices  of  every  description,  are 
appointed  by  government.  The  only  cxcep 
tion  are  the  judges  du  paix,  a  sort  of  arbiters 
and  mediators  in  each  canton,  to  settle  the 
trifling  disputes  of  the  peasants,  whom  they 
are  permitted  to  name  for  themselves. 

The  whole  officers  employed  in  the  collec 
tion  of  the  revenue,  over  the  whole  country, 
are  appointed  by  the  government.  They  are 
an  extremely  numerous  body,  and  add  im- 
mensely to  the  influence  of  the  central  author- 
ity, from  whom  all  their  appointments  emanate. 

It  M^ould  be  tedious  to  carry  this  enumera- 
tion farther.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  the  govern- 
ment of  France  has  now  drawn  to  itself  the 
whole  patronage  in  every  department  of  busi 
ness  and  line  of  life  over  the  whole  country. 
The  army,  the  navy,  the  law,  the  church,  the 
professors  and  teachers  of  every  description; 
the  revenue,  the  post-office,  the  roads,  bridges 
and  canals,  the  post-horses,  the  postillions,  the 
firemen,  the  police,  the  gen-d'armes,  the  pre- 
fects, the  mayors,  the  magistrates,  constitute  so 
many  diflferent  branches  in  which  the  whole 
patronage  is  vested  in  the  central  government 
at  Paris,  and  in  which  no  step  can  b'^  taken, 
or  thing  attempted,  without  the  authority  of 
the  minister  for  that  department,  or  the  deputy 
in  the  capital.  In  consequence  of  this  prodi- 
gious concentration  of  power  and  patronage  in 
the  public  offices  of  Paris,  and  the  total  stripping 
of  every  sort  of  influence  from  the  depart- 
ment, the  habit  has  become  universal  in  eveiy 
part  of  France,  of  looking  to  Paris,  not  only 
for  the  initiation  in  every  measure  and  thought, 
but  for  the  means  of  getting  on  in  every  line 
of  life.  Has  a  man  a  son  to  put  into  the  army 
or  navy,  the  law,  the  church,  the  police,  or  re- 
venue ?  He  finds  that  he  has  no  chance  of 
success  unless  he  is  taken  by  the  hand  by  the 
government.  Is  he  anxious  to  make  him  a 
professor,  a  teacher,  or  a  schoolmaster  1  He 
is  obliged  to  look  to  the  same  quarter  lor  the 
means  of  advancement.  Is  his  ambition  li- 
mited to  the  humbler  situation  of  a  postmaster} 
a  bridge  contractor,  a  courier,  or  a  postillion  T 
He  must  pay  his  court  to  the  prefect  of  the  de- 
partment, in  order  to  obtain  a  recommendation 
to  the  minister  of  the  interior,  or  the  director 
of  bridges  and  roads.  Is  he  even  reduced  to 
earn  his  bread  bj^  breaking  stones  upon  the 
highM-ays,  or  paving  the  streets  of  the  towns? 
He  must  receive  the  wages  of  government, 
and  must  w^ear  their  livery  for  his  twenty  sous 
a  day.  Thus  in  every  department  and  line  of 
life,  government  patronage  is  indispensable, 
and  the  only  way  in  which  success  is  to  be  . 
obtained  is  by  paying  court  to  some  person  in 
authority. 

In  a  commercial  and  manufacturing  country 
such  as  England,  many  and  various  means 
exist  of  rising  to  wealth  and  distinction,  inde- 
pendent of  government;  and  in  some  the  oppo- 
sition line  is  the  surer  passport  to  eminence 
of  the  two.  Under  the  old  constitution  of 
England,  when  political  power  was  vested  in 
the  holders  of  great  property,  and  the  great 
body  of  the  people  watched  their  proceedings 
with  distrust  and  jealousy,  eminence  was  to 
be  attained  in  any  public  profession,  as  the 


FRANCE  IN  1833. 


127 


bar  or  the  senate,  chief!)-  by  acquiring  the  suf- 
frages of  the  greater  number  of  the  citizens ; 
and  hence  the  popular  independent  line  was 
the  one  which  in  general  led  soonest  to  fame 
and  eminence.  Commerce  and  manufactures 
opened  up  a  thousand  channels  of  lucrative 
industry,  independent  altogether  of  government 
support;  and  many  of  the  most  important 
branches  of  patronage,  great  part  of  the  church, 
and  the  majority  of  all  establishments  for 
education,  were  in  the  hands  of  corporations 
or  private  individuals,  often  in  opposition  to, 
or  unconnected  with,  ministerial  infliience. 
But  the  reverse  of  all  this  obtains  in  France. 
There  little  commerce  or  manufactures  are, 
comparatively  speaking,  to  be  found.  With 
the  exception  of  Paris,  Lyons,  Bourdeaux, 
Rouen,  and  Marseilles,  no  considerable  com- 
mercial cities  exist,  and  the  innumerable  chan- 
nels for  private  adventure  which  the  colonial 
possessions  and  immense  trade  of  Britain  open 
up  are  unknown.  AIL  the  private  establish- 
ments or  corporations  vested  with  patronage 
in  any  line,  as  the  church,  education,  charit)', 
or  the  like,  were  destroyed  during  the  Revolu- 
tion of  1793,  and  nothing  left  but  the  great  and 
overwhelming  power  of  government,  standing 
the  more  prominently  forward,  from  the  extinc- 
tion of  every  rival  authority  which  might 
compete  with  its  influence. 

Frona  the  same  cause  has  arisen  a  degree 
of  slavish  submission,  in  all  the  provinces  of 
France,  to  the  will  or  caprice  of  the  metropo- 
lis, which  is  almost  incredible,  and  says  Isut 
little  for  the  independence  of  thought  and  cha- 
racter which  has  grown  up  in  that  coimtry 
since  the  schoolmaster  has  been  abroad.  From 
the  habit  of  looking  to  Paris  for  directions  in 
every  thing,  from  the  making  of  a  king  tip  the 
repairing  of  a  bridge,  from  overturning  a  dy- 
nasty to  breaking  a  stone,  they  have  absolutely 
lost  the  power  of  judging  for  themselves,  or 
taking  the  initiative  in  any  thing  either  of  the 
greatest  or  the  smallest  moment.  This  ap- 
pears, in  the  most  striking  manner,  in  all  the 
political  changes  which  have  taken  place  in 
the  countr}'  for  the  last  forty  3'ears.  Ever  since 
the  bones  of  old  France  were  broken  by  the 
Constituent  Assembly:  since  the  parliaments, 
the  provinces,  the  church,  the  incorporations, 
were  swept  away  by  their  gigantic  acts  of  de- 
mocratic despotism,  the  departments  have 
sunk  into  absolute  insignificance,  and  every 
thing  has  been  determined  b)'  the  will  of  the 
capital,  and  the  acts  of  the  central  government 
at  its  head.  When  the  Girondists,  the  illus- 
trious representatives  of  the  country  districts, 
were  proscribed,  the  most  violent  feelings  of 
indignation  spread  through  the  south  and  west 
of  France.  Sixtj^-five,  out  of  the  eighty-four 
departments,  rose  in  insuri-ection  against  the 
despotism  of  the  capital;  but  the  unwonted 
exertion  surpassed  their  strength,  and  they 
soon  yielded,  without  a  struggle  worth  the  no- 
tice of  history,  to  its  usurped  authority.  When 
Robespierre  executed  Danton  and  his  adher- 
ents ;  wiien  he  himself  sunk  under  the  stroke 
of  the  Thermidorians ;  when  Napoleon  over- 
threw the  national  guard  of  Paris,  in  October, 
1795;  when  the  Directory  were  expelled  by  the 
bayonets  of  Augereau,  on  the  18th  Fructidor, 


1797;  when  Napoleon  seized  the  reins  o- 
power  in  November,  1799;  when  he  declared 
himself  emperor,  and  overturned  all  ihe  prin- 
ciples of  the  Revolution  in  1S04;  when  he  was 
vanquished  by  the  allies  in  1814;  when  he  re- 
sumed the  helm  in  1815;  when  he  was  finally 
dethroned  after  the  battle  of  Waterloo ;  when 
the  revolt  of  the  barricades  established  a  re- 
volutionary government  in  the  capital;  when 
the  suppression  of  the  insurrection  at  the 
cloister  of  St.  Merri  defeated  a  similar  attempt 
two  years  afterwards,  the  obedient  departments 
were  equally  ready  with  their  addresses  of 
congratulation,  and  on  every  one  of  these  va- 
rious, contradictory,  and  inconsistent  changes, 
France  submitted  at  once  to  the  dictatorial 
power  of  Paris;  and  thirty  millions  of  men 
willingly  took  the  law  from  the  caprices  or 
passions  of  a  few  hundred  thousands.  The 
subjection  of  Rome  to  the  Prcctorian  guards, 
or  of  Turkey  to  the  Janizaries,  was  never  more 
complete. 

It  was  not  thus  in  old  France.  The  greatest 
and  most  glorious  efforts  of  her  people,  in  fa- 
vour of  freedom,  were  made  when  the  capital 
was  in  the  hands  of  foreign  or  domestic  ene- 
mies. The  English  more  than  once  wrested 
Paris  from  their  grasp ;  but  the  forces  of  the 
south  rallied  behind  the  Loire,  and  at  length 
expelled  the  cruel  invaders  from  their  shores. 
The  forces  of  the  League  were  long  in  posses- 
sion of  the  capital ;  but  Henry  IV.,  at  the  head 
of  the  militia  of  the  provinces,  at  length  con- 
quered its  citizens,  and  Paris  received  a  master 
from  the  roots  of  the  Pyrenees.  The  Revolu- 
tion of  1789  commenced  with  the  provinces : 
it  was  their  parliaments,  which,  under  Louis 
XV.  and  XVI.,  spread  the  spirit  of  resistance 
to  arbitrary  power  through  the  country ;  and 
it  was  from  their  exertions,  that  the  unanimous 
spirit,  which  compelled  the  court  to  convoke 
the  states-general,  arose.  Now  all  is  changed ; 
not  a  murmur,  not  a  complaint  against  the 
acts  of  the  capital,  is  to  be  heard  from  Calais 
to  Bayonne ;  but  the  obedient  departments  are 
equally  ready  at  the  arrival  of  the  mail,  or  the 
receipt  of  the  telegraph,  to  hail  with  shouts  a 
republic  or  an  empire ;  a  dictator  or  a  consul ; 
a  Robespierre  or  a  Napoleon ;  a  monarch,  the 
heir  of  fourteen  centuries  ;  or  a  hero,  the  child 
of  an  hundred  victories. 

All  the  great  and  useful  undertakings,  which 
in  England,  and  all  free  countries,  emanate 
from  the  capital  or  skill  of  individuals,  or  as- 
sociated bodies,  in  France  spring  from  the  go- 
vernment, and  the  government  alone.  Their 
universities,  schools,  and  colleges ;  academies 
of  primary  and  secondary  instruction ;  mili- 
tary and  polytechnic  schools ;  hospitals,  cha- 
ritable institutions,  libraries,  museums,  and 
public  establishments  of  all  sorts ;  their  har- 
bours, bridges,  roads,  canals — every  thing,  in 
short,  originates  with,  and  is  directed  by,  the 
government.  Hence,  individuals  in  France 
seldom  attempt  any  thing  for  the  public  good: 
private  advantage,  or  amusement,  the  rise  of 
fortune,  or  the  increase  of  power,  constitute 
the  general  motives  of  action.  Like  the  pas- 
sengers in  a  ship,  or  the  soldiers  in  an  army, 
the  French  surrender  themselves,  withoiU  a 
strusrgle,  to  the  guidance  of  those  in  possessioa 


128 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


of  the  lielin  ;  or  if  they  rise  in  rebellion  against 
them,  it  is  not  so  much  from  any  view  to  the 
public  good,  as  from  a  desire  to  secure  to  them- 
selves the  advantages  which  the  possession 
of  political  power  confers. 

This  extraordinary  concentration  of  every 
thing  in  the  central  government  at  Paris, 
always  existed  to  a  certain  extent  in  France; 
but  it  has  been  increased,  to  a  most  extraordi- 
nar}'  degree,  under  the  democratic  rule  of  the 
last  forty  years.  It  was  the  Constituent  As- 
sembly, borne  forward  on  the  gales  of  revo- 
lutionar}''  fervour,  which  made  the  greatest 
additions'  to  the  power  of  government — not 
merely  by  the  concentration  of  patronage  and 
direction  of  every  kind  in  ministers,  but  by 
the  destruction  of  the  aristocrac)^,  the  church, 
the  incorporations ; — every  thing,  in  short, 
which  could  withstand  or  counterbalance  the 
influence  of  government.  The  people,  charmed 
with  the  installation  of  their  representatives  in 
supreme  power,  readily  acquiesced  in,  or  rather 
strenuously  supported,  all  the  additions  made 
by  the  democratic  legislature  to  the  powers 
of  the  executive;  fondly  imagining  that,  by  so 
doing,  they  were  laying  the  surest  foundation 
for  the  continuance  of  their  own  power.  They 
little  foresaw,  what  the  event  soon  demon- 
strated, that  they  were  incapable,  in  the  long 
run,  of  preserving  this  power;  that  it  would 
speedily  fall  into  the  hands  of  ambitious  or 
designing  men,  who  flattered  their  passions, 
in  order  to  secure  the  possession  of  arbitrary 
authority  for  themselves ;  and  that,  in  the  end, 
the  absolute  despotism,  which  they  had  created 
for  the  purpose  of  perpetuating  the  rule  of  the 
multitude,  would  terminate  in  imposing  on 
them  the  most  abject  servitude.  When  Napo- 
leon came  to  the  throne,  he  found  it  unneces- 
sary to  make  any  great  changes  in  the  practical 
working  of  government;  he  found  a  despotism 
ready  made  to  his  hand,  and  had  only  to  seize 
the  reins,  so  tightly  bitted  on  the  nation  by  his 
revolutionary  predecessors. 

The  Revolution  of  July  made  no  difference 
in  this  respect;  or  rather  it  tended  to  concen- 
trate still  farther  in  the  metropolis  the  authority 
and  power  of  government.  The  able  and  in- 
defatigable leaders,  who  during  the  fifteen  years 
of  the  Restoration  had  laboured  incessantly  to 
subvert  the  authority  of  the  royalists,  liad  no 
sooner  succeeded,  than  they  quietly  took  pos- 
session of  all  the  powers  which  they  enjoyed, 
and,  supported  with  more  talent,  and  a  greater 
display  of  armed  force,  exercised  them  with 
far  greater  severity.  No  concessions  to  real 
freedom  were  made — no  division  of  the  powers 
of  the  executive  took  place.  All  appointments 
in  every  line  still  flow  from  Paris:  not  a  pos- 
tillion can  ride  a  post-horse,  nor  peasant  break 
a  stone  on  the  highways,  from  the  Channel  to 
the  Pyrenees,  unless  authorized  by  the  cen- 
tral authority.  Tlie  legislature  convoked  by 
liouis  Philippe  has  done  much  to  abridge  the 
authority  of  others,  but  nothing  to  diminish 
that  which  is  most  to  be  dreaded.  They  have 
destroyed  the  hereditary  legislature,  the  last 
remnant  of  European  civilization  which  the 
convulsions  of  their  predecessors  had  left,  but 
done  nothing  to  weaken  the  authority  of  the 
executive.    Louis  Philippe  enjoys,  during  the 


precarious  tenure  of  his  crown,  at  the  will  of 

the  Praetorian  Guards  of  Paris,  more  absolute 
authority  than  ever  Avas  held  by  the  most  des- 
potic of  the  Bourbon  race. 

France  being  held  in  absolute  subjection  by 
Paris,  all  that  is  necessary  to  preserve  this 
authority  is  to  secure  the  mastery  of  the 
capital.  Marshal  Soult  has  taught  the  citizea 
king  how  this  is  to  be  done.  He  keeps  an 
immense  military  force,  from  35,000  to  40,000 
men,  constantly  in  the  capital ;  and  an  equal 
force  is  stationed  within  twelve  miles  round, 
ready  to  march  at  a  signal  from  the  telegraph  on 
Montmartre,  in  a  few  hours,  to  crush  any  at- 
tempt at  insurrection.  In  addition  to  this,  there 
are  .50,000  National  Guards  in  Paris,  and 
25,000  more  in  the  Banlieue,  or  rural  district 
round  its  walls,  admirably  equipped,  well 
drilled,  and,  to  appearance  at  least,  quite  equal 
to  the  regular  soldiers.  Of  this  great  force, 
above  5000,  half  regulars  and  half  National 
Guards,  are  every  night  on  duty  as  sentinels, 
or  patrols,  in  the  capital.  There  is  not  a 
street  where  several  sentinels,  on  foot  or 
horseback,  are  not  stationed,  and  within  call 
of  each  a  picquet  or  patrol,  read}-  to  render 
aid,  if  required,  at  a  minute's  notice.  Paris,  in 
a  period  of  profound  peace,  without  an  enemy 
approaching  the  Rhine,  resembles  rather  a  city 
in  hourly  expectation  of  an  assault  from  & 
beleaguering  enemy,  than  the  capital  of  i 
peaceful  monarchy. 

In  addition  to  this  prodigious  display  of 
military  force,  the  civil  employes,  the  police, 
constitute  a  body  nearly  as  formidable,  and, 
to  individuals  at  least,  much  more  dangerous. 
Not  only  are  the  streets  constantly  traversed 
by  this  force  in  their  appropriate  dress,  but 
more  than  half  their  number  are  always  prowl- 
ing about,  disguised  as  workmen  or  trades- 
men, to  pick  up  information,  mark  individuals, 
and  arrest  discontented  characters.  They  enter 
coffee-houses,  mingle  in  groups,  overhear  con- 
versations, join  in  discussions,  and  if  they 
discover  any  thing  seditious  or  dangerous,  they 
either  arrest  the  delinquent  at  once,  and  hand 
him  over  to  the  nearest  guard,  or  denounce 
him  to  their  superiors,  and  he  is  arrested  at 
night  by  an  armed  force  in  his  bed.  Once 
incarcerated,  his  career,  for  a  long  time  at 
least,  is  terminated :  he  is  allowed  to  lie  there 
till  his  projects  evaporate,  or  his  associates 
are  dispersed,  without  either  being  discharged 
or  brought  to  trial.  There  is  not  a  night  at  this 
time,  (August,  1833,)  that  from  fifteen  to  twenty 
persons  are  not  arrested  in  this  way  by  the 
police;  and  nothing  is  heard  of  their  subse- 
quent trial. 

From  the  long  continuance  of  these  arrests 
by  the  police,  the  prisons  of  Paris,  spacious  as 
they  are,  and  ample  as  they  were  found  during 
the  Reign  of  Terror,  have  become  unable  to 
contain  their  numerous  inmates.  Fresh  and 
extraordinary  places  of  confinement  have  be- 
come necessary.  A  new  jail,  of  great  dimen- 
sions, guarded  by  an  ample  military  force,  has 
been  constructed  by  the  citizen  king,  near  the 
cemetery  of  Prre  la  Chaise,  where  the  over- 
flowings of  the  other  prisons  in  Paris  are  safely 
lodged.  The  more  dangerous  characters  ara 
conveyed  to  fortresses  in  the  interior,  or  the 


FRANCE  IN  1833. 


129 


Chateau  of  Mount  St.  Michael  in  Normandy. 
This  great  state-prison,  capable  of  holding 
many  hundred  prisoners,  is  situated' in  the 
sea,  on  the  coast  of  the  Channel,  and  ampl)' 
tenanted  now  by  the  most  unruly  part  of  the 
population  of  Paris,  under  a  powerful  military 
and  naval  garrison. 

A.bove  fifteen  hundred  persons  were  arrested 
after  the  great  revolt  at  the  Cloister  of  St. 
Merri,  in  June,  1832,  and,  though  a  few  have 
been  brought  to  trial  or  discharged,  the  great 


majority  still  remain  in  prison,  in  the  charge 
of  the  police,  under  Avarrants  apparently  of 
interminable  duration.  The  nightly  arrests 
and  numerous  domiciliary  visits  are  con- 
stantly adding  to  this  immense  number,  and 
gradually  thinning  that  ardent  body  who  ef- 
fected the  Revolution  of  July,  and  have  proved 
so  formidable  to  every  government  of  France, 
since  the  beginning  of  the  revolutionary  trou- 
bles in  1789.  The  Iragment  of  this  body,  who 
fought  at  the  Cloister  of  St.  Merri,  evinced  such 
heroic  courage  and  invincible  determination, 
fhat  the  government  have  resolved  on  a  bdlum  ad 
internccionem  with  such  formidable  antagonists, 
and,  by  the  continued  application  of  arrests 
and  domiciliary  visits,  have  now  considerably 
weakened  their  numbers,  as  well  as  damped 
their  hopes.  Still  it  is  against  this  democratic 
rump  that  all  the  vigilance  of  the  police  is 
exerted.  The  royalists  are  neglected  or  de- 
spised ;  but  the  republicans,  whom  it  is  not  so 
easy  to  daunt,  are  sought  out  with  undecaying 
vigilance,  and  treated  with  uncommon  severity. 

Public  meetings,  or  any  of  the  other  constitu- 
tional modes  of  giving  vent  to  general  opinion 
in  Great  Britain,  are  unknown  in  France.  If 
twenty  or  thirty  thousand  men  were  collected 
together  in  that  way,  they  would  infallibly  be 
assailed  by  the  military  force,  and  their  dis- 
persion, or  the  overthrow  of  the  government, 
would  be  the  consequence. 

The  only  relic  of  freedom,  which  has  sur- 
vived the  Revolution  of  July,  is  the  liberty  of 
the  press.  It  is  impossible  to  read  the  journals 
which  are  in  every  coffee-house  every  morn- 
ing, without  seeing  that  all  the  efforts  of  des- 
potism have  failed  in  coercing  this  mighty  in- 
strument. The  measures  of  public  men  are 
canvassed  with  unsparing  severity:  and  not 
only  liberdl,  but  revolutionary  measures  ad- 
vocated With  great  earnestness,  and  no  small 
share  of  ability.  It  is  not,  however,  without 
the  utmost  efforts  on  the  part  of  government 
to  suppress  it,  that  this  licentiousness  exists. 
Prosecutions  against  the  press  have  been  in- 
stituted with  a  degree  of  rigour  and  frequency, 
since  the  Revolution  of  July,  unknown  under 
the  lenient  and  feeble  government  of  the  Re- 
storation. The  Tribune,  which  is  the  leading 
republican  journal,  has  reached  its  eighty-second 
prosecution,  since  the  Three  Glorious  Days. 
More  prosecutions  have  been  instituted  since 
the  accession  of  the  Citizen  King,  than  during 
the  whole  fifteen  that  the  elder  branch  of  the 
Bourbons  was  on  the  throne.  The  govern- 
ment, however,  have  not  ventured  on  the  de- 
cisive step  of  suppressing  the  seditious  jour- 
nals, or  establishing  a  censorship  of  the  press. 
The  recollection  of  the  Three  Days,  which 

wmenced  with  the  attempts  to  shut  up  the 
9 


printing-offices  of  some  newspapers,  prevents 
this  last  act  of  despotism.  The  National 
Guard,  in  all  probability,  would  resist  such  aai 
attempt,  and  if  not  supported  by  them,  it  would 
endanger  the  crown  of  Louis  Philippe.  Go- 
vernment has  apparently  discovered  that  the 
retention  of  the  power  of  abuse  consoles  the 
Parisians  for  the  loss  of  all  their  other  liber 
ties.  They  read  the  newspapers  and  see  the 
ministry  violently  assailed,  and  imagine  they 
are  in  full  possession  of  freedom,  though  they 
cannot  travel  ten  leagues  from  Paris  without 
a  passport,  nor  go  to  bed  in  the  evening  with 
any  security  that  they  will  not  be  arrested 
during  the  night  by  the  police,  and  consigned 
to  prison,  without  any  possibility  of  redress, 
for  an  indefinite  period. 

The    present   governnaent    appears    to   be 
generally  disliked,  and  borne  from  despair  of 
getting  any  other,  more  than  any  real  attach- 
ment.    You  may  travel  over  the  whole  coun- 
try without  discovering  one  trace  of  affection 
to   the   reigning  famil3^      Their    names   are 
hardly  ever  mentioned ;  by  common  consent 
they  appear  to  be  consigned  to  oblivion  by  all 
classes.     A  large  and  ardent  part  of  the  peo- 
ple are  attached  to  the  memory  of  Napoleon, 
and  seize  every  opportunity  of  testifying  their 
admiration  of  that  illustrious  man.     Another 
large   and  formidable  body  have    openly  es- 
poused the  principles  of  democracy,  and  are 
indefatigable  in  their  endeavours  to  establish 
their  favourite   dream  of  a  republic.     The 
Royalists,  few  in   number  in  Paris  and  the 
great  commercial  towns,  abound  in  the  south 
and  west,  and  openly  proclaim  their  determi 
nation,  if  Paris  will  take  the  lead,  to  restore 
the   lawful   race  of  sovereigns.     But  Louis 
Philippe  has  few  disinterested  partisans,  but 
the  numerous  civil  and  military  employes  who 
wear  his  livery  or  eat  his  bread.      Not  a  ves- 
tige of  attachment  to  the  Orleans  dynasty  is  to 
be  seen  in  France.     Louis  Philippe  is  a  man 
of  great  ability,  vast  energy,  and  indomitable 
resolution  :  but  though  these  are  the  qualities 
most  dear  to  the  French,  he  has  no  hold  of 
their   affections.      His    presence   in    Paris  is 
known  only  by  the  appearance  of  a  mounted 
patrol  on  each  side  of  the  arch  in  the  Place 
Carousel,  who  are  stationed  there  only  when 
the  king  is  at  the  Tuileries.      He  enters  the 
capital,  and  leaves  it,  without  any  one  inquir- 
ing or  knowing  any  thing  about  him.     If  he 
is  seen  in  the  street,  not  a  head  is  uncovered, 
not  a  cry  of  Vive  le  Roi  is  heard.      Nowhere  is 
a  print  or  bust  of  any  of  the  royal  family  to  be 
seen.     Not  a  scrap  of  printing  narrating  any 
of  their  proceedings,  beyond  the  government 
journals,  is  to  be  met  with.     You  may  travel 
across  the  kingdom,  or,  what  is  of  more  con 
sequence,  traverse  Paris  in  every  direction, 
without  being  made  aware,  by  any  thing  you 
see  or  hear,  that  a  king  exists  in  France.    The 
royalists  detest  him,  because  he  has  establish- 
ed  a  revolutionaiy  throne — the  republicans, 
because  he  has  belied  all  his  professions  in 
favour  of  freedom,  and  reared  a  military  des 
potism  on  the  foundation  of  the  Barricades. 

The  French,  in  consequence  of  these  en 
cumstances,  are  in  a  very  jieculiar  state.    They 
are  discontented  with  everij  thing,  and  what  is 


130 


ALISON'S   MISCELLANEOUS   ESSAYS. 


worse,  they  know  not  to  what  quarter  to  look 
for  relief.  They  are  tired  of  the  Citizen  Kin^;, 
•whom  they  accuse  of  saving  money,  and  pre- 
paring for  America;  of  having  given  them  the 
•weight  of  a  despotism  without  its  security,  and 
the  exiiaustion  t)f  military  preparation  without 
either  its  glory  or  its  advantages.  They  (ex- 
chuling  the  royalists)  abhor  the  Bourbons, 
whom  they  regard  as  priest-ridden,  and  super- 
stitious, weak  and  feeble,  men  unfit  to  govern 
the  first  nation  in  the  world.  They  dread  a 
republic  as  likely  to  strip  them  of  their  sons 
and  their  fortunes ,  to  induce  an  interminable 
war  ■with  the  European  powers ;  deprive  them 
of  their  incomes,  and  possibly  endanger  the 
national  independence.  They  are  discontented 
■with  the  present,  fearful  of  the  future,  and  find 
their  only  consolation  in  reverting  to  the  days 
of  Napoleon  and  the  Grand  Army,  as  a  bril- 
liant drama  now  lost  for  ever.  They  are  in 
the  situation  of  the  victim  of  passion,  or  the 
slave  of  pleasure,  worn  out  with  enjoyment, 
blasd  with  satiety,  Avho  has  no  longer  any  en- 
joyment in  life,  but  incessantly  revolts  with 
the  prurient  restlessness  of  premature  age  to 
the  orgies  andthe  excesses  of  his  youth. 

What  then,  it  may  be  asked,  upholds  the 
reigning  dynasty,  if  it  is  hated  equally  by  both 
the  great  parties  who  divide  France,  and  can 
number  none  but  its  own  official  dependents 
among  its  supporters  1  The  answer  is  to  be 
found  in  the  immense  extent  of  the  pecuniary 
losses  which  the  Revolution  of  July  occasioned 
to  all  men  of  any  property  in  the  country,  and 
the  recollection  of  the  Reign  of  Terror,  ■^vhich 
is  still  vividly  present  to  the  minds  of  the  ex- 
isting generation. 

On  the  English  side  of  the  channel,  few  are 
aware  of  the  enormous  pecuniary  losses  with 
which  the  triumph  of  democracy,  in  July, 
1830,  was  attended.  In  Paris,  all  parties  are 
agreed  that  the  depreciation  of  property  of 
every  description  in  consequence  of  that  event 
was  about  a  third :  in  other  words,  every  man 
found  himself  a  third  poorer  after  the  over- 
throw of  Charles  X.  than  he  was  before  it. 
Over  the  remainder  of  France  the  losses  sus- 
tained were  nearly  as  great,  in  some  places 
still  heavier.  For  the  two  years  which  suc- 
ceeded the  Barricades,  trade  and  commerce 
of  every  description  was  at  a  stand;  the  import 
of  goods  declined  a  fourth,  and  one  half  of  the 
shopkeepers  in  Paris  and  all  ihe  great  towns 
became  bankrupt.  The  distress  among  the 
labouring  classes,  and  especially  those  who 
depended  on  the  sale  of  articles  of  manufac- 
tured industry  or  luxury,  was  unprecedented. 
It  is  the  recollection  of  this  long  period  of  na- 
tional agony  which  upholds  the  throne  of  Louis 
Philippe.  The  National  Guard  of  Paris,  who 
are  in  truth  the  ruling  power  in  France,  know 
by  bitter  experience  to  what  a  revolution,  even 
of  the  most  bloodless  kind,  leads — decay  of 
business,  decline  of  credit,  stoppage  of  sales, 
pressure  of  creditors.  They  recollect  the  in- 
numerable bankruptcies  of  1830  and  1831,  and 
are  resolved  that  their  names  shall  not  enter 
the  list  They  know  that  the  next  convulsion 
■would  establish  a  republic  in  unbridled  sove- 
reignty: they  know  the  principles  of  these 
•postles   of  democracy;   they  recollect  their 


actions;  the  Reign  of  Terror,  the  massacrei 
in  llie  prisons  float  before  their  eyes.  They 
have  a  vivid  impression  also  of  the  external 
consequences  of  such  an  event:  they  know 
that  their  hot-headed  youth  Avould  instantly 
press  forward  to  regain  the  frontier  of  the 
Rhine  ;  they  foresee  an  European  war,  a  ces- 
sation of  the  influx  of  foreign  wealth  into 
Paris,  and  possibly  a  third  visit  by  the  Cos* 
sacks  to  the  Champs  Elysees.  These  are  the 
considerations  which  maintain  the  allegiance 
of  the  National  Guard,  and  uphold  the  throne 
of  Louis  Philippe,  when  there  is  hardly  a 
spark  of  real  attachment  to  him  in  the  whole 
kingdom.  He  is  supported,  not  because  his 
character  is  loved,  his  achievements  admired, 
or  his  principles  venerated,  but  because  he  is 
the  last  barrier  between  France  and  revolu- 
tionary suffering,  and  because  the  people  have 
drunk  too  deep  of  that  draught  to  tolerate  a  re- 
petition of  its  bitterness. 

Although,  therefore,  there  is  a  large  and  en- 
ergetic and  most  formidalile  party  in  France, 
who   are   ardently   devoted   to   revolutionary 
principles,  and  long   for   a  republic,  as  the 
commencement  of  every  imaginable  felicity; 
yet  the  body  in  ■whom  power  is  at  present 
reall}- vested,  is  essentially  conservative.   The 
National    Guard   of  Paris,   composed   of  the 
most  reputable  of  the  citizens  of  that  great  me- 
tropolis, equipped  at  their  own  expense,  and 
receiving  no  pay  from  government,  consists 
of  the  very  persons  who  have  suffered  most 
severel}'  by  the  late  convulsions.     They  form 
the  ruling  power  in  France ;  for  to  them  more 
than  the  garrison  of  the  capital,  the  govern'^ 
ment  look  for  that  support  which  is  so  neces- 
sary amidst   the   furious   factions   by   whom 
they  are  assailed;  and  to  their  opinions  the 
people  attach  a  degree  of  weight  which  does 
not  belong  to  any  other  body  in  France.     The 
Chamber  of  Peers  are  disregarded,  the  legis- 
lative body  despised ;  but  the  National  Guard 
is  the  object  of  universal  respect,  because  every 
one   feels   that  they   possess   the    power  of 
making  or  unmaking  kings.     The  crown  does 
not  hesitate  to  act  in  opposition  to  a  vote  of 
both  Chambers  •  but  the  disapprobation  of  a 
majority  of  the  National  Guard  is  sure  to  com- 
mand attention.     In  vain  the  Chamber  of  De- 
puties refused  a  vote  of  supplies  for  the  erec- 
tion of  detached  forts  round  Paris;  the  ground 
was  nevertheless  purchased,  and  the  sappers 
and  miners,  armed  to  the  teeth,  were  busily 
employed  from  four  in  the  morning  till  twelvs 
at  night,  in  their  construction  ;  but  when  seve* 
ral  battalions  of  the  National  Guard,  in  de- 
filing before  the  king,  on  the  anniversary  of 
the  Three  Days,  exclaimed,  "  A  has  les  forts 
detaches,"  the  works  were  suspended,  and  are 
now  going   on    only  at   Vincennes,  and  two 
other  points.     That  which  Avas  refused  to  the 
collected  wisdom  of  the  Representatives  of 
France  is  conceded  at  once  to  the  cries  of 
armed  men :  the  ultimate  decision  is  made  by 
the  bayonet;  and  the  boasted-  improvements 
of  modern  civilization,  terminate  in  the  same 
appeal  to  physical  strength  which  character- 
ize the  days  of  Clovis. 

This  contempt  into  which   the  legislature 
has  fallen,  is   one  of  the  great  features  ot 


FRANCE    IN    1833. 


131 


France,  since  the  Revolution  of  JiTly ;  but  it  is 
one  which  is  least  known  or  imderslood  on 
the  English  side  of  the  channel.  The  causes 
which  produced  it  had  been  long  in  operation, 
but  it  was  that  event  which  brought  them  fully 
and  prominently  into  view.  The  supreme 
power  has  now  passed  into  other  hands.  It 
was  neither  the  Peers  nor  the  Commons,  but 
the  Populace  in  the  streets,  the  heroes  of  the 
Barricades,  who  seated  Louis  Philippe  on  the 
throne.  The  same  force,  it  is  acknowledged, 
possesses  the  power  to  dethrone  him;  and 
hence  the  National  Guard  of  the  capital,  as 
the  organized  concentration  of  this  power,  is 
looked  to  \vith  respect.  The  departments,  it 
is  known,  will  hail  with  shouts  whatever  king, 
or  whatever  form  of  government  the  armed 
force  in  the  capital  choose  to  impose ;  the  de- 
puties, it  is  felt,  will  hasten  to  make  their  sub- 
mission to  the  leaders  who  have  got  possession 
of  the  treasury,  the  bank,  the  telegraph,  and 
the  war  office.  Hence,  the  strife  of  faction 
is  no  longer  carried  on  by  debates  in  the 
Chambers,  or  efforts  in  the  legislature.  The 
National  Guard  of  Paris  is  the  body  to  which 
all  attention  is  directed  ;  and  if  the  departments 
are  considered,  it  is  not  in  order  to  influence 
their  representatives,  but  to  procure  addresses 
or  petitions  from  members  of  their  National 
Guards,  to  forward  the  views  of  the  great  par- 
ties at  work  in  the  metropolis.  Such  petitions 
or  addresses  are  daily  to  be  seen  in  the  public 
papers,  and  are  referred  to  with  undisguised 
satisfaction  by  the  parties  whose  views  they 
support.  No  regard  is  paid  but  to  the  men  who 
have  bayonets  in  their  hands.  Every  thing 
directly,  or  indirectly,  is  referred  to  physical 
strength,  and  the  dreams  of  modern  equality 
are  fast  degenerating  into  the  lasting  empire 
of  the  sword. 

The  complete  insignificance  of  the  Cham- 
bers, however,  is  to  be  referred  to  other  and 
more  general  causes  than  the  successful  re- 
volt of  the  Barricades.  That  event  only  tore 
aside  the  veil  which  concealed  the  weakness 
of  the  legislature ;  and  openly  proclaimed 
what  political  wisdom  had  long  feared,  that 
the  elements  of  an  authoritative  and  pa- 
ramount legislature  do  not  exist  in  France. 
When  the  National  Assembly  destroyed  the 
nobilitjs  the  landed  proprietors,  the  clergy,  and 
the  incorporations  of  the  country,  they  rendered 
a  respectable  legislature  impossible.  It  is  in 
vain  to  attempt  to  give  authority  or  weight  to 
ordinary  individuals  not  gifted  with  peculiar 
talents,  by  merely  electing  them  as  members 
of  parliament.  If  they  do  not,  from  their 
birth,  descent,  fortune,  or  estates,  already  pos- 
sess it,  their  mere  translation  in  the  legislature 
will  never  have  this  efl^ect.  Tlie  House  of 
Commons  under  the  old  English  constitution 
t  T/as  so  powerful,  because  it  contained  the  re- 
'  presentatives  of  all  the  great  and  lasting  inte- 
I  rests  of  the  country,  of  its  nobles,  its  landed 
proprietors,  its  merchants,  manufacturers, 
burghers,  tradesmen,  and  peasants.  It  com- 
!  manded  universal  respect,  because  every  man 
felt  that  his  own  interests  were  wound  up  with 
and  defended  by  a  portion  of  that  bod3%  But 
this  is  not  and  cannot  be  the  case  in  France — 
the  classes  are  destroyed  from  whom  the  re- 


presentatives of  such  varied  interests  must  b« 
chosen :  the  interests  in  the  nation  do  not  exis^ 
whose  intermixture  is  essential  to  a  weighty 
legislature.  Elected  by  persons  possessed  of 
one  uniform  qualification — the  payment  of  di. 
rect  taxes  to  the  amount  of  two  hundred  francs, 
or  eight  pounds  sterling  a-year— the  deputies 
are  the  representatives  only  of  one  class  in 
society,  the  small  proprietors.  The  other  in- 
terests  in  the  state  either  do  not  exist  or  are 
not  represented.  The  persons  who  are  chosen 
are  seldom  remarkable  either  for  their  fortune, 
family,  talent,  or  character.  They  are,  to  use 
a  homely  expression,  "neighbour  like;"  indi- 
viduals of  a  bustling  character,  or  ambitious 
views,  who  have  taken  to  politics  as  the  best 
and  most  lucrative  profession  they  could 
choose,  as  opening  the  door  most  easily  to  the 
innumerable  civil  and  military  offices  which 
are  the  object  of  universal  ambition  in  France. 
Hence  they  are  not  looked  up  to  with  respect 
even  by  their  own  department,  who  can  never 
get  over  the  homeliness  of  their  origin  or 
moderation  of  their  fortune,  and  by  the  rest  of 
France  are  unknown  or  despised. 

The  chief  complaint  against  the  legislature 
in  France  is,  that  it  is  swayed  by  corruption 
and  interested  motives.  That  complaint  has 
greatly  increased  since  the  lowering  of  the  free- 
hold qualification  from  three  hundred  to  two 
hundred  francs  of  direct  taxes,  in  consequence 
of  the  Revolution  of  July.  This  change  has 
opened  the  door  to  a  lower  and  more  corruptible 
class  of  men ;  numbers  of  whom  got  into  the 
legislature  by  making  the  most  vehement  pro- 
fessions of  liberal  opinions  to  theirconstitnents, 
which  they  instantly  forgot  when  the  seductions 
of  office  and  emolument  were  displayed  before 
their  eyes.  The  majority  of  the  Chamber,  it 
is  alleged,  are  gained  by  corruption ;  and  the 
more  that  the  qualification  is  lowered  the  worse 
has  this  evil  become.  This  is  founded  on  the 
principles  of  human  nature,  and  is  of  univer- 
sal application.  The  more  that  you  descend 
in  society,  the  more  will  you  find  men  accessi- 
ble to  base  and  selfish  considerations,  because 
bribes  are  of  greater  value  to  those  who  pos- 
sess little  or  nothing  than  those  who  possess 
a  great  deal.  Many  of  the  higher  ranks  are 
corrupt,  but  the  power  of  resisting  seduction 
exists  to  a  greater  degree  among  them  than 
their  inferiors.  You  often  run  the  risk  of  in- 
sult if  you  ofl^er  a  man  or  woman  of  elevated 
station  a  bribe,  but  seldom  if  it  is  insinuated 
into  the  hand  of  their  valet  or  lady's  maid; 
and  when  the  ermine  of  the  bench  is  unspotted, 
so  much  can  frequently  not  be  said  of  the  clerks 
or  servants  of  those  elevated  functionaries. 
Where  the  legislature  is  elected  by  persons 
of  that  inferior  description,  the  influence  of 
corruption  will  always  be  found  to  increase.  It 
is  for  the  people  of  England  to  judge  whether 
the  Reformed  Parliament  is  or  is  not  destined 
to  afford  another  illustration  of  the  rule. 

To  whatever  cause  it  may  be  owing,  the  fact 
is  certain,  and  cannot  be  denied  by  any  person 
practically  acquainted  with  France,  that  the 
Chamber  of  Deputies  has  fallen  into  the  moit 
complete  contempt.  Their  debates  have  al- 
most disappeared;  they  are  hardly  reported 
by  the  public  press  ;  seldom  is  any  opposition 


182 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS 


M  be  seen  amongst  them.  When  Louis  Plii- 
.ippe's  crown  was  in  jeopardy  in  June,  1832,  it 
was  to  the  National  Guard,  and  not  to  cither 
branch  of  the  legislature,  that  all  parlies  look- 
ed with  anxiety.  A  unanimous  vote  of  the  old 
English  Parliament  would  prohably  have  had 
great  weight  Avith  an  English  body  of  insur- 
gents, as  it  certainly  disarmed  the  formidable 
rmitineers  at  the  Nore  ;  but  a  unanimous  vote 
of  both  Chambers  at  Paris  would  have  had  little 
or  no  effect.  A  hearty  cheer  from  three  bat- 
talions of  National  Guards  would  have  been 
worth  a  hundred  votes  of  the  Chambers  ;  and 
an  insurrection,  which  all  the  moral  force  of 
Parliament  could  not  subdue,  fell  before  the 
vigour  of  two  regiments  of  National  Guards 
from  the  Banlieue. 

It  is  owing  apparently  to  this  prodigious  as- 
cendency of  tlie  National  Guard  of  Paris,  that 
the  freedom  of  discussion  in  the  public  jour- 
nals has  survived  all  the  other  liberties  of 
France.  These  journals  are,  in  truth,  the 
pleaders  before  the  supreme  tribunals  M'hich 
govern  the  country,  and  they  are  flattered  by 
the  fearlessness  of  the  language  which  is  em- 
ployed before  them.  They  are  as  tenacious 
of  the  liberty  of  the  press  at  Paris,  in  conse- 
quence, as  the  ProDtorian  Guards  or  Janizaries 
Avere  of  their  peculiar  and  ruinous  privileges. 
The  cries  of  the  National  Guard,  the  ruling 
power  in  France,  are  prejudiced  by  the  inces- 
sant eflbrts  of  the  journals  on  the  different 
sides,  who  have  been  labouring  for  months  or 
years  to  sway  their  opinions.  Thus  the  ulti- 
mate appeal  in  that  country  is  to  the  editors 
of  newspapers,  and  the  holders  of  bayonets, 
perhaps  the  classes  of  all  others  who  are  most 
unfit  to  be  intrusted  with  the  guidance  of  pub- 
lic affairs;  and  certainly  those  the  least  quali- 
fied, in  the  end,  to  maintain  their  independence 
against  the  seductions  or  offers  of  a  powerful 
executive. 

The  central  government  at  Paris  is  omnipo- 
tent in  France ;  but  it  does  by  no  means  follow 
from  that,  that  this  central  government  is  itself 
placed  on  a  stable  foundation.  The  authority 
of  the  seraglio  is  paramount  over  Turkey : 
but  within  its  precincts  the  most  dreadful 
contests  are  of  perpetual  recurrence.  The 
National  Assembly,  by  concentrating  all  the 
powers  of  government  in  the  capital,  necessa- 
rily delivered  over  its  inhabitants  to  an  inter- 
minable future  of  discord  and  strife.  When 
once  it  is  discovered  that  the  mainspring  of 
all  authority  and  influence  is  to  be  found  in 
the  government  offices  of  Paris,  the  efforts  of 
Ae  different  parlies  who  divide  the  state  are 
incessant  to  make  themselves  masters  of  the 
talisman.  This  is  to  be  done,  not  by  any 
efforts  in  the  departments,  any  speeches  in  the 
legislature,  or  any  measures  for  the  public 
good,  but  by  incessant  working  at  the  armed 
force  of  the  capital.  By  labouring  in  the  pub- 
lic journals,  in  pamphlets,  books,  reviews,  and 
magazines,  for  a  certain  number  of  years,  the 
faction  in  opposition  at  length  succeed  in 
making  an  impression  on  the  holders  of  bay- 
onets in  Paris,  or  on  the  ardent  and  penniless 
fouth  who  frequent  its  coffee-houses;  and 
when  once  this  is  done,  by  a  well  organized 
tmeiitc,  the  whole  is  concluded.     The  people 


are  roused ;  the  National  Guard  hesitate,  ol 
join  the  insurgents ;  the  troops  of  the  line  re- 
fuse to  act  against  their  fellow-cilizens;  the 
reigning  dynasty  is  dethroned;  a  new  flag  is 
hoisted  at  the  Tuileries  ;  and  the  submissive 
departments  hasten  to  declare  their  allegiance 
to  the  reigning  power  now  in  possession  of  the 
treasury  and  the  telegraph,  and  disposing  of 
some  hundred  thousand  civil  and  military 
offices  throughout  France. 

No  sooner  is  this  great  consummation 
effected,  than  the  fruits  of  the  victory  begin  to 
be  enjoyed  by  the  successful  party.  Office^ 
honours,  posts,  and  pensions,  are  showered 
down  on  the  leaders,  the  officers,  and  pioneers 
in  the  great  work  of  national  regeneratioh. 
The  editors  of  the  journals  whose  side  has 
proved  victorious,  instantly  become  ministers: 
all  their  relations  and  connections,  far  beyond 
any  known  or  computable  degree  of  consan- 
guinity, are  seated  in  lucrative  or  important 
offices.  Regiments  of  cavalrj',  prefetships, 
sous-prefetships,  procureurships,  mayorships, 
adjointships,  offices  in  the  customs,  excise, 
police,  roads,  bridges,  church,  universities, 
schools,  or  colleges,  descend  upon  them  thick 
as  autumnal  leaves  in  Vallombrosa.  Mean- 
while the  vanished  party  are  universally  and 
rigidly  excluded  from  office,  their  whole  rela- 
tions and  connections  in  every  part  of  France 
find  themselves  suddenly  reduced  to  a  stale  of 
destitution,  and  their  only  resource  is  to  begin 
to  work  upon  the  opinions  of  the  armed  force 
or  restless  population  of  the  capital,  in  the 
hope  that,  afler  the  lapse  of  a  certain  number 
of  years,  another  revolution  may  be  effected, 
and  the  golden  showers  descend  upon  them* 
selves. 

In  the  Revolution  of  July,  prepared  as  it 
had  been  by  the  efforts  of  the  liberal  press  for 
fifteen  years  in  France,  and  organized  as  it 
was  by  the  wealth  of  Lafitte,  and  a  few  of  the 
great  bankers  in  Paris,  this  system  was  suc- 
cessful.   And  accordingly,  Thiers,  Guizot,  the 
Duke  de  Broglio,  and  the  whole  coterie  of  the 
doctrinaires,  have  risen  at  once,  from  being 
editors  of  newspapers,  or  lecturers  to  students, 
to  the  station  of  ministers  of  state,  and  dis- 
pensers of  several  hundred   thousand  offices. 
They  are  now,  in  consequence,  the  objects  of 
universal  obloquy  and  haired  with  the  remain- 
der of  the   liberal  parly,  who  accuse  them  of 
having  sacrificed  all  their  former  opinions, 
and  embraced  all   the  arbitrary  tenets  of  the 
royalist  faction,  whom  they  were  instrumental 
in  subverting.    Their  conduct  since  they  came 
into  office,  and  especially  since  the  accession 
of  Casimir  Perier's  administration  on  the  13th 
March,  1831,  has   been   firm   and   moderate, 
strongly  inclined  to  conservative  principles, 
and,  in  consequence,  odious  to  the  last  degree 
to  the  anarchical   faction  by  whose  aid  they 
rose  to  greatness. 

The  great  effort  of  this  excluded  faction  was 
made  on  the  5th  and  6lh  of  June,  1832,  on 
occasion  of  the  funeral  of  Lamarque.  In 
England  it  was  not  generally  known  how  for- 
midable that  insurrection  was,  and  how 
nearly  it  had  subverted  the  newly  erected 
throne  of  the  Barricades.  Above  eighty  thou- 
sand persons,  including  a  considerable  por* 


FRANCE  IN  1833. 


1S3 


tion  of  the  National  Guard  from  theFanxbourg 
St.  Aiitoine,  and  other  manufacturing  districts 
of  Paris,  walked  in  regular  military  array, 
keeping  the  step  in  that  procession :  no  one 
could  see  them  without  being  astonished  how 
the  government  survived  the  crisis.  In  truth, 
their  existence  hung  by  a  thread ; — for  several 
hours  a  feather  would  have  cast  the  balance — 
established  a  republican  government,  and 
plunged  Europe  in  an  interminable  war.  Till 
six  o'clock  in  the  evening  the  insurgents  were 
continually  advancing;  and,  at  that  hour,  they 
had  made  themselves  masters  of  about  one- 
half  of  Paris,  including  the^whole  district  to 
the  eastward  of  a  line  drawn  from  the  Port 
St.  Martin  through  the  Hotel  de  Ville  to  the 
Pantheon.  At  the  first  alarm  the  government 
surrounded  the  Fauxbourg  St.  Antoine  with 
ti'oops,  and  would  have  perished,  but  for  the 
fortunate  cutting  oiT  of  that  great  revolution- 
ary quarter  from  the  scene  of  active  prepa- 
rations. Though  deprived  of  the  expected 
co-operation  in  that  district,  however,  the  in- 
surgents bravely  maintained  the  combat;  they 
entrenched  themselves  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  the  cloister  of  St.  Merri,  and  among  the 
narrow  streets  of  that  densely  peopled  quarter, 
maintained  a  doubtful  struggle.  The  minis- 
ters, in  alarm,  sent  for  the  king,  with  intelli- 
gence that  his  crown  was  at  stake:  above 
sixty  thousand  men, 'with  an  immense  train  of 
artillery,  were  brought  to  the  spot ;  but  still 
the  issue  seemed  suspended.  The  National 
Guard  of  the  city,  for  the  most  part,  hung 
back;  the  cries  of  others  were  openly  in 
favour  of  the  insurgents  ;  if  a  single  battalion, 
either  of  the  line  or  the  National  Guard,  at 
tliat  crisis  had  openly  joined  the  rebels,  all 
was  lost.  In  this  extremity  a  singular  circum- 
stance changed  the  fortune  of  the  day,  and 
fixed  his  tottering  crown  on  the  head  of  Louis 
Philippe.  The  little  farmers  round  Paris,  Avho 
live  by  sending  their  milk  and  vegetables  to 
the  capital,  found  their  business  suspended  by 
tlie  contest  which  was  raging  in  the  centre 
of  the  city,  where  the  markets  for  their  pro- 
duce are  held;  their  stalls  and  paniers  were 
seized  by  the  rebels,  and  run  up  into  barri- 
cades. Enraged  at  this  invasion  of  their  pro- 
perty and  stoppage  of  their  business,  these 
little  dealers  joined  their  respective  banners, 
and  hastened  with  the  National  Guard  of  the 
Banlieue  to  the  scene  of  action  :  they  were 
plentifully  supplied  with  wine  and  spirits  on 
the  outside  of  the  barrier;  and  before  the  ex- 
citation had  subsided,  were  hurried  over  the 
barricades,  and  determined  the  conflict.  In  its 
last  extremity  the  crown  of  Louis  Philippe 
was  saved,  neither  by  his  boasted  guards,  nor 
the  civic  force  of  the  metropolis,  but  the  anger 
of  a  body  of  hucksters,  gardeners,  and  milk- 
dealers,  roused  by  the  suspension  of  their 
tiumble  occupations. 

It  is  this  peculiarity  in  the  situation  of  the 
French  government  which  renders  it  neces- 
sary to  Avatch  the  state  of  parties  in  Paris 
with  such  intense  anxiety,  and  renders  the 
strife  in  its  streets  the  signal  for  peace  or  war 
all  over  the  civilized  world.  The  government 
of  France,  despotic  as  it  is  over  the  remainder 
of  the  country,  is  entirely  at  the  mercy  of  the 


meti-opolis.  Having  no  root  in  the  provinces 
being  based  on  no  great  interests  in  the  stale 
it  depends  entirely  on  the  armed  force  of  the 
capital — a  well  organized  cmeule,  the  defection 
of  a  single  regiment  of  guards,  a  few  seditious 
cries  from  the  National  Guard,  the  sight  of  a 
favourite  banner,  a  fortunate  allusion  to  heart- 
stirring  recollections,  may  at  any  moment  con- 
sign it  to  destruction.  If  the  insurgents  of  the 
city  of  Paris  can  make  themselves  masters  of 
the  Hotel  de  Ville,  France  is  more  than  half 
conquered ;  if  their  forces  are  advanced  to  the 
Marche  des  Innocens,  the  throne  is  in  greater 
danger  than  if  the  Rhine  had  been  crossed  by 
two  hundred  thousand  men :  but  if  their  flag 
is  hoisted  on  the  Tuileries,  the  day  is  won,  and 
France,  with  its  eighty-four  departments  and 
thirty-two  millions  of  inhabitants,  is  at  the 
disposal  of  the  victorious  faction.  If  the  rebels 
who  sold  their  lives  so  dearly  in  the  cloister 
of  St.  Merri  could  have  openly  gained  over  to 
their  side  one  regiment,  and  many  only  waited 
an  example  to  join  their  colours,  they  would 
speedily  have  been  in  possession  of  the  trea- 
sury, and  the  telegraph,  and  France  was  at 
their  feet.  No  man  knew  this  peculiarity  in 
the  political  situation  of  the  great  nation  better 
than  Napoleon.  He  was  little  disquieted  by 
the  failure  of  the  Russian  campaign,  till  intelli- 
gence of  the  conspiracy  of  Mallet  reached  his 
ears;  and  that  firmness  Avhich  the  loss  of  four 
hundred  thousand  men  could  not  shake,  was 
overturned  by  the  news  that  the  rebels  in 
Paris  had  imprisoned  the  minister  of  police, 
and  were  within  a  hair's  breadth  of  making 
themselves  masters  of  the  telegraph. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  Paris  should  have 
acquired  this  unbridled  sovereignty  over  the 
rest  of  the  country,  if  the  condition  in  which 
the  provinces  have  been  left  by  the  Revolution 
is  considered.  You  travel  through  one  of  the 
departments — not  a  gentleman's  house  or  a 
chateau  is  to  be  seen.  As  far  as  the  eye  can 
reach,  the  country  js  covered  Avith  sheets  of 
grain,  or  slopes  covered  with  vines  or  vege- 
tables, raised  by  the  peasants  who  inhabit  the 
villages,  situated  at  the  distance  of  a  few  miles 
from  each  other.  Does  this  immense  expanse 
belong  to  noblemen,  gentlemen,  or  opulent 
proprietors  capable  of  taking  the  lead  in  any 
common  measures  for  the  defence  of  the  public 
liberties  1  On  the  contrary,  it  is  partitioned 
out  among  an  immense  body  of  little  proprie- 
tors, the  great  majority  of  whom  are  in  a  state 
of  extreme  poverty,  and  who  are  chained  to 
the  plough  by  the  most  imperious  of  all 
laws — that  of  absolute  necessity.  Morning, 
noon,  and  night,  they  are  to  be  seen  labouring 
in  the  fields,  or  returning  weary  and  spent  to 
their  humble  homes.  Is  it  possible  from  such 
a  class  to  expect  any  combined  cflbrt  in  favour 
of  the  emancipation  of  the  provinces  from  the 
despotism  of  the  capital  ]  The  thing  is  utter- 
ly impossible  :  as  well  might  you  look  for  an 
organized  struggle  for  freedom  among  the 
serfs  of  Russia  or  the  ryots  of  Hindostan. 

A  certain  intermixture  of  peasant  proprie- 
tors is  essential  to  the  well-being  of  society; 
and  the  want  of  such  a  class  to  a  larger  e  ftent 
in  England,  is  one  of  the  circumstances  most 
to  be  "lamented  in  its  social  condition.     But 


134 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


ihere  is  a  medium  in  all  things.  As  much  as 
4he  total  want  of  little  landowners  is  a  serious 
evil,  so  much  is  the  total  want  of  an\'  other 
class  to  be  deprecated.  In  the  time  of  the 
Duke  de  Gacta,  (1816,)  that  able  statesman 
calculated  that  there  were  four  millions  of 
landed  proprietors  in  France,  and  14,000,000 
of  souls  constituting  their  families,  independent 
of  the  wages  of  labour.*  At  present  the  num- 
ber is  computed  at  twenty-five  millions,  and 
there  are  above  ten  millions  of  separate  pro- 
perties enrolled  and  rated  for  taxation  in  the 
government  book.  Generally  speaking,  thej' 
occupy  the  whole  land  in  the  country.  Here 
and  there  an  old  chateau,  still  held  b}''  a  rem- 
nant of  the  old  noblesse,  is  to  be  iseen ;  or 
a  modern  villa,  inhabited  in  summer  by  an 
opulent  banker  from  one  of  the  great  manu- 
facturing towns.  But  their  number  is  too  in- 
considerable, they  are  too  far  separated  from 
each  other,  to  have  any  weight  in  the  political 
scale.  France  is,  in  fact,  a  country  of  peasants, 
interspersed  with  a  few  great  manufacturing 
towns,  and  ruled  by  a  luxurious  and  corn^pted 
capital. 

Even  the  great  manufacturing  towns  are 
incapable  of  forming  any  counterpoise  to  the 
power  of  the  capital.  The}'^  are  situated  too 
far  from  each  other,  they  depend  too  complete- 
ly on  orders  from  Paris,  to  be  capable  of 
opposing  any  resistance  to  its  authoritj-.  If 
Rouen,  Marseilles,  Lyons,  or  Bourdeaux  were 
to  attempt  the  struggle,  the  central  govern- 
ment would  quickl}'  crush  each  singly,  before 
it  could  be  aided  by  the  other  confederates. 
They  tried  to  resist,  under  the  most  favourable 
circumstances,  in  1793,  when  the  Convention 
were  assailed  by  all  the  powers  of  Europe, 
when  two-thirds  of  France  joined  their  league, 
and  the  M-est  was  torn  by  the  Vendean  war, 
and  totally  failed.  Any  repetition  of  the  at- 
tempt is  out  of  the  question. 

The  representative  system,  the  boast  of 
modern  civilization,  has  been  found  by  ex- 
perience to  be  incapable  of  affording  any 
remedy  for  this  universal  prostration  of  the 
provinces.  That  system  is  admirably  adapted 
for  a  country  which  contains  a  gradation  of 
classes  in  society  from  the  prince  to  the  pea- 
sant; but  it  must  always  fail  where  the  in- 
termediate classes  are  destroyed,  and  there 
exist  only  the  government  and  the  peasantry. 
Where  this  is  the  case,  the  latter  body  will 
■  always  be  found  incapable  of  resisting  the  in- 
fluence of  the  central  authority.  Who,  in 
every  age,  from  the  signing  of  Magna  Charta, 
have  taken  the  lead  in  the  support  of  English 
freedom?  The  barons,  and  great  landed  pro- 
prietors, who  possessed  at  oiice  the  resolution, 
influence,  and  power  of  combination,  which 
are  indispensable  to  such  an  attempt.  Even 
the  Reform  Bill,  the  last  and  greatest  triumph 
of  democratic  ambition,  was  forced  through 
the  legislature,  by  the  aid  of  a  large  and  opu- 
lent portion  of  the  aristocracy.  If  the  Revo- 
lution of  1042  or  1088  had  destroyed  this  in- 
termediate body  in  the  state,  the  representa- 
tive system  would  speedily  have  fallen  into 
contempt.  The  humble,  needy  representatives 

*Duc  de  Gacta,  ii.  334. 


of  humble  and  needy  constituents  would  ic  > 
the  end  have  found  themselves  overshadowed 
by  the  splendour  of  the  court,  the  power  of 
the  metropolis,  or  the  force  of  the  army.  In 
periods  of  agitation,  when  the  public  mind  Ja 
in  a  ferment,  and  the  chief  powers  of  the  state 
pulled  in  one  direction,  they  would  have  been 
irresistible;  but  in  times  of  tranquillity,  when 
the  voice  of  passion  was  silent,  and  that  of 
interest  constantly  heard,  they  would  have 
certainly  given  wa)'.  What  is  required  in  the 
representatives  of  the  people,  is  a  permanent 
resistance  at  all  times  to  the  various  dangers 
which  threaten  the  public  freedom ;  in  periods 
of  democratic  agitation,  a  firm  resistance  to 
precipitate  innovation;  in  times  of  pacific  en- 
joyment, a  steady  disregard  of  government 
seduction.  Human  nature  is  weak,  and  we 
must  not  expect  from  any  body  of  men,  how- 
ever constituted,  a  steady  adherence  to  duty 
under  such  circumstances  of  varied  trial  and 
difficulty;  but  experience  has  proved,  that  it 
may  be  expected,  with  some  probability,  among 
an  aristocratic  body,  because  their  interests 
are  permanent,  and  equally  endangered  by 
each  set  of  perils ;  but  that  it  is  utterly  chimeri- 
cal to  look  for  it  among  the  representatives  of 
a  body  of  peasants  or  little  proprietors,  un- 
mingled  with  any  considerable  intermixture 
of  the  higher  classes  of  society.  But  the 
Revolution  has  extinguished  these  classes  in 
France,  and  therefore  it  has  not  left  the  ele- 
ments out  of  which  to  frame  a  constitutional 
monarchy. 

These  circumstances  explain  a  fact  singular- 
ly illustrative  of  the  present  state  of  parties  in 
France,  and  the  power  to  whom  the  ultimate 
appeal  is  made,  viz.  the  eminent  and  illus- 
trious persons  by  M^hom  the  daily  press  is 
conducted.  •  Every  one  knows  by  Avhat  class 
in  society  the  daily  press  is  conducted  in  Eng- 
land ;  it  is  in  the  hands  of  persons  of  great 
ability,  but  in  general  of  inferior  grade  in 
society.  If  the  leading  political  characters  do 
occasionally  contribute  an  article,  it  is  done 
under  the  veil  of  secrecy,  and  is  seldom  ad- 
mitted by  the  author,  with  Avhatever  fame  it 
may  have  been  attended.  But  in  France  the 
case  is  quite  the  reverse.  There  the  leading 
political  characters,  the  highest  of  the  nobles, 
the  first  men  in  the  state,  not  only  contribute 
regularly  to  the  daily  or  periodical  press,  but 
avow  and  glory  in  their  doing  so.  Not  only 
the  leading  literar)'-  characters,  as  Chateau- 
briand, Guizot,  Thiers,  and  others,  regularly 
write  for  the  daily  press ;  but  many  of  the 
Peers  of  France  conduct,  or  contribute  to,  the 
public  newspapers.  The  Gazette  de  France 
and  Quotidienne  are  supported  by  contribu- 
tions from  the  royalist  nobility;  the  .Journal 
des  Debats  is  conducted  by  a  Peer  of  France. 
So  far  from  being  considered  as  a  discredit,  or 
a  thing  to  be  concealed,  these  eminent  men 
pride  themselves  on  the  influence  they  thus 
have  on  public  opinion.  The  reason  is  ob- 
vious ;  they  are  the  speakers  before  the  real 
National  Assembly  of  France,  the  National 
Guard  and  armed  force  of  Paris.  Considera- 
tion and  dignity  will  ever  attend  the  persons 
whose  exertions  directly  lead  to  the  possession 
of  political  power.     When,  in  the  progress  of 


FRANCE  IN   1833. 


13B 


democratic  changes,  the  Reformed  Parliament 
of  England  has  sunk  as  low  in  public  estima- 
tion as  the  Chamber  of  Deputies  in  France, 
the  dukes  and  earls  of  England,  if  such  a 
class  exist,  will  become  the  editors  of  news- 
papers, and  pride  themselves  on  the  occupa- 
tion. 

Th6  taxation  of  France  is  extremely  heavy, 
and  has  been  increased  to  a  most  extraordi- 
nary degree  since  the  Revolution  of  July.  In 
a  table  below,*  will  be  found  a  return  of  the 
budgets  of  the  last  ten  years,  lately  published 
in  Paris  by  authority  of  government.  From 
this  it  appears  that  the  expenditure  of  the  last 
year  of  Charles  X.,  was  950,000,000  francs, 
or  about  £39,000,000  sterling,  while  that  of 
the  first  year  of  Louis  Philippe,  was  above 
1,500,000,000  francs,  or  £60,000,000.  Thus, 
«'hile  the  Three  Glorious  Days  diminished 
every  man's  property  by  a  tlth-d,  it  added  to  the 
national  burdens  by  a  half.  Such  are  the 
blessings  of  democratic  ascendenc}'. 

The  taxation  of  France  has  become  an  evil 
of  the  very  greatest  magnitude,  and  with  every 
addition  made  to  democratic  power,  it  has  be- 
come worse.  The  property-tax  is  thirteen  per 
cent,  on  the  annual  value ;  but  by  the  arbitrary 
and  unfair  w"ay  in  which  valuations  are  taken, 
it  frequently  amounts  to  twenty,  sometimes  to 
thirty  per  cent,  on  what  is  really  received  by 
the  proprietor.  Professional  persons,  whose 
income  is  fluctuating,  pay  an  income-tax  on  a 
graduated  scale;  and  the  indirect  taxes  bring 
in  about  500,000,000  francs,  or  £20,000,000 
sterling.  The  direct  taxes  amount  to  about 
350,000,000  francs,  or  £14,000,000  sterling;  a 
much  heavier  burden  than  the  income-tax  was 
on  England,  for  the  national  income  of  Eng- 
land is  much  greater  than  that  of  France.  As 
the  result  of  their  democratic  efforts,  the  French 
have  fixed  on  themselves  national  burdens, 
nearly  three  times  as  heavy  as  those  which 
were  so  much  complained  of  in  the  time  of 
Louis  XYI.  ;f  and  greatly  more  oppressive 
than  those  which  the  revolutionary  war  has 
imposed  on  the  English  people. 

Nor  is  this  all.  In  addition  to  this  enormous 
increase  of  taxation,  the  Revolution  of  July  has 
occasioned  the  sale  of  a  very  large  portion  of 
the  royal  domains.  In  every  part  of  France 
the  crown  lands  and  forests  have  been  alienated 
to  a  very  great  extent ;  and  the  words  which  so 
often  meet  a  traveller's  e}'es,  "Biens  patrimo- 
niaux  de  la  Couronne  a  vendre,"  indicate  too 
clearly  how  universally  the  ruthless  hand  of 
the  spoiler  has  been  laid  on  the  remaining 
public  estates  of  the  realm. 

Notwithstanding  this,  however,  the  charac- 
ter of  the  French  government  has  been  essen- 
tially changed  by  the  Revolution  of  the  Barri- 
cades.    It  possesses  now  a  degree  of  power, 


»,  Bud  sets 

of  France  for  the  last  ten  years. 

18^i 

951,992,000  francs. 

or  £38,100.000 

1S25 

916,098,000    do. 

37,100.000 

1826 

942,518,000    do. 

37,800,000 

1S27 

986.527,000    do. 

38,730,000 

1828 

939.313,000    do. 

37,330.000 

1829 

0T5,:03,000    do. 

38,8)0.000 

1830 

981,510.000    do. 

38.930.000 

1831 

1,511,500.000    do. 

60,000.000 

I8:f2 

1,100.506,000    do. 

44,000.0110 

1833 

1,120,394,000    do 

44,500,000 

\  /"Uey  were  then  about  £19,000,000  a  year. 


vigour,  and  despotic  authority,  to  which  there 
has  been  nothing  comparable  since  the  days 
of  Napoleon.     The  facility  with  which  it  over- 
turned the  great  democratic  revolt  at  the  cloister 
of  St.  Merri,  in  June,  1832,  and  at  L3'ons  in  No- 
vember, 1831,  both  of  which  were  greatly  more 
formidable  than  that  of  the  Three  Days,  is  a 
sufficient  proof  of  this  assertion.     The  deeds 
of  despotism,  the  rigorous  acts  of  government, 
which  are  now  in  daily  operation  under  the 
citizen  king,  could  never  have  been  attempted 
during  the  restoration.     Charles  X.  declared 
Paris  in  a  state  of  siege,  and  issued  an  edict 
against  the  liberty  of  the  press  ;  and  in  a  few 
days,  in  consequence,  he  was  precipitated  from 
his  throne :  Marshal  Soult  declared  Paris  in  a 
state  of  siege,  and  still  more  rigidly  fettered 
the  press ;  and  the  act  of  vigour  confirmed  in- 
stead of  weakening  his  sovereign's  authority. 
It  is  the   daily  complaint   of  the  republican 
press,  that  the  acts  of  government  are  now 
infinitely  more  rigorous  than  they  have  ever 
been  since  the  fall  of  Napoleon,  and  that  the 
nation  under  the  restoration  would  never  have 
tolerated  the  vexatious  restraints  which   are 
now  imposed  \ipon  its  freedom.     To  give  one 
or  two  examples  from  the  newspapers  lying 
before  us. 

"Yesterday  evening,  twenty-eight  persons, 
accused  of  seditious  practices,  were  arrested 
and  sent  to  prison  by  the  agents  of  the  police. 
Never  did  tyranny  advance  with  such  rapid 
strides  as  it  is  doing  at  the  present  time." — 
Tribune,  Aug.  20. 

"Yesterday  night,  eighteen  more  persons, 
accused  of  republican  practices,  were  sent  to 
prison.  How  long  will  the  citizens  of  Pdris 
permit  a  despotism  to  exist  among  them,  to 
which  there  has  been  nothing  comparable  since 
the  days  of  Napoleon  1" — Tribune,  Aug.  21. 

"  More   barracks   are   in   course   of   being 
erected  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Graulle.     If 
matters  go  on  much  longer  at  this  rate,  Paris 
will  contain  more    soldiers  than  citizens." 
Tribune,  Aug.  23. 

If  Charles  X.  or  Louis  XVIII.  had  adventured 
upon  the  extraordinary  steps  of  sending  state 
prisoners  by  the  hundred  to  the  castle  of  mount 
St.  Michael  in  Normandy,  or  erecting  an  ad- 
ditional prison  of  vast  dimensions  near  Pere 
la  Chaise,  to  receive  the  overflowings  of  the 
other  jails  in  Paris,  maintaining  forty  or  fifty 
thousand  men  constantly  in  garrison  in  the 
capital,  or  placing  a  girdle  of  fortified  bastiles 
round  its  walls,  the  vehemence  of  the  public 
clamour  would  either  have  rendered  necessary 
the  abandonment  of  the  measures,  or  straight- 
way precipitated  them  from  the  throne.  All 
parties  now  admit  that  France  possessed  as 
much  real  freedom  as  was  consistent  with 
public  order  under  the  Bourbons ;  there  is  not 
one  which  pretends  that  any  of  that  liberty  is 
still  enjoyed.  Theyare  completelyat  variance, 
indeed,  as  to  the  necessity  of  its  removal ;  the 
republicans  maintaining  that  an  unnecessary 
and  odious  despotism  has  been  established; 
the  juste  milieu,  that  a  powerful  government 
is  the  only  remaining  barrier  between  France 
and  democratic  anarchy,  and,  as  such,  is  ab- 
solutely indispensable  for  the  preservation  of 
order ;  but  all  are  agreed  that  the   constitu 


..86 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


tional  frcciloin  of  the  Restoration  no  longer 
exists. 

An  attentive  observation  of  tlie  present  state 
of  France  is  all  that  is  requisite  to  show  the 
causes  of  these  apparently  anonuilous  facts  ; — 
of  the  tempered  rule,  limited  authority,  and 
constitutional  sway  of  the  Bourbons,  in  spite 
of  the  absolute  frame  of  government  which 
they  received  iVom  Napoleon  and  the  Revolu- 
tion ;  and  the  despotic  rigour  and  irresistible 
force  of  the  present  dynasl}-,  notwithstanding 
the  democratic  transports  which  seated  it 
upon  the  throne.  Such  a  survey  will,  at  the 
same  time,  throw  a  great  and  important  light 
tipon  tlie  final  eflect  of  the  first  Revolution  on 
the  cause  of  freedom,  and  go  far  to  vindicate 
the  government  of  that  superintending  wis- 
dom, which,  even  in  this  world,  compels  vice 
to  work  out  its  own  deserved  and  memorable 
punishment. 

The  practical  and  efficient  control  upon  the 
executive  authority,  in  every  state,  is  to  be 
found  in  the  jealousy  of  the  middling  and 
lower  orders  of  the  rule  of  the  higher,  who  are 
in  possession  of  the  reins  of  power. "  This  is 
the  force  which  really  coerces  the  government 
in  every  state ;  it  is  to  be  found  in  the  tumults 
of  Constantinople,  or  the  anarchy  of  Persia,  as 
well  as  in  the  constitutional  opposition  of  the 
British  parliament.  The  representative  system 
only  gives  a  regular  and  constitutional  channel 
•  to  the  restraining  power,  without  Avhich  society 
might  degenerate  into  the  anarchy  of  Poland, 
or  be  disgraced  by  the  strife  of  the  Seraglio. 

As  long  as  this  jealousy  remains  entire  among 
the  people,  and  the  fabric  of  government  is 
sufficiently  strong  to  resist  its  attacks  on  any 
of  its  necessary  functions — as  long  as  it  is  a 
drag  on  its  movements,  not  the  ruling  power, 
the  operations  of  the  executive  are  subjected 
to  a  degree  of  restraint  which  constitutes  a 
limited  monarchy,  and  diffuses  general  free- 
dom. This  is  the  natural  and  healthful  state  of 
society ;  where  the  people,  disqualified  by  their 
multitude  and  their  habits  from  the  task  of 
government,  fall  into  their  proper  sphere  of 
observing  and  controlling  its  movements  ;  and 
the  aristocracy,  disqualified  by  their  limited 
number  from  the  power  of  eflectually  control- 
ling the  executive,  if  possessed  by  the  people, 
occupy  their  appropriate  station  in  forming 
part  of  the  government,  and  supporting  the 
throne.  The  popular  body  is  as  unfit  to  go- 
vern the  state,  as  the  aristocracy  is  to  defend 
its  liberties  against  a  democratic  executive. 
History  has  many  instances  to  exhibit,  of  li- 
berty existing  for  ages  with  a  senate  holding 
the  reins,  and  a  populace  checking  its  en- 
croachments; it  has  not  one  to  show  of  the 
same  blessing  being  found  under  a  democracy 
in  possession  of  the  executive,  with  the  de- 
fence of  public  freedom  intrusted  to  a  displaced 
aristocracy.  From  the  Revolution  of  1G88  to 
that  of  1832,  the  annals  of  England  presented 
the  perfect  specimen  of  public  freedom  fluu- 
rishing  under  the  first  form  of  government;  it 
remains  to  be  seen  whether  it  will  subsist  for 
any  length  of  time  under  the  second. 

Experience,  accordingly,  has  demonstrated, 
what  theory  had  long  asserted,  that  the  over- 
drew of  the  liberty  of  all  free  stales  has  arisen 


from  the  usurpation  of  the  executive  authority 
by  the  democracy ;  and  that,  as  long  as  the 
reins  of  power  are  in  the  hands  of  the  nobles 
the  jealousy  of  the  commons  was  an  adequate 
security  to  the  cause  of  freedom.  Rome  long 
maintained  its  liberties,  notwithstanding  the 
contests  of  the  patricians  and  plebeians,  while 
the  authority  of  the  senate  was  nnimpaired; 
but  when  the  aristocracy,  under  Cato,  Brutus, 
and  Pompey,  were  overturned  by  the  demo- 
cracy headed  by  Ctesar,  the  tyranny  of  the 
emperors  rapidly  succeeded.  The  most  com- 
plete despotism  of  modern  times  is  to  be  found 
in  the  government  of  Robespierre  and  Napo- 
leon, both  of  whom  rose  to  power  on  the  de- 
mocratic transports  of  a  successful  revclution. 
Against  the  encroachments  of  their  natural 
and  hereditary  rulers,  the  sovereign  and  the 
nobles,  the  people,  in  a  constitutional  mo- 
narchy, are  in  general  sufficiently  on  their 
guard:  and  against  their  efforts,  the  increasing 
power  which  they  acquire  from  the  augmenta- 
tion of  their  wealth  and  intelligence  in  the 
later  stages  of  society,  is  a  perfectlj'-  sufficient 
security.  But  of  the  despotism  of  the  rulers 
of  their  own  part}^ — the  usurpation  of  the 
leaders  whom  they  have  themselves  seated  in 
the  chariot, — they  are  never  sufficiently  jea- 
lous, because  they  conceive  that  their  own 
power  is  deriving  fresh  accessions  of  strength 
from  every  addition  made  to  the  chiefs  -who 
have  so  long  combated  by  their  sine;  and  this 
delusion  continues  nniversally  till  it  is  too  late 
to  shake  their  authority,  and  on  the  ruins  of  a 
constitutional  monarchy,  an  absolute  despotism 
has  been  constructed. 

"  Le  leurre  du  despotisme  qui  commence  est 
toujours,"  says  Guizot,  "d'offrir  aux  hommes 
les  trompeurs  avantages  d'une  honteuse  ega- 
lite."* 

Had  the  first  Revolution  of  France,  like  the 
great  rebellion  of  England,  merely  passed  over 
the  stale  without  uprooting  all  its  institutions, 
and  destroying  every  branch  of  its  aristocracy, 
there  can  be  little  doubt  that  a  constitutional 
monarchy  might  have  been  established  in 
France,  and  possibly  a  hundred  and  forty 
years  of  liberty  and  happiness  formed,  as  in 
Britain,  the  maturity  of  its  national  strength. 
But  the  total  destruction  of  all  these  classes  in 
the  bloody  convulsion,  and  the  division  of  their 
estates  among  an  innumerable  host  of  little 
proprietors,  rendered  the  formation  of  such  a 
monarchy  impossible,  because  one  of  the  ele- 
ments was  awanting  which  is  indispensable  to 
its  existence,  and  no  counterpoise  remained  to 
the  power  of  the  democracy  at  one  time,  or  of 
the  executive  at  another.  You  might  as  well 
make  gunpowder  without  sulphur,  as  rear  up 
constitutional  freedom  without  an  hereditary 
aristocracy  to  coerce  the  people  and  restrain 
the  throne.  "A  monarchy,"  says  Bacon, 
"  without  an  aristocrac}',  is  ever  an  absclnie 
despotism,  for  a  nobility  attempers  somewhat 
the  reverence  for  the  line  royal."  "  The  P.evo- 
luiioii,"  says  Napoleon,  "  left  France  absolutely 
without  an  aristocracy;  and  this  rendered  tho 
Airmation  of  a  mixed  constitution  impos'iible. 
The  government  had  no  lever  to  rest  upon  to 


*  Guizot,  Essais  sur  I'ltistoirc  dc  France  13. 


FRANCE  IN  1833. 


137 


direct  the  people ;  it  was  compelled  to  navi- 
gate in  a  single  element.  The  French  Revolu- 
tion has  attempted  a  problem  as  insoluble  as 
the  direction  of  balloons  !"* 

When  Napoleon  seized  the  helm,  therefore, 
he  had  no  alternative  but  to  see  revolutionary 
anarchy  continue  in  the  state,  or  coerce  the 
people  by  a  military  despotism.  He  chose  the 
latter;  and  under  his  firm  and  resolute  go- 
vernment, France  enjoyed  a  degree  of  prospe- 
rity and  happiness  unknown  since  the  fall  of 
the  monarchy.  Those  M-ho  reproach  him  with 
departing  from  the  principles  of  the  Revolution, 
and  rearing  up  a  military  throne  by  means  of 
a  scaffolding  of  democratic  construction,  would 
do  well  to  shoM^  how  he  could  otherwise  have 
discharged  the  first  of  duties  in  governments, — 
the  giving  protection  and  security  to  the  peo- 
ple; how  a  mixed  and  tempered  constitution 
could  be  established,  Avhen  the  violence  of  the 
people  had  totally  destroyed  their  natural  and 
hereditary  rulers ;  and  how  the  passions  of  a 
populace,  long  excited  by  the  uncontrolled  riot 
in  power,  were  to  be  coerced  by  a  senate  com- 
posed of  salaried  dignitaries,  destitute  either 
of  property  or  importance,  and  a  body  of 
ignoble  deputies,  hardly  elevated,  either  in 
station  or  acquirements,  above  the  citizens  to 
whom  they  owed  their  election. 

The  overthrow  of  Napoleon's  power  by  the 
arms  of  Europe,  for  a  time  established  a  con- 
stitutional throne  in  France,  and  gave  its  in- 
habitants fifteen  years  of  undeserved  freedom 
and  happiness.  But  this  freedom  rested  on  an 
Unstable  equilibrium;  it  had  not  struck  its 
roots  into  the  substratum  of  society;  it  was 
liable  to  be  overturned  by  the  first  shock  of 
adverse  fortune.  As  it  was,  however,  it  con- 
tributed, in  a  most  essential  manner,  to  deceive 
the  world, — to  veil  the  irreparable  conse- 
quences of  the  first  convulsion, — and  make 
mankind  believe  that  it  was  possible,  on  the 
basis  of  irreligion,  robbeiy,  and  murder,  to 
rear  up  the  fair  fabric  of  regulated  freedom. 
We  have  to  thank  the  Revolution  of  the  Bar- 
ricades for  drawing  aside  the  veil, — for  dis- 
playing the  consequences  of  national  delin- 
quency on  future  ages  ;  and  beneath  the  fair 
colours  of  the  whited  sepulchre,  exhibiting  the 
foul  appearances  of  premature  corruption  and 
decay. 

What  gave  temporary  freedom  to  France 
under  the  Restoration  was  the  prodigious  ex- 
haustion of  the  democratic  spirit  by  the  cala- 
mities which  attended  the  close  of  Napoleon's 
reign ;  the  habits  of  submission  to  which  his 
iron  government  had  accustomed  the  people  ; 
the  terror  produced  by  the  double  conquest  of 
Paris  by  the  Allies,  the  insecure  and  obnoxious 
tenure  by  which  the  Bourbons  held  their 
authority,  and  the  pacific  character  and  per- 
sonal weakness  of  that  race  of  sovereigns 
themselves. 

1.  The  exhaustion  of  France  by  the  calami- 
ties which  hurled  Napoleon  from  the  throne, 
undoubtedly  had  a  most  powerful  eflect  in 
coercing  for  a  time  the  fierce  and  turbulent 
passions  of  the  people.  It  is  in  the  young  that 
the   spirit   of  liberty  and  the  impatience  of 

*  Napoleon's  Memoirs. 


restraint  is  ever  most  fervent,  and  from  their 
energy  that  the  firmest  principles  of  freedom 
and  the  greatest  excesses  of  democracy  have 
equally  arisen.  But  the  younger  generations 
of  France  were,  to  a  degree  unprecedented  in 
modern  times,  mowed  down  by  the  revolu- 
tionary wars.  After  seventeen  years  of  more 
than  ordinary  consumption  of  human  life, 
came  the  dreadful  campaigns  of  1812,  1813, 
and  1814;  in  the  first  of  which,  between  Spain 
and  Russia,  not  less  than  700,000  men  perish- 
ed by  the  sword  or  sickness,  while,  in  the  two 
latter,  the  extraordinary  levy  of  1,200,000 
men  was  almost  entirely  destroj-ed.  Bv  these 
prodigious  efforts,  France  was  literal] \-  ex- 
hausted; these  copious  bleedings  reduced  the 
body  politic  to  a  stale  of  almost  lethargic 
torpor;  and,  accordingly,  neither  the  invasion 
and  disasters  of  1814,  nor  the  return  of  Napo- 
leon in  1815,  could  rouse  the  mass  of  the 
nation  to  any  thing  like  a  state  of  general 
excitement.  During  the  first  years  of  the 
Bourbons'  reign,  accordingly,  they  had  to  rule 
over  a  people  whose  fierce  passions  had  been 
tamed  by  unprecedented  misfortunes,  and  hot 
blood  drained  off  by  a  merciless  sword ;  and 
it  was  not  till  the  course  of  time,  and  the 
ceaseless  powers  of  population  had  in  some 
degree  repaired  the  void,  that  that  general  im- 
patience and  restlessness  began  to  be  mani 
fested  which  arises  from  the  difficulty  of 
finding  employment,  and  is  the  common  pre- 
cursor of  political  changes. 

2.  The  government  of  Napoleon,  despotic 
and  unfettered  in  its  original  construction, 
after  the  18th  Brumaire,  had  become,  in  pro- 
cess of  time,  the  most  arbitrary  and  powerful 
of  any  in  Europe.  Between  the  destruction 
of  all  ancient,  provincial,  and  corporate  au- 
thorities, by  the  successive  revolutionary  as- 
semblies, and  the  complete  centralization  of 
all  the  powers  and  influence  of  the  state  in  the 
government  at  Paris,  which  took  place  during 
bis  government,  there  was  not  a  vestige  of 
popular  power  left  in  France.  The  people 
had  been  accustomed,  for  fourteen  years,  to 
submit  to  the  prefets,  sous-prefets,  mayors, 
adjoints,  and  other  authorities  appointed  by 
the  central  government  at  Paris,  and  they  had 
in  a  great  degree  lost  the  recollection  of  the 
intoxicating  powers  which  they  exercised 
during  the  Revolution.  The  habit  of  submis- 
sion to  an  absolute  government,  which  enforced 
its  mandates  by  800,000  soldiers,  and  had  three 
hundred  thousand  civil  offices  in  its  gift,  had 
in  a  great  degree  prepared  the  country  for 
slavery.  To  the  direction  of  this  immense  and 
strongly  constructed  machine  the  Bourbons 
succeede>^;  and  it  went  on  for  a  number  of 
years  working  of  itself,  without  the  people  ge- 
nerally being  conscious  of  the  helm  having 
passed  from  the  firm  and  able  grasp  of  Napo- 
leon to  the  inexperienced  and  feeble  hands  of 
his  legitimate  successors.  Louis  XVIII.,  in- 
deed, gave  a  charter  to  his  subjects  :  "Vive  la 
Charte"  became  the  cry  of  the  supporters  of 
his  throne  :  deputies  were  chosen,  who  met  at 
Paris ;  a  Chamber  of  Peers  was  established, 
and  the  forms  of  a  constitutional  monarchy 
prevailed.  But  it  is  not  by  conferring  the 
forms  of  a  limited  monarchy  that  its  spirit  can 


138 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYfe. 


be  acquired,  or  the  necessary  checks  either  on 
the  throne  or  the  populace  established.  France, 
under  llie  Bourbons,  went  through  the  forms 
of  a  representative  government,  but  she  had 
hardly  a  vestige  of  its  spirit.  Her  people  wove 
composed  of  a  few  hundred  thousand  ardent 
citizens  in  the  towns,  who  longed  for  demo- 
cratic power  and  a  republican  government, 
and  thirty  millions  of  peasants  and  workmen, 
who  were  ready  to  submit  to  any  government 
established  by  the  ruling  population  of  the 
capital.  To  coerce  the  former,  or  invigorate 
the  latter,  no  means  remained;  and  therefore 
it  is  that  a  constitutional  monarchy  no  longer 
exists  in  France. 

3.  The  consternation  produced  by  the  over- 
throw of  Napoleon's   throne,  and  the  double 
occupation  of  Paris  by  the  allied  troops,  went 
far  to  uphold  a  government  wliich  had  risen 
up  under  their  protection.     While  all  the  army 
and  ardent  patriots  of  the  capital  insisted  that 
it  had  been  surrendered  by  treachery  in  both 
cases,  and  could  never  have  been  conquered 
by  force  of  arms,  the  astounding  events  pro- 
duced a  great  and  awful  impression  through- 
out France,  which  is  far  from   being  as  j'et 
eradicated.    There  are  some  calamities  which 
remain  long  in  the  recollection  of  mankind. 
Volatile,  susceptible  of  new  impressions,  and 
inconsiderate  as  great  part  of  tl\e  French  un- 
doubtedly are,  the  successive  capture  of  their 
capital    in    two   campaigns    sunk   deep   and 
heavil)'-  in  their  minds.    It  wounded  them  in 
the  most  sensitive  part,  the  feeling  of  national 
glory;  and  excited  a  painful  doubt,  heretofore 
unknown,  of  the  ability  of  the  great  nation  to 
resist  a  combined  attack  from  the  northern 
powers.     This  feeling  still  subsists ;    it  may 
have  little  influence  with  the  young  and  war- 
"ike  youth  of  the  capital,  but  it  is  strongly  im- 
pressed upon  the  more  thoughtful  and  better 
informed  classes  of  society,  and  is  in  an  espe- 
cial  manner   prevalent   among  the   National 
Guard  of  the  metropolis,  to  whom,  even  more 
than  the  regular  army,  the  nation  looks  for 
the  regulation  of  its  movements.     It  was  to  the 
prevalence  of  this  feeling  that  the  existence 
of  the  Bourbon  government,  during  the  fifteen 
j-^ears  of  the  Restoration,  was  mainly  owing ; 
and  so  prevalent  was  it  even  on  the  eve  of 
their  overthrow,  that  the  revolt  of  the  Barri- 
cades originated  with,  and  was  long  supported 
solely  by  the  very  lowest  classes ;  and  it  M-as 
not  till  the  defection  of  the  army,  and  the  im- 
becility of  the  government,  had  rendered   it 
more  than  doubtful  whether  a  revolution  was 
not  at   hand,  that  they  were  joined    by  any 
considerable  accession  of  strength  from    the 
educated  or  middling  classes  of  societ)'.     The 
same  feeling  of  secret  dread  at  tiie  northern 
powers  still  exists,  notwithstanding  the  acces- 
sion of  England  to  the  league  of  revolutionary 
governments;   and,  whatever  the  republican 
party  may  say  to  the  contrary,  nothing  is  more 
certain  than  that  the  cabinet  of  Louis  IMiilippe 
has  been  supported  in  all  its  principal  mea- 
sures, and  especially  in  the  proclamation  of  a 
state  of  siege  by  Marshal  Soult,  and  the  pacific 
system  with  the  continental  powers,  by  a  great 
majority  of  all  the  persons  of  any  wealth  or 
consideration   in   Paris,   now   in  possession, 


through  the  National  Guard,  of  a  preponderat- 
ing influence  in  the  capital,  and,  consequently, 
over  all  France. 

The  circumstances  which  have  been  men- 
tioned, contributed  strongly  to  establish  a  des- 
potic government  under  the  Bourbons, — the 
only  kind  of  regular  authority  which  the  con- 
vulsions of  the  Kevolution  have  rendered 
practicable  in  France  ;  but  to  counteract 
these,  and  temper  the  rigour  of  the  execu- 
tive, there  were  other  circumstances  of  an 
equally  important  character,  which  gradually 
went  on  increasing  in  power,  until  they  finally 
overbalanced  the  others,  and  overturned  the 
government  of  the  Restoration. 

1.  The  first  of  these  circumstances  was  the 
extreme  national  dissatisfaction  which  attend- 
ed the  way  in  which  the  Bourbons  reascended 
the  throne.  For  a  monarch  of  France  to  enter 
its  capital,  in  the  rear  of  a  victorious  invader, 
is  the  most  unlikely  way  that  can  be  imagined 
to  gain  the  affections  of  its  inhabitants  ;  but  to 
do  this  twice  over,  and  regain  the  throne  on 
the  second  occasion,  in  consequence  of  such 
a  thunderbolt  as  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  was  a 
misfortune  which  rendered  the  popularity  of 
the  dynasty  out  of  the  question.  The  people 
naturally  connected  together  the  two  events ; 
they  associated  the  republican  sway  with  the 
tricolour  flag  and  the  conquest  of  Europe,  and 
the  Bourbon  dynasty  with  the  disasters  which 
had  preceded  their  restoration  :  forgetting,  what 
was  the  truth,  that  it  was  under  the  tricolour 
that  all  these  disasters  had  been  incurred  ;  and 
that  the  white  flag  was  the  olive  branch 
which  saved  them  from  calamities,  which  they 
themselves  had  felt  to  be  intolerable. 

This  general  feeling  of  irritation  at  the  un- 
paralleled calamities  in  which  Napoleon's 
reign  terminated,  was  naturally  and  skilfully 
turned  to  account  by  the  republican  party. 
They  constantly  associated  together  the  Bour- 
bon reign  with  the  Russian  bayonets;  and 
held  out  the  sovereigns  of  the  Restoration,  ra- 
ther as  the  viceroys  of  Wellington,  or  the 
satraps  of  Alexander,  than  the  monarchs 
either  by  choice  or  inheritance  of  the  Franks. 
This  prejudice,  which  had  too  much  support 
from  the  unfortunate  coincidence  of  Napoleon's 
disasters  with  the  commencement  of  their 
reign,  soon  spread  deeply  and  universally 
among  the  liberal  part  of  the  people;  and  the 
continuance  of  the  Bourbon  dynasty  on  the 
throne  came  to  be  considered  as  the  badge  of 
national  servitude,  which,  on  the  first  dawn 
of  returning  liberation,  should  be  removed. 

2.  The  abolition  of  the  national  colours  by 
the  Bourbon  princes,  and  the  studious  endea- 
vour made  to  obliterate  the  monuments  and 
recollection  of  Napoleon,  was  a  puerile  weak- 
ness, from  which  the  worst  possible  effects  en- 
sued to  their  government.  To  suppose  that  it 
was  possible  to  obliterate  the  remembrance 
of  his  mighty  achievements,  and  substitute 
Ilcnry  IV\  and  Saint  Louis  for  the  glories  of 
the  empire,  was  worse  than  childish,  and,  as 
might  have  been  expected,  totally  ineflx'ctual. 
In  vain  his  portrait  was  prescribed,  his  letters 
eflaccd  fronr  the  edifices,  his  name  hardly 
mentioned,  except  with  vituperation  by  the 
ministerial   organs ;    the   admiration  for  bi« 


FRANCE  IN  1833. 


139 


greatness  only  increased  from  the  efforts  made 
to  suppress  it;  and  of  his,  as  the  images  of 
Brutus  and  Cassius  at  the  funeral  of  Junia,  it 
might  truly  be  said,  "Viginti  clarissimarum 
familiarum  imagines  antelatse  sunt,  sed  pra^- 
fulgebant  Cassius  atque  Brutus,  et  eo  ipso 
quod  effigies  eorum  non  vickbantur." 

The  universal  burst  of  public  enthusiasm 
when  the  tricolour  flag  was  rehoisted  on  the 
Tuileries,  and  the  statue  cf  the  hero  replaced 
on  the  pillar  in  the  Place  Vendome,  in  July 
last,  and  the  innumerable  pictures  and  statues 
which  have  been  exposed  in  every  town  and 
village  of  France  since  the  prohibition  was 
removed,  demonstrate  how  powerful  and  gene- 
ral this  feeling  was,  and  expose  the  enormity 
of  the  error  which  the  Bourbons  committed 
in  endeavouring  to  bury  it  in  oblivion.  The 
tricolour  flag  was  associated  in  the  minds  of 
the  whole  young  and  active  part  of  the  French 
population  with  the  days  of  their  glory;  the 
white  standard  with  the  commencement  of 
their  humiliation.  To  compel  them  to  adopt 
the  one  and  abandon  the  other,  was  an  error 
in  policy  of  the  most  enormous  kind.  It  was 
to  perpetuate  the  feeling  of  national  disgrace  ; 
to  impose  upon  the  nation  what  they  con- 
sidered as  the  livery  of  servitude ;  to  debar 
them  from  openly  giving  vent  to  feelings 
which  swelled  their  hearts  even  to  bursting. 
The  Revolution  of  July  was  less  against  the 
edicts  of  Polignac  than  the  white  standard  on 
the  dome  of  the  Tuileries ;  and  the  Citizen 
King  owes  his  throne  mainly  to  the  tricolour 
flag  which  waves  above  his  head  in  that  au- 
gust abode. 

3.  The  religious  feelings  of  the  exiled  fam- 
ily, natural  and  estimable  in  persons  exposed 
to  the  calamities  which  they  had  undergone, 
was  undoubtedly  an  inherent  weakness  in  the 
government  of  the  Restoration,  to  which  their 
fall  was  in  a  great  degree  owing.  From  what- 
ever cause  it  may  have  arisen,  the  fact  is  cer- 
tain, that  hatred  at  everj^  species  of  religious 
observance  is  the  most  profound  and  invete- 
rate feeling  which  has  survived  the  Revolution. 
Not  that  the  French  are  wholly  an  irreligious 
people ;  for  in  a  numerous  portion  of  the 
community,  especially  in  the  rural  districts, 
the  reverence  for  devotion  is  undiminished, 
naj%  is  now  visibly  on  the  increase ;  but  that 
the  active  and  energetic  class  in  towns,  upon 
whom  the  centralization  of  power  produced 
by  the  Revolution  has  exclusively  conferred 
political  importance  and  the  means  of  influ- 
encing the  public  mind,  are  almost  entirely  of 
that  description.  To  these  men,  the  sight  of 
priests  in  their  sacerdotal  habits  crossing  the 
Place  Carousal,  and  entering  the  royal  apart- 
ments, was  absolute  gall  and  wormwood.  The 
royalists  had  not  discernment  enough  to  see, 
that  they  might  encourage  the  substantial  parts 
of  religion,  without  perpetually  bringing  be- 
fore the  public  eye  the  obnoxious  parts  of  its 
external  ceremonial :  they  fell  at  once  under 
the  government  of  pious  and  estimable,  but 
Weak  and  ignorant  ecclesiastics,  who  were 
totally  incapable  of  steering  the  vessel  of  the 
ctate  through  the  shoals  and  quicksands  with 
which  it  was  on  all  sides  beset.  Thence  arose 
an  inherent  weakness  in  the  government  of 


the  Restoration,  which  went'  far  to  counter- 
balance the  vast  political  authority  which  the 
centralization  of  every  species  of  influence  in 
the  public  offices  in  Paris  had  occasioned. 
They  received  a  machine  of  vast  power,  and 
apparently  irresistible  strength,  but  the  preju- 
dice of  the  people  at  their  political  and  reli- 
gious principles  was  so  strong  that  they  could 
not  find  the  firm  hands  requisite  to  direct  it. 

4.  The  pacific  and  indolent  character  of  the 
Bourbon  princes,  and  the  timorous  policy 
which  they  were  constrained  to  adopt,  from  the 
disastrous  circumstances  which  had  preceded 
their  accession  to  the  throne,  prevented  them 
from  reviving  by  personal  qualities  or  brilliant 
achievements,  any  cf  that  popularity  which 
so  many  circumstances  had  contributed  to 
weaken.  A  thirst  for  military  glory  ever  has 
been  the  leading  characteristic  of  the  French 
people.  A  pacific  and  popular  king  of  France 
is  a  contradiction  in  terms.  The  princes  who 
dwell  most  strongly  in  their  recollection, 
Henry  IV.,  Louis  XIV.,  and  Napoleon,  were 
all  distinguished  either  for  their  military 
achievements,  or  the  great  conquests  which 
were  effected  in  their  reign.  If  a  king  of 
France  were  to  possess  the  virtue  of  Aristides, 
the  integrity  of  Cato,  the  humanity  of  Marcxxs 
Aurelius,  and  the  wisdom  of  Solomon,  and  re- 
main constantly  at  peace,  he  would  speedily 
become  unpopular.*  The  only  regal  activity 
which,  in  their  estimation,  can  in  some  degree 
compensate  the  want  of  military  distinction, 
is  a  decided  turn  for  the  embellishment  of 
Paris.  Napoleon's  vast  popularity,  after  his 
external  victories,  was  mainly  owing-  to  his 
internal  decorations;  the  Pillar  of  Austerlitz 
and  the  Bourse,  almost  rivalled,  in  public 
effect,  the  overthrow  of  Austria  and  the  sub- 
jugation of  Prussia.  But  in  neither  of  these 
lines  of  activity  was  the  family  of  the  Restora- 
tion calculated  to  acquire  a  distinction.  They 
remained,  partly  from  inclination,  partly  from 
necessity,  almost  constantly  at  peace  ;  they 
languidly  and  slowly  completed  the  great  works 
undertaken  by  Napoleon,  but  commenced  little 
new  themselves;  they  neither  pushed  their 
armies  across  the  Rhine,  nor  their  new  con- 
structions into  the  obscurer  parts  of  Paris. 
The  Parisians  could  neither  recount  to  stran- 
gers the  victories  they  had  won,  nor  point  with 
exultation  to  the  edifices  they  had  constructed. 
They  remained,  in  consequence,  for  the  whole 
fifteen  years  that  they  sat  upon  the  jthrone, 
tolerated  and  obe3'ed,  biU  neither  admired  nor 
loved;  and  the  loadof  obloquy  which  attached 
to  them  from  the  disasters  which  preceded 
their  acces'Jion,  was  lightened  by  no  redeem- 
ing achiev;ments  which  followed  their  ele\'^- 
tion. 

From  the  combination  of  these  singular  ana 
opposing  circumstances,  there  resulted  a  mixed 
and  tempered  government  in  France,  for  the 
brief  period  of  the  Restoration,  without  any 
of  the  circumstances  existing,  by  which  that 
blessing  can  be  permanently  secured, — without 
either  a  powerful  aristocracy,  or  an  efficient 
and  varied  representation  of  the  people.  The 
machine  of  government  was  that  of  an  abso- 

*Mr.  Burke  was  perfertly  riclit  wlien  lie  said,  that  the 
restored  monarch  must  be  constantly  in  tlie  saddle. 


I4U 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


lute  despotism,  from  the  complete  centraliza- 
tion of  every  species  of  influence  in  the  public 
offices  at  Paris,  and  the  total  absence  of  any 
authority  in  the  provinces  to  counterbalance 
their  influence ;  but  the  royal  family  had 
neither  the  energy  nor  the  qualities,  nor  the 
fortune,  requisite  to  wield  its  irresistible  pow- 
ers. Nothing  can  be  more  extraordinary,  ac- 
cordingly, than  the  state  of  France  under 
Louis  XVIIL  and  Charles  X.  The  government 
were  almost  constantly  declining  in  popularity; 
the  republican  majority  in  the  Chamber  of 
Deputies  was,  with  some  variations,  almost 
constantl)'  increasing;  at  last  it  rose  to  such  a 
height  as  to  choke  up  the  wheels  of  adminis- 
tration, and  render  a  coup  d'etat,  or  a  resignation 
of  the  throne,  an  unavoidable  alternative.  But 
although  the  Family  of  the  Bourbons  was  thus 
declining  in  influence,  the  power  of  government 
U'as  undergoing  no  serious  alteration ;  no 
eflicient  checks  upon  the  executive,  arising 
from  the  combination  of  the  lasting  interests 
of  the  state  to  coerce  its  encroachment,  were 
^rowing  up ;  the  weakness  of  the  throne  arose 
from  dislike  to  the  reigning  family,  not  aver- 
sion to  the  power  with  which  they  were  in- 
vested. They  were  at  last  overturned,  like  the 
sultans  in  the  Seraglio,  or  the  Roman  em- 
perors on  the  Palatine  Mount,  by  a  vast  and 
well-concerted  urban  tumult,  seconded  to  a 
wish  b}'  the  imbccilitj''  and  weakness  of  the 
ruling  administration ;  and  the  vast  machine 
of  a  despotic  government  passed  unimpaired 
into  the  hands  of  their  more  energetic  assail- 
ants. 

The  Revolution  of  the  Barricades  at  once 
put  an  end  to  the  temporizing  system  of  the 
Restoration,  and  drew  aside  the  veil  which,  re- 
tained by  Bourbon  weakness,  had  so  long  con- 
cealed the  stern  features  of  despotic  power. 
The  fatal  succession,  bequeathed  to  France, 
by  the  sins  and  the  atrocities  of  the  lirst  Revo- 
lution, was  then  apparent;  the  bonds,  the 
inevitable  and  perpetual  bonds  of  servitude, 
were  exposed  to  public  gaze.  In  all  the  par- 
ticulars which  constituted  the  weakness  of  the 
Restoration,  and  paral3-zed  the  machine  of  des- 
potic government,  from  hatred  at  the  hands 
which  wielded  it,  the  Citizen  King  had  the 
ad\'antage.  The  white  flag  had  been  a  per- 
petual eye-sore  to  the  ardent  }'outh  of  France, 
and  the  white  flag  was  torn  down  :  the  tricolour 
had  been  the  object  of  their  secret  worship, 
and  the  tricolour  was  displayed  from  every 
tower  in  France:  the  recollection  of  defeat  had 
clouded  the  first  days  of  the  Restoration,  and 
the  first  days  of  the  Revolution  of  July  were 
those  of  astounding  triumph  :  the  observance 
of  Sunday  and  religious  forms  had  exasperated 
an  infidel  metropolis,  under  a  priest-ridden 
d3''nasty ;  and  their  successors  allowed  them 
to  revel  in  every  species  of  amusement  and 
license  on  the  seventh  day:  the  long  con- 
tinuance of  peace  had  thrown  into  sullen  dis- 
content the  ardent  youth  of  the  metropolis  ; 
and  the  establishment  of  a  revolutionary  throne 
promised,  sooner  or  later,  to  bring  about  a 
despnrate  conflict  with  the  logilimatc  monarchs 
of  Europe.  The  prospect  of  llie  convulsions 
iiito  which  England  was  speedily  thrown  by 
tlie  contagion  of  this   great  example,  contri- 


buted not  a  little  to  fan  this  exulting  flame, 
and  in  the  passing  of  the  Reform  Bill,  tha 
French  democrats  beheld  a  lasting  triumph  to 
the  Galilean  party  in  this  country,  and  an 
achievement  which  consoled  them  for  the 
disasters  of  Trafalgar  and  Waterloo. 

These  combined  circumstances  completely 
restored  the  vigour  and  efficiency  of  the  cen- 
tral authority  at  Paris  over  all  France.  In 
possession  of  a  frame  of  government  the 
strongest  and  most  despotic  of  any  in  Europe^ 
supported  by  the  ardent  and  influential  part 
of  the  population  in  the  capital,  fanned  by  the 
gales  of  public  passion  and  prejudice,  they 
speedily  became  irresistible.  Every  thing  con- 
tributed to  increase  the  power  of  government. 
The  public  hatred  at  hereditary  succession, 
which  forced  on  the  abolition  of  the  House  of 
Peers  and  the  appointment  of  their  successors 
by  the  crown,  demolished  the  last  barrier  (and 
it  was  but  a  feeble  one)  which  the  preceding 
convulsions  had  left  between  the  throne  and 
universal  dominion.  The  public  impatience 
for  war,  Avhich  made  them  bear  without  mur- 
muring an  increase  of  the  national  expendi- 
ture, on  the  accession  of  Louis  Philippe,  from 
980,000,000  francs  to  1,511,000,000  in  one  year, 
enabled  the  government  to  raise  the  army  from 
180,000  to  420,000  men,  and  fan  the  military 
spirit  through  all  France,  by  the  establishment 
of  National  Guards.  The  Chamber  of  Depu- 
ties, thrown  into  the  shade  by  the  tricolour 
flag,  and  the  reviews  in  the  Place  Carousel, 
was  soon  forgotten;  its  members, destitute, for 
the  most  part,  of  propertj',  consideration,  or 
weight  in  their  respective  departments,  speedily 
fell  into  contempt;  the  opposition  was  gained 
over  or  withdrew  in  despair  from  a  hopeless 
cause ;  and  a  party  which,  under  the  white 
flag,  and  the  priest-ridden  government,  had 
risen  to  a  majority  in  the  legislature,  was  soon 
reduced  to  a  miserable  remnant  of  six  or  eight 
members.  The  debates  in  the  Chamber  have 
almost  disappeared;  they  are  hardly  ever  re- 
ported; all  eyes  are  turned  from  the  legisla- 
ture to  the  war-oflSce;  from  the  declamations 
of  disappointed  patriots,  to  the  acclamations 
of  brilliant  battalions;  from  a  thought  on  the 
extinction  of  public  freedom,  to  the  exhilarating 
prospect  of  foreign  conquest. 

It  is  this  combination  of  a  despotic  executive 
in  possession  of  all  the  influence  in  the  state, 
with  the  infusion  of  popularity  into  the  sys' 
tern  of  government,  which  has  enabled  Louis 
Philippe,  aided  by  his  own  great  abilit\',  not- 
withstanding his  extreme  personal  unpopularity, 
to  carry  through  obnoxious  and  tyranr.ical 
measures  never  contemplated  by  Napoleoi  in 
the  zenith  of  his  power.  One  of  the  most  re- 
markable of  these,  is  the  encircling  Paris  with 
fortified  posts,  or,  as  the  republicans  call  it,  the 
project  "  d'embastiller  Paris."  To  those  who 
recollect  the  transports  of  enthusiasm  with 
which  the  storming  of  the  Bastile  was  re- 
ceived over  all  France  in  1789,  it  must  appear 
the  most  extraordinary  of  all  things,  that 
a  revolutionary  government  should  venture 
upon  the  step  of  constructing  Ten  Bastiles, 
many  larger,  all  stronger,  than  the  old  one, 
around  Paris,  in  such  situation,  as  absolutely 
to  command  the  metropolis,  by  enabling  th« 


FRANCE  IN  1833. 


UI 


government,  at  pleasure,  to  intercept  its  sup- 
plies of  provisions;  yet  this  has  been  done, 
and  is  now  doing.  Vincennes,  situated  a 
league  beyond  the  Barricade  de  Trone,  is 
undergoing  a  thorough  repair;  and  its  cannon, 
placed  within  a  regular  fortification,  will  com- 
pletely command  the  great  road  leading  into 
the  Fauxbourg  St.  Antoine.  Other,  and  simi- 
lar fortresses,  are  in  the  course  of  construction, 
in  a  circle  round  Paris,  at  the  distance  of  about 
two  miles  from  each  other,  and  a  mile,  or  a 
mile  and  a  half  beyond  the  external  barrier. 
When  completed,  they  will  at  once  give  the 
government  the  command  of  the  rebellious 
capital;  not  a  pound  of  provisions  can  enter  a 
circle  inhabited  by  nearly  a  million  of  souls, 
but  under  the  guns  of  these  formidable  for- 
tresses. The  plans  were  completed,  the  ground 
was  all  purchased,  the  works  were  going  for- 
ward, when  they  were  interrupted  by  the  cries 
of  part  of  the  National  Guard,  in  defiling  be- 
fore the  king  on  the  29th  July  last.  The 
Chamber  of  Deputies  had  in  vain  refused,  in 
accordance  with  the  wishes  of  the  capital,  a 
grant  of  money  for  the  purpose;  the  crown 
was  going  on  of  its  own  authority,  and  from 
its  own  funds.  And  though  the  undertaking 
has  been  suspended  for  a  time  from  the  cause 
above  mentioned,  excepting  at  Vincennes, 
.vhicn  is  rapidly  advancing,  government  openly 
announce  their  intention  of  resuming  it  next 
spring,  when  a  majority  of  the  Chamber  will 
be  won  over  to  give  it  their  support.* 

The  most  singular  circumstance  connected 
with  the  present  political  state  of  France,  is 
the  co-existence  of  a  despotic  military  govern- 
ment, with  a  wild  and  intemperate  republican 
press  in  the  capital.  This  may  appear  in- 
credible, but  nevertheless  it  is  certain  that  it 
exists ;  and  it  constitutes  an  element  by  no 
means  to  be  overlooked,  in  considering  its 
future  prospects,  because  it  may,  in  a  moment, 
hurl  the  present  dynasty  from  the  throne,  and 
elevate  a  new  familj^  or  different  executive,  to 
the  possession  of  its  despotic  powers.  To  give 
only  a  single  example  of  the  length  to  which 
this  extravagance  is  carried,  we  select  by  mere 
chance,  an  article  which  recently  appeared  in 
tlie  Tribune. 

"  Those  who  place  themselves  in  the  current 
of  political  change  shouldconsiderwell  whither 
it  will  lead  them,  before  they  embark  on  its 
waves.  The  authors  of  the  revolt  on  the  9th 
Thurmidor,f  were  far  from  intending  to  extin- 
guish public  freedom ;  but,  nevertheless,  the 
reaction  against  liberty  has  been  incessant 
since  the  fall  of  Robespierre,  with  the  excep- 
tion perhaps  of  the  Three  Days  of  July. 

"It  is  in  vain  to  say  that  it  was  Napoleon, 
or  the  Restoration,  or  Louis  Philippe,  who  ex- 
tinguished the  freedom  of  France:  it  was  the 
overthrow  of  Robespierre  which  was  the  fatal 
stroke.  We  have  never  since  known  what 
liberty  was,  we  have  lived  only  under  a  suc- 
-.ession  of  tyrants. 

"Impressed  with  these  ideas,  a  band  of  pa- 
triots have  commenced  the  republication  of  the 


•  It  )|as  since  been  completed  by  the  aid  of  the  war 
party,  headed  by  JM.  Tliiers. 
f  The  day  when  Robespierre  was  overthrown 


speeches  of  Robespierre,  St.  Just,  and  Marat, 
which  will  be  rendered  accessible  to  the  very 
humblest  of  the  people,  by  the  moderate  price 
of  a  sous  a  number,  at  which  it  is  to  be  sold. 
We  earnestly  recommend  the  works  of  these 
immortal  patriots  to  our  readers.  They  will 
find  every  thing  that  philosophy  could  discover, 
or  learning  reveal,  or  humanity  desire,  or  elo- 
quence  enforce,  in  their  incomparable  produc- 
tions."— Tribune,  Aug.  20. 

Again,  in  the  next  number  we  read  as  fol- 
lows : — 

"The  soi-disant  patriots  of  the  day  are  in  a 
total  mistake  when  they  pretend  that  it  is  an 
erroneous  system  of  taxation  which  is  the  root 
of  the  public  discontents.  This  is  no  doubt 
an  evil,  but  it  is  nothing  compared  to  that 
Avhich  flows  from  a  defective  system  of  social 
organization. 

"  The  tyranny  of  the  rich  over  the  poor  is 
the  real  plague  which  infests  society ;  the  eter- 
nal source  of  oppression,  in  comparison  of 
which  all  others  are  but  as  dust  in  the  balance. 
What  have  we  gained  by  the  Revolution  1  The 
substitution  of  the  Chausee  d'Antin  for  the 
Fauxbourg  St.  Germain.  An  aristocracy  of 
bankers  for  one  of  nobles.  What  have  the 
people  gained  by  this  change  1  Are  they  bet- 
ter fed,  or  clothed,,  or  lodged,  than  before "! 
What  is  it  to  them  that  their  oppressors  are 
no  longer  counts  or  dukes  1  Tyranny  can 
come  from  the  bureau  as  well  as  the  palace: — 
there  will  be  no  real  regeneration  to  France 
till  a  more  equal  distribution  of  rnoPEHTT 
strikes  at  the  root  of  all  the  calamities  of 
mankind. 

"  The  principles  of  pure  and  unmixed  de- 
mocracy are  those  of  absolute  wisdom,  of 
unwearied  philanthropy,  of  universal  happi- 
ness. When  the  rule  of  the  people  is  com 
pletely  established,  the  reign  of  justice,  free 
dom,  equality,  and  happiness  will  commence; 
all  the  evils  of  humanity  will  disappear  before 
the  awakened  energies  of  mankind." — Tribune, 
Aug.  21. 

When  principles  such  as  these,  clothed  in 
insinuating  language,  and  enforced  with  no 
small  share  of  ability,  are  daily  poured  forth 
from  the  Parisian  press,  and  read  by  admiring 
multitudes  among  its  ardent  and  impassio^ied 
population,  we  are  led  to  examine  how  society 
can  exist  with  such  doctrines  familiarly  spread 
among  the  lower  orders.  But  the  phenomenon 
becomes  still  more  extraordinary,  when  it  is 
perceived  that  these  anarchical  doctrines  arc 
in  close  juxtaposition  to  the  most  completa 
and  rigorous  despotism  to  which  the  people 
under  successive  governments  submit  without 
any  practical  attempt  at  resistance ;  that  the 
citizens  who  indulge  in  these  absurd  specu- 
lations are  content  to  wait  for  hours  at  the 
police  office,  before  they  can  go  ten  leagues 
from  the  capital,  and  go  quietly  to  jail  with 
the  first  gens  d'armes  who  meet  them  on  the 
road  without  their  passports. 

The  truth  is,  that  the  French,  during  all  the 
phases  of  the  Revolution,  as  Napoleon  re- 
marked,  not  only  never  tasted  one  hour  of  real 
freedom,  but  never  formed  a  conception  of 
what  it  was.  The  efforts  of  the  factions  who 
for  forty  years  have  torn  its  bosom,  have  all 


143 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


been  directed  to  one  object,  the  arquisilion  of 
polilidil  power  by  tliemsclccs,  without  bestowing 
a  thotiffht  on  the  far  more  important  matter 
of  how  that  power  is  to  be  restrained  towards 
others.  The  consequence  is,  that  the  exertions 
of  the  party  in  opposition  are  all  directed  to 
one  object,  the  displacin:^  of  their  adversaries 
fi-om  their  places  in  administration,  or  over- 
turning the  family  on  the  throne,  without  the 
slightest  intention  of  remodelling  the  frame  of 
government,  so  as  to  impose  any  effectual 
check  on  the  executive.  If  the  republican 
opposition  were  to  succeed  to  the  helm,  they 
would  probably  push  through  such  a  change 
in  the  composition  of  the  electoral  colleges,  as 
might  secure  for  their  party  the  predominance 
in  the  legislature,  but  they  would  make  as  few 
concessions  to  public  freedom  as  was  done  by 
(heir  predecessors  Robespierre  and  St.  Just. 
The  police  would  still  fetter  the  actions  of 
every  man  in  France;  the  impdt  foucicrcwoviM 
still  carry  off  from  thirteen  to  twenty  per  cent, 
of  every  income  from  property;  the  govern- 
ment officers  at  Paris  would  still  dispose  of 
every  office  in  the  kingdom,  from  the  minister 
at  the  head  of  the  army,  to  the  scavenger  at 
the  tail  of  the  cleaning  departm.ent. 

The  parly  in  opposition,  who  long  for  the 
enjoyment  of  power  and  offices,  has  been  im- 
mensely weakened  by  the  result  of  the  Three 
Days.  The  royalists,  indeed,  are  everj'where 
excluded  from  the  slightest  participation  in  the 
government;  but  so  are  they  from  any  in- 
fluence in  the  legislature;  and  a  miserable 
minority  of  twenty  or  thirty  members  finds  it 
quite  in  vain  to  attempt  any  struggle  in  par- 
liament. The  great  body  of  the  popular  party 
have  got  into  olfice  in  consequence  of  their 
triumph :  it  may  safely  be  affirmed  that  not 
less  than  300,000  liberals  are  now  the  employes 
irr  civil  government  alone.  Thus  the  patriots 
of  France  are  now  ver}-  generally  and  com- 
fortably ensconced  in  official  situations ;  and 
it  is  utterly  impossible,  in  consequence,  to 
rouse  them  to  any  hostility  to  the  ruling  power. 
In  this  way  the  republican  party  are,  to  a  great 
extent,  won  over  to  the  government,  and  they 
can  afford  to  allow  the  disappointed  remnant 
of  their  faction  to  vent  their  discontent  in  de- 
mocratic publications.  This  complete  division 
of  the  liberal  party,  and  secure  anchoring  of 
four-fifths  of  its  members  by  the  strong  tenure 
of  official  emolument,  which  has  followed  the 
Revolution  of  July,  is  the  true  secret  of  the 
present  strength  of  government;  for  the  dis- 
contented royalists  in  the  provinces,  though 
numerous  and  brave,  will  never  be  able  to 
throw  off"  the  central  authority  of  the  capital. 

It  is  not  to  be  imagined,  however,  from  all 
this,  that  the  government  of  Louis  Philippe  is 
established  on  a  solid  foundation.  No  govern- 
ment can  be  so,  which  is  founded  not  on  the 
great  and  lasting  interests  of  the  state,  but  its 
fleeting  passions — which  depends  not  on  the 
property  of  the  country,  but  the  mob  of  the 
metropolis.  The  throne  of  the  Barricades 
rests  entirely  on  the  armed  force  of  the  capital. 
"  A  breath  may  unmake  it,  as  a  breath  has 
made."  A  well-concerted  urban  revolt,  the 
defection  of  a  single  regiment,  supported  by  a 
majority  of  the  National  Guards,  may  any  day 


seat  a  consul,  a  general,  or  Henry  V.  on  the 
throne.  It  has  lost  popularity  immensely  with 
the  movement  party,  ok*  o/n^rf,  comprehend 
ing  all  the  ardent  and  desperate  characters,  by 
persisting  in  an  anti-republican  policy,  and 
remaining  steadily  at  peace.  Its  incessant 
and  rigorous  prosecution  of  the  press,  though 
inadequate  hitherto  to  extirpate  that  last  re« 
main  of  popular  sovereignty,  has  exposed  it  to 
the  powerful  assaults  of  that  mighty  engine. 
The  sovereign  on  the  throne,  and  the  whole 
royal  family,  are  neglected  or  disliked,  not- 
withstanding the  great  abilities  of  its  head  and 
estimable  qualities  of  many  of  its  members. 
A  vigorous  and  successful  foreign  war  would 
at  once  restore  its  popularity,  and  utterly 
silence  all  the  clamour  about  the  loss  of  free- 
dom ;  but  without  the  aid  of  that  powerful 
stimulant,  it  is  impossible  to  say  how  soon  the 
present  dynasty  may  be  overturned,  and  a 
fresh  race  or  government  be  thrown  up  by  an- 
other eruption  of  the  revolutionary  volcano'. 

But  come  what  race  or  form  of  sovereignty 
there  may,  the  government  of  Paris  will  equally 
remain  a  perfect  and  uncontrolled  despotism 
over  France.  This  is  the  great  and  final  re- 
sult of  the  first  Revolution,  which  should  ever 
be  kept  steadily  in  view  by  the  adjoining  states. 
Let  Henry  V.  or  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  Marshal 
Soult,  or  Odillon  Barrot,  succeed  to  supreme 
power,  the  result  will  be  the  same.  The  bones 
of  Old  France  have  been  broken  by  the  vast 
rolling-stone  which  has  passed  over  the  state; 
New  France  has  not  the  elements  within  it  to 
frame  a  constitutional  throne.  The  people 
must  remain  slaves  to  the  central  government, 
because  they  have  destroyed  the  superior  classes 
who  might  shield  them  from  its  oppression. 
Asiatic  has  succeeded  to  European  civilization, 
and  political  power  is  no  longer  to  be  found 
independent  of  regal  appointment.  All  supe- 
riority depends  upon  the  possession  of  office ; 
the  distinctions  of  hereditary  rank,  the  descent 
of  considerable  property,  have  alike  disap- 
peared ;  over  a  nation  of  ryots,  who  earn  a 
scanty  subsistence  by  the  sweat  of  their  brow, 
is  placed  a  horde  of  Egjqitian  taskmasters, 
who  wring  from  them  the  fruits  of  their  tov! 
and  a  band  of  Prwtorian  guards  who  dispose 
at  pleasure  of  their  government. 

In  one  particular,  little  understood  on  the 
English  side  of  the  Channel,  the  similarity  of 
the  result  of  French  regeneration  to  the  in- 
stitutions of  Oriental  despotism,  is  most  strik- 
ing. The  weight  of  iHred  taxation  is  at  once 
the  mark  and  the  result  of  despotic  govern- 
ment. It  is  remarked  by  Gibbon,  that  the  great 
test  of  the  practical  power  of  government  is 
to  be  found  in  the  extent  to  which  it  can  carry 
the  (Jircrt  paymoitshy  the  people  to  the  treasury; 
and  that  whenever  the  majority  of  imposts  are 
indirect,  it  is  a  proof  that  it  is  compelled  to 
consult  the  inclinations  and  feelings  of  its  sub- 
jects. He  adduces  as  an  illustration  of  this 
profound  yet  obvious  remark,  (all  profound 
remarks,  when  once  made,  appear  obvious,) 
the  excessive  weight  of  direct  taxation  in  the 
latter  period  of  the  Roman  empire.  In  Gaul, 
in  the  time  of  Constantine,  the  capitation-tax 
had  risen  to  the  enormous  sum  of  nine  poundl 
sterling  for  every  freeman ;  an  impost  so  ci 


FRANCE  IN  1833. 


143 


t;essive,.that  among  the  poorer  citizens  it  could 
be  made  up  only  by  several  being  allowed  to 
club  together  to  form  one  head.  Sismondi,  in 
like  manner,  observes,  that  the  exorbitant 
weight  of  direct  taxes  was  the  great  cause  of 
the  progressive  depopulation  of  the  Roman 
empire.  At  this  moment  the  burden  of  the 
fixed  payment  exacted  from  a  Turkish  pashalic 
which  is  never  allowed  to  diminish,  and  con- 
sequently with  the  decline  of  the  inhabitants 
becomes  intolerable,  is  the  great  cause  of  the 
rapid  depopulation  of  the  Ottoman  empire. 
In  Hindostan  and  China,  the  proportion  of  the 
fruits  of  the  soil  which  goes  directly  to  the 
government  varies  from  30  to  50  per  cent. 

Akin  to  this,  the  last  and  well-known  result 
of  despotic  oppression,  is  the  enormous  weight 
of  the  direct  taxes  in  France.  The  tax  on 
proprietors  is  fixed  at  present  at  \3  per  cent.: 
but  this,  oppressive  as  it  would  appear  in  this 
country,  v.-here  the  weight  of  democratic  des- 
potism is  only  beginning  to  be  felt,  is  nothing 
to  the  real  burden  which  falls  on  the  unhappy 
proprietors.  By  the  valuation  or  cadastre  made 
jjy  the  government  surveyor,  the  real  weight 
of  the  burden  is  liable  to  indefinite  increase, 
and  in  general  brings  it  up  to  20,  sometimes 
30  per  cent.*  The  valuation  is  taken,  not 
from  the  actual  receipt  of  the  owner,  but  what 
it  is  estimated  his  property  is  worth ;  and  as 
the  smiles  of  government  are  directed  towards 
these  ofiicial  gentlemen  nearly  in  proportion 
to  the  amount  to  which  they  can  raise  the 
valuation  of  their  district,  the  injustice  com- 
mitted in  this  way  is  most  extreme.  We  know 
many  properties  on  the  Garonne  and  Rhone, 
where,  from  the  exorbitance  of  the  valuation, 
the  tax  comes  to  35  and  40  per  cent,  on  the 
produce.  Its  weight  may  be  judged  of  by  the 
fact,  that  this  direct  impost  produces  yearly 
350,000,000  francs,  or  about  14,000,000/.  ster- 
ling, which  almost  entirely  comes  from  the 
land-owners.f  Now  the  income-tax  of  Great 
Britain  during  the  war  produced  just  that  sum ; 
and  most  certainly  the  income  from  all  sources 
of  the  British  empire  at  that  period  was  double 
the  amount  of  that  now  enjoyed  by  the  landed 
proprietors  of  France.^  The  result  of  this  is, 
that  the  French  land-owners  pay,  on  the  whole, 
20  per  cent,  on  the  annual  worth  of  their  in- 
comes. In  forty  years  from  the  commencement 
of  their  revolutionary  troubles,  the  French 
have  got  nearly  to  the  standard  fixed  on  the 
'yots  of  Hindostan,  in  the  lightest  taxed  dis- 
cricts  of  India ;  and  more  than  tripled  the  faille, 
which  was  held  forth  as  an  insupportable 
burden  at  their  commencement !  Let  ihem  go 
on  as  they  are  doing,  and  in  half  a  century 
they  will  again  find  the  enormous  capitation- 

♦  Fi'om  the  infinite  subdivision  of  land  in  France,  and 
the  continual  cliange  of  hands  throush  which  it  passes, 
it  in  fact  belonss  iir  property  to  no  one  individual,  but  to 
the  Public  Treasury,  from  the  excessive  weiirht  of  direct 
taxation  •and  the  duties  on  alienations  of  any  kind. — 
JJovnadieu,  256. 

fDupin  estimates  the  income  of  proprietors  in  France 
at  1,626,000.000  francs,  or  65,000,000^,  so  that  if  350,000,000 
francs,  or  14,000,000?.  sterling,  is  taken  from  them  in 
the  form  of  direct  taxes,  the  burden  is  as  14  to  66  on  their 
whole  income,  or  21  per  cent.— See  Dupin,  Force  Com- 
merciale  de  France,  ii.  266. 

tThe  income  of  official  persons  is  taken  at  a  different 
rate,  varyins;  from  6h  to  8  per  cent.;  bulitformsatrlfliiii; 
part  of  the  direct  taxation. 


tax  of  Constantino  fixed  about  their  necirs. 
Thus  the  result  of  human  folly  and  iniquity  is 
the  same  in  all  ages  and  countries ;  and  the 
identical  consequences  which  flowed  fifteen 
hundred  years  ago,  remotely  but  surely,  frcm 
the  madness  of  Gracchus  and  the  democrats 
of  Rome,  in  destroying  the  Roman  aristocracy 
is  evidently  approaching,  though  with  infinite- 
ly swifter  steps  from  the  corresponding  mad- 
ness of  the  French  republicans  in  extirpatir.g 
the  higher  classes  of  their  monarchy. 

We  have  often  asked  the  proprietors  in  dif- 
ferent parts  of  France,  why  they  did  not  en- 
deavour to  diminish  or  equalize  this  enormous 
burden,  Avhich,  in  the  wine  provinces  especial- 
ly, is  felt  as  so  oppressive  1  They  universally 
answered,  that  the  thing  was  impossible;  that 
they  had  memorialized  Napoleon  and  Louis 
XVIII.,  the  Chamber  of  Deputies  and  Peers, 
Villele  and  the  Due  de  Richelieu,  but  all  to  no 
purpose.  The  weight  of  the  itnpot  fonciere, 
the  injustice  of  the  cadastre,  remains  imchanged 
and  unchangeable.  Four  or  five  millions  of 
little  proprietors,  scattered  over  the  vast  ex- 
panse of  France,  a  majority  of  whom  have  not 
5/.  yearly  from  their  land,  can  effect  nothing 
against  the  despotic  central  government  of 
Paris.  They  themselves  sa)^,  that  the  direct 
burdens  on  the  land  are  becoming  so  excessive, 
that  the  sovereign  is,  as  in  Oriental  dynasties, 
the  real  proprietor,  and  they  are  but  tenants  who 
labour  for  his  benefit  more  than  their  OAvn. 
Herein  may  be  discerned  the  hand  of  Provi- 
dence, causing  the  sins  of  men  to  work  out 
their  OAvn  punishment.  If  the  French  people 
had  not  committed  the  frightftil  injustice  of 
confiscating  the  property  of  their  nobles  and 
clergy,  they  would  now  have  possessed  within 
themselves  a  vast  body  of  influential  proprie- 
tors, capable,  as  in  England,  under  the  old 
Constitution,  either  in  the  Upper  or  Lower 
House,  of  preventing  or  arresting  the  oppres- 
sion of  the  central  government,  and  the  enor- 
mous burden  of  20  per  cent,  directly  laid  on 
land  would  never  have  been  permitted.  But 
proceeding,  as  they  have  done,  by  destroying 
all  the  intermediate  classes  in  the  state,  and 
leaving  only  government  employes  and  peasant 
proprietors,  they  have  cut  away  the  shield 
which  would  have  protected  the  poor  from  the 
vexation  of  the  central  authority,  and  left  them- 
selves and  their  children  for  ever  exposed  to 
its  oppression.  They  imagined  that  by  laying 
hold  of  the  land  of  others,  they  would  step  into 
the  comforts  and  opulence  of  separate  proper- 
ty ;  but  the  wages  of  iniquity  seldom  prosper 
in  the  end,  either  in  nations  or  individuals. 
They  have  fallen  in  consequence  imder  an 
oppressive  taxation,  which  has  more  than 
counterbalanced  all  the  advantages  of  the  spoil 
they  have  acquired ;  the  sovereign  has  grown 
up  into  the  real  land-owner,  and  the  cultivators, 
instead  of  becoming  the  peasants  of  Switzer- 
land, have  degenerated  into  the  lyots  of  Hin- 
dostan. 

The  effects  of  the  Revolution  of  July  on  the 
Religiox  of  France,  is  precisely  the  same  as 
on  its  political  situation.  It  has  draira  aside 
the  thin  veil  which  concealed  the  effects  of 
the  irreligious  spirit  of  the  first  convulsion 
and  displayed  in  its  native  deformity  the  con 


144 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


sequence  of  unmooring  the  human  mind  from 
the  secure  haven  of  faith  and  virtue. 

That  tiie   first  Kevolution  Avas   essentially 
irreligious  in  its  spirit,  that  it  destroyed  not 
only  the  teachers  and    the  property,  but  the 
very   name    of    Christianit}-,   is    universally 
known.    Bat  in  this,  as  in  every  other  respect, 
the  Restoration  drew  a  veil  over  its  ultimate 
and  final  consequences.     The  exiled  family 
returned  to  the  palaces  of  their  fathers,  with  a 
profound  sense  of  religion,  rendered  only  the 
more  indelible  from  the  disasters  which  had 
preceded  their  restoration.     By  the  combined 
effect  of  their  authority  and  influence,  a  gloss 
was  thrown  over  the  infidel  consequences  of 
the  first  Revolution;  thepriests  were  reinstated 
in  the  smiles  of  court  favour;  the  Tuileries 
again  resounded  with  the  strains  of  devotion; 
religious  observances  nvere  tolerabl)'  attended 
to ;  the  churches  were  filled,  if  not  with  the 
faithful,  at  least  with  the  ambitious,  and  pro- 
motion, dependent  in  some  degree  on  attention 
to  the  ceremonial  of  the  Catholic  faith,  drew 
multitudes  to  the  standard  of  St.  Louis.  Marshal 
Soult  was  to  be  seen  every  Sunday  parading 
to  church,  preceded  b)'-an  enormous  breviary  ; 
he  cared  not  whether  the  road  to  poM'cr  lay 
by  the  chapel  of  the  Virgin,  or  the  altar  of  the 
Goddess  of  reason.     Sunday,  especially  in  the 
last  ten  years,  was  well  observed  in  the  great 
towns.    Travellers  perceived  no  material  dif- 
ference between  the   appearance   of  London 
and  Paris  during  divine  service.     Literature, 
encouraged  by  this  transient  glance  of  sun- 
shine, resumed  its  place  by  the  side  of  de- 
votion ;  the  mighty  genius   of  Chateaubriand 
lent  its  aid  to  the  Holy  Alliance,  and  poured 
over  the  principles  of  natural  and  revealed 
religion  a  flood  of  resplendent  light;  Michaux 
traced  the  history  of  the  Crusaders,  and  the 
efforts  for  the  liberation  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre, 
with  an  antiquary's  knowledge  and  a  poet's 
fire;  Barante  revived  in   the  Annals  of  Bur- 
gundian  princes,  the  old  and  venerable  feel- 
ings of  feudal  devotion;  while  Guizot,  as  yet 
untouched  by  the  seductions  of  power,  traced 
with  admirable  ability,  to  admiring  multitudes 
in  the  French  metropolis,  the  historical  bless- 
ings of  religious  institutions.     Almost  all  ob- 
servers, misled  by  these  appearances,  flattered 
themselves,  that  the  period  of  the  reaction  of 
the  human  mind  against  the  principles  of  ir- 
religion  had  arrived ;  that  the  reign  of  infideli- 
ty was  drawing  to   its   close;   and   that  the 
French  Revolution,  nursed  amidst  the  mazes 
of  sophistry  and  skepticism,  was   destined  to 
find   refuge  at  last  in  the  eternal  truths  of 
religion. 

But  this  sudden  extinction  of  evil  and  resur- 
rection of  good  is  not  the  order  of  nature. 
Infitlelit}'-,  nursed  for  half  a  century,  is  not  ex- 
tinguished in  a  few  years.  The  robbery  of 
one-third  of  the  national  property  from  the 
service  of  the  church  is  not  the  way  to  secure 
the  fruits  of  virtue  :  a  hiatus  of  ten  years  in 
the  religious  education  of  the  people,  snapped 
asunder  a  chain  which  had  descended  un- 
broken from  the  apostolic  ages.  These  deplo- 
rable events  were  secretly  but  securely  work- 
ing out  their  natural  consequences,  through  all 

The  general 


the  period  of  the  Restoration. 


and  profound  hatred  in  towns  at  the  very  sight 
even  of  an  ecclesiastic,  was  a  certain  indica- 
tion of  the  great  extent  to  which  the  deadly 
weeds  of  infidelity  had  spread.  The  Revolu- 
tion of  July  at  once  tore  aside  the  veil,  and 
exposed  to  view  the  extraordinary  spectacle 
of  a  nation  in  which  the  classes  who  concen- 
trate almost  the  whole  political  influence  of 
the  stale,  are  almost  wholly  of  an  irreligicus 
character.  This  is  to  be  ascribed  chiefly  to 
the  long  chasm  in  religioiis  instruction  which 
took  place  from  1791  to  1800,  and  the  entire 
assumption  of  political  power  under  Napo- 
leon, by  a  class  who  were  entire  strangers  to 
any  kind  of  devotion.  Such  a  chasm  cannot 
readily  be  supplied  ;  ages  must  elapse  before 
its  effects  are  obliterated.  "  Natura  tamen," 
says  Tacitus,  "infirmitatis  humana?  tardiora 
sunt  remedia  quam  mala,  et  ut  corpora  lente 
augescunt  cito  extinguuntur,  sicingeniastudia- 
que  oppresseris  facilius  quam  revocaveris." 

But  to  whatever  cause  it  is  owing,  nothing 
can  be  more  certain,  than  that  infidelitj^  again 
reigns  the  lord  of  the  ascendant  in  Paris.     It 
is  impossible  to  be  a  week  in  the  metropolis 
without  being  sensible  of  this.    It  is  computed 
that  from  sixty  to  eighty  thousand  individuals, 
chiefly  old  women,  or  persons   of  the  poorest 
classes,  believe  in  the  Christian  religion.  The 
remainder,  amounting  to  about  eight  hundred 
thousand,  make  no  pretension  to  such  a  faith. 
They  do  not  deny  it,  or  say  or  think  anything 
about  it;  they  pass  it  by  as  a  doubtful  relic  of 
the  olden  time,  now  entirely  gone  by.*     It  is 
impossible   by  any  external    appearances  to 
distinguish  Sunday  from  Saturday,  excepting 
that  every  species  of  amusementanddissipation 
goes  on  with  more  spirit  on  that  day  that  any 
other.    We  are  no  advocates  for  the  over-rigid 
or  Judaical   observance   of  the  day  of  rest 
Perhaps  some  Protestant  nations  have  gone 
too  far  in  converting  the   Christian   Sunday 
into  the  Jewish  Sabbath,  and  preventing  on  it 
those  innocent  recreations  which  might  divert 
the  giddy  multitude  from  hidden  debauchery. 
But  without  standing  up  for  any  rigid  or  puri- 
tanical ideas,  it  may  safely  be  affirmed  that  the 
toUil  neglect  of  Sunday  by  nine-tenths  of  the 
people,  indicates  a  fixed  disregard  of  religion 
in  any  state  professing  a  belief  in  Christianity. 
In  Paris  the  shops  are   all   open,  the  carts  all 
going,  the  workmen  all  employed  on  the  early 
part  of  Simday ;  and  although  a  part  of  them 
are  closed  after  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  it 
is  not  with  the  slightest  intention  of  joining  in 
any,  even  the  smallest  religious  duty,  that  this 
is  done.     It  is  "pour  s'amuser,"  to  forget  the 
fatigues  of  the  week  in  the  excitement  with 
M'hich   it   terminates,  that  the   change  takes 
place.     At  two  o'clock,  all  who  can  disengage 
themselves  from  their  daily  toil,  rush  away  in 
crowds  to  drink  of  the  intoxicating  cup  of 
pleasure.      Then   the   omnibusses    roll   with 
ceaseless  din  in  every  direction  out  of  the 
crowded  capital,  carrying  the  delighted  citi- 
zens to  St.  Cloud,  St.  Germains,  or  "Versailles, 
the  Ginguctles  of  Belleville,  or  the  gardens  of 
Vincennes;    then  the  Boulevards   teem  with 
volatile  and  happy  crowds,  delighted  by  the 

♦  In  this,  as  in  many  other  rcspncts,  a  most  gratifying 
change  has,  since  1833,  begun  in  France. 


FRANCE  IN  1833. 


145 


enjoyment  of  seeing  and  being  seen  ;  then  the 
gardens  of  the  Tuileries  and  the  Luxembourg, 
the  Jardiu  des  Plantes,  and  the  Champs  Ely- 
sees,  are  enlivened  with  the  young,  the  gay,  and 
the  handsome,  of  both  sexes,  both  rich  and 
poor;  then  the  splendid  drive  to  the  triumphal 
arch  of  Neuille,  is  filled  with  the  comparative- 
ly few  equipages  which  the  two  Revolutions 
have  left  to  the  impoverished  hotels  of  the 
capital.  While  these  scenes  of  ga)'-ety  and 
amusement  are  going  on,  the  priests  in  each 
of  the  principal  churches  are  devoutly  per- 
forming mass  before  a  few  hundred  old  wo- 
men, tottering  ecclesiastics,  or  j^oung  children, 
and  ten  or  fifteen  Protestant  churches  are  as- 
sembling as  many  thousands  to  the  duties  of 
the  reformed  faith.  Such  is  a  Parisian  Sun- 
day; and  such  the  respect  for  a  divine  ordi- 
nance, which  remains  in  what  they  ambi- 
tiously call  the  metropolis  of  European  civili- 
zation. 

As  evening  draws  on,  the  total  disregard  of 
religious  observance  is,  if  possible,  still  more 
conspicuous.  Never  is  ihe  opera  filled  with 
such  enthusiastic  crowds  as  on  Sunday  even- 
ing;— never  are  the  theatres  of  the  Port  St. 
Martin,  the  Boulevards,  the  Opera  Comique, 
the  Vaudeville  and  the  Varietes,  so  full  as  on 
that  occasion  ; — never  are  the  balls  beyond  the 
barriers  so  crowded  ; — never  is  Tivoli  so  en- 
livening, or  the  open  air  concerts  in  the 
Champs  Elysees  .thronged  by  so  many  thou- 
sands. On  Sunday  evening  in  Paris  there 
seems  to  be  but  one  wish,  one  feeling,  one 
desire, — and  that  is,  to  amuse  themselves ;  and 
by  incessantly  labouring  at  that  one  object, 
they  certainly  succeed  in  it  to  an  extent  that 
could  hardly  be  credited  in  colder  and  more 
austere  latitudes. 

The  condition  of  the  clergy  over  France  is, 
generally  speaking,  depressed  and  indigent  in 
the  extreme.  The  Constituent  Assembly,  who 
decreed  the  annexation  of  the  whole  property 
of  the  church  to  the  state,  and  declared  "  that 
they  intrusted  the  due  maintenance  of  reli- 
gion and  the  succour  of  the  poor  to  the  honour 
of  the  great  nation,"  redeemed  their  pledge,  by 
giving  most  of  the  incumbents  of  the  rural 
parishes  from  48/.  to  GOl.  a  year.  Bishops 
have  6000  francs,  or  240/.,  yearly.  The  arch- 
bishop of  Paris  alone  has  600/.  In  some  of 
the  town  parishes,  the  incumbents,  from  sub- 
sequent endowments  or  adventitious  sources, 
have  from  200/.  to  300/.  per  annum ;  but,  ge- 
nerally speaking,  their  income,  in  the  richest 
parishes,  varies  from  80/.  a  year  to  120/.;  in 
the  poorest,  it  is  only  from  40/.  to  50/.  It  may 
safely  be  affirmed,  that  the  clergy  of  France, 
taken  as  a  body,  are  poorer  than  the  school- 
masters of  England  and  Scotland. 

The  efi!"ect  of  this  is  seen  in  the  most  striking 
manner  in  the  appearance  of  the  rural  land- 
scape of  France.  You  generally,  in  the  vil- 
lages, see  a  parish  church,  the  bequest  to  the 
nation  of  the  pious  care  of  their  forefathers ; 
but  great  numbers  of  tjiese  are  in  a  ruinous 
or  tottering  condition.  There  is  an  evident 
want  of  any  funds  to  keep  them  up.  The 
most  trifling  repairs  of  a  church,  as  every 
"thing  else  in  France,  must  be  executed  by  the 
government;  and  the  ministers  of  Louis 
10 


Philippe  seem  to  think  that  this  is  one  of  the 
articles  upon  which  economy  can  best  be 
practised.  But  a  parsonage-house,  or  any 
sort  of  separate  residence  for  the  cure,  is 
never  to  be  seen.  He  is,  in  general,  boarded 
in  the  houses  of  some  farmer  or  small  pro- 
prietor;  and  in  habits,  society,  education, 
manners,  and  rank  of  life,  is  in  no  respect 
above  the  peasantry  by  Avhom  he  is  sur- 
rounded. 

It  is  not  to  be  imagined  from  this,  however, 
that  the  country  clergy  are  either  ignorant  or 
inattentive  to  their  sacred  duties ;  on  the  con- 
traiy,  they  are  most  assiduous  in  discharging 
them,  and  are,  in  general,  justly  endeared  to 
their  flocks,  not  only  by  an  irreproachable  life, 
but  the  most  constant  and  winning  attentions. 

It  would  be  unjust  to  expect  in  them  the 
high  education,  gentlemanlike  manners,  or 
enlightened  views  of  the  English  clergj';  or 
the  more  discursive  but  useful  information 
which  is  to  be  met  with  in  the  manses  of  the 
Presbyterian  ministers  in  Scotland.  We  must 
not  expect  to  see  either  Hebers,  or  Copple- 
stones,  or  Bucklands,  or  Blairs,  or  Robertsons, 
or  Chalmerses,  in  the  modern  churclj  of  France. 
The  race  of  Bossuet  and  Fenelon,  of  Massil- 
Ion  and  Bourdaloue,  of  Flechier  and  Saurin. 
of  Pascal  and  Malebranche,  is  extinct.  The 
church  is  cast  down  into  an  inferior  class  in 
society.  No  one  would  make  his  son  an  ec- 
clesiastic, who  could  obtain  for  him  a  situation 
in  a  grocer's  shop.  But,  in  the  present  state 
of  the  country,  it  is  perhaps  as  well  that  this 
is  the  case.  The  reformation  of  the  corrupted 
higher  orders  in  the  towns,  is  out  of  the  ques- 
tion ;  and  if  a  priesthood,  drawn  from  their 
ranks,  were  to  be  established,  it  would  speedily 
draw  to  itself  such  a  load  of  infidel  obloquy, 
as  would  lead  to  its  destruction.  Bat  the  poor 
and  humble  parish  priests  are  overlooked  and 
despised  by  the  arrogant  liberals  in  possession 
of  oflice  and  power;  and,  like  their  predeces- 
sors in  the  apostolic  ages,  they  are,  unob- 
served, laying  the  foundation  of  a  spirit 
destined,  in  a  future  age,  to  overturn  the  insti- 
tutions of  their  haughty  oppressors,  and  efl^ect 
that  real  regeneration  of  society,  which  can 
be  found  only  in  the  reformation  of  the  morals 
and  principles  of  its  members.* 

The  abject  poverty  of  the  rural  clergy  in 
most  parts  of  the  rural  districts  of  France, 
is  a  most  painful  object  of  contemplation  to  an 
English  traveller.  There  is  scarce  any  pro- 
vision for  them  in  sickness  or  old  age ;  and 
when  they  are  compelled,  by  either  of  these 
causes,  to  divide  their  scanty  income  with  a 
more  robust  assistant,  their  condition  becomes 
truly  pitiable.  In  most  cathedral  churches  is 
to  be  seen  a  box,  with  the  inscription  "  Tronc 
pour  les  malheureux  pretres ;"  a  few  sous  are 
thankfully  received  by  the  religious  teachers 
of  the  great  nation.  One  of  these  boxes  is  to 
be  seen  on  the  pillars  of  Notre  Dame ;  another 
under  the  gorgeous  aisle  of  Rouen ;  a  third  in 
the  graceful  choir  of  Amiens ;  a  fourth  dis- 
graces the  generation  who  pass  under  the 
splendid  portals  of  Rheims,  and  »  *'lh,  that 


*The  chanje  here  predicted  has  since  taken  place  W 
a  great  extent  in  France. 


us 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


\ 


which  points  with  deserved  pride  to  the  match- 
.ess  Tiiwer  of  Cliarlres. 

A  supeificial  observer  who  should  judge  of 
the  relii,'ious  state  of  France  from  the  appear- 
ance of  its  great  towns,  however,  would  be  far 
wide  of  the  truth.  It  is  a  total  mistake  to  sup- 
pose that  devotion  is  extinct,  or  in  the  process 
of  extinction  among  its  country  inhabitants.  It 
is  in  the  great  towns  that  infidelit}^  reigns  tri- 
umphant;— it  is  among  the  young,  the  active, 
and  the  profligate  citizens  of  despotic  Paris, 
that  religion  is  the  subject  of  ridicule.  It  is  true 
this  class  are  now  in  the  exclusive  possession 
of  political  power;  it  is  true  several  hundred 
thousand  of  them  are  dispersed  over  the  mighty 
net  which  envelopes  France  in  the  meshes  of 
the  capital ;  it  is  true  that  they  direct  literature, 
and  influence  thought,  and  stamp  its  character 
upon  the  nation,  in  the  estimation  of  foreign 
states :  slill  they  are  not  in  possession  of  the 
mighty  lever  which  directs  the  feelings  of  the 
rural  inhabitants.  As  long  as  forty-eight  thou- 
sand parish  priests,  overlooked  from  their  po- 
verty, despised  from  their  obscurity,  contempt- 
ible to  this  world  from  their  limited  information, 
are  incessantly  and  assiduously  employed  in 
diflfusing  religious  belief  through  the  peasantry, 
the  extirpation  of  Christianity  in  France  is  im- 
possible. Its  foundations  are  spreading  the 
deeper — its  influences  becoming  more  para- 
mount in  the  uncorrupted  provinces,  from  the 
total  neglect  into  which  it  has  fallen  with  the 
influential  classes  in  the  capital.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  enter  any  parish  church  in  any  part 
of  the  provinces,  Avilhout  being  sensible  that  a 
large  and  increasing  portion  of  the  peasantry  are 
Strongly  and  profoundly  impressed  with  reli- 
gious feelings.  In  this  state  of  things,  the  eye 
of  philanthropy,  without  pretending  to  the  gift 
of  prophecy,  can  perhaps  discern  the  elements 
brewing  which  are  destined,  in  some  future  age, 
to  produce  another  Revolution, — an  insur- 
rection of  the  provinces  against  the  capital, 
— a  real  regeneration  of  society,  by  the  infusion 
of  rural  simplicity  and  virtue  into  urban  cor- 
ruption and  degeneracy, — a  termination  of  the 
convulsion,  which  commenced  by  casting  down 
religion,  in  the  triumph  of  the  faith  which  ga- 
thers strength  from  misfortune.  But  whether 
this  is  to  be  the  final  result,  or  whether,  as  is 
perhaps  more  probable,  the  utter  prostration 
of  the  internal  liberties  of  the  nation,  through 
the  consequences  of  the  Revolution,  is  to  lead 
to  the  loss  of  its  external  independence,  and 
the  regeneration  of  southern  weakness  by  a 
race  of  northern  conquerors  ;  one  thing  is  cer- 
tain, and  may  be  confidently  prophesied,  that 
France  will  never  know  what  real  freedom  is, 
till  her  institutions  are  founded  on  the  basis  of 
religion,  and  that  with  the  triumph  of  the  faith 
which  her  Liberals  abhor,  and  have  cast  down, 
is  indissolubly  wound  up  the  accomplishment 
of  the  objects  which  they  profess  to  have  at 
heart. 

The  Morals  of  France  are  in  the  state  which 
might  be  expected  in  a  country  which  has  bro- 
ken asunder  all  the  bonds  of  society,  and  de- 
spises all  the  precepts  of  religion.  Pleasure 
und  excitement  are  the  general  subjects  of 
jdolatrj' — money,  as  the  key  to  them,  the  uni- 
vTsal  object.     This  desire  for  wealth  is  per- 


haps more  strongly  felt  in  Paris,  and  forms 
the  great  passion  of  life  more  completely,  than 
in  any  other  capital  in  Europe,  because  there 
are  more  objects  of  desire  presented  to  the  en< 
tranced  senses  which  cannot  be  gained  in  any 
other  way  ;  and  of  the  prevalence  of  this  desire 
the  great  extent  of  its  gaming-houses  affords 
ample  proof.  But  money  is  not  the  object  of 
desire  to  the  Parisian,  as  to  the  Dutchman  or 
Englishman,  from  any  abstract  passion  for  ac- 
cumulation, or  any  wish  to  transmit,  by  a  life 
of  economy,  an  ample  patrimony  to  his  ch:.- 
dren.  It  is  for  the  sake  of  present  and  immedi- 
ate gratification ;  that  he  may  go  more  fre- 
quently to  the  opera,  or  indulge  more  liberally 
in  the  pleasures  of  the  Ginguette  ;  that  his  wife 
and  daughters  may  be  more  gaily  dressed  on 
Sundays,  and  their  Tivoli  parties  be  more  bril- 
liant, that  money  is  so  passionately  coveted. 
The  efforts  made  b)''  all  classes  to  gain  a  live- 
lihood, and  the  prodigious  obstacles  which 
competition  throws  in  their  M-ay,  are  perhaps 
greater  in  Paris  than  in  any  other  metropolis 
of  Europe.  "  Quwrenda  est  pecunia  primum, 
virtus  post  nummos,"  is  the  general  maxim  of 
life.  But  still  there  is  little  accumulation  of 
capital,  comparatively  speaking,  within  its 
walls.  As  fast  as  money  is  made,  it  is  spent; 
either  in  the  multifarious  objects  of  desire  which 
are  everywhere  presented  to  the  sight,  or  in 
the  purchase  of  rentes,  or  government  annui- 
ties, which  die  with  the  holders.  The  propor- 
tion of  annuitants  in  France  is  incomparably 
greater  than  in  England ;  and  the  destitution 
of  families  from  the  loss  of  their  head,  exists 
to  a  painful  and  unheard  of  extent. 

Pleasure  and  excitement  are  the  universal 
objects  ;  the  maxims  of  Epicurus  the  general 
observance.  To  enjoy  the  passing  hour — to 
snatch  from  existence  all  the  roses  Avhich  it 
will  afford,  and  disquiet  themselves  as  little  as 
possible  about  its  thorns,  is  the  grand  principle 
of  life.  The  state  of  Paris  in  this  respect  has 
been  well  described  by  a  late  enlightened  and 
eloquent  author — 

"  Paris  is  no  longer  a  city  which  belongs  to 
any  one  nation  or  people:  it  is  in  many  re- 
spects the  metropolis  of  the  world ;  the  ren- 
dezvous of  all  the  rich,  all  the  voluptuous  on 
the  face  of  the  earth.  For  them  its  artists,  as- 
sembled from  every  quarter  of  Europe,  imagine 
or  invent  every  day  fresh  objects  of  excitement 
or  desire ;  for  them  they  build  theatres,  and 
multiply  indefinitely  all  the  ephemeral  novel- 
ties calculated  to  rouse  the  senses  and  stimu- 
late expense.  There  every  thing  may  be  pur- 
chased, and  that  too  under  the  most  alluring 
form.  Gold  is  the  only  divinity  which  is  wor- 
shipped in  that  kingdom  of  pleasure,  and  it  is 
indilTerent  from  what  hand  it  flows.  It  is  in 
that  centre  of  enjoyment  that  all  the  business 
of  France  is  done — that  all  its  wealth  is 
expended,  and  the  fruit  of  its  toil  from  one 
end  of  the  kingdom  to  the  other  brought  to  the 
great  central  mart  of  pleasure.  The  proprie- 
tor wrings  the  last  farthing  out  of  his  soil — the 
merchant,  the  notary,  the  advocate,  flock  there 
from  all  quarters  to  sell  their  capital,  their  re- 
venue, their  virtue,  or  their  talents,  for  plea- 
sure of  every  description,  which  a  thousand 
artists  iiourtray  in  the  most  s-^ducing  colours 


FRANCE  IN  1833. 


147 


to  a  nation  famishing  for  enjoyment.  And  it 
is  from  that  corrnpted  centi-e  that  we  are  told 
the  regeneration  of  the  state,  the  progress  of 
independence  and  liberty,  is  to  flow."* 

As  pleasure  and  excitement  are  thus  the 
universal  objects,  it  may  readily  be  conceived 
what  facilities  are  afibrded  in  the  French  me- 
tropolis for  their  gratification.  The  gaming- 
houses, accordingly,  are  innumerable;  and 
above  a  third  of  the  children  b»rn  within  the 
barriers  are  bastards.f  But  those  who  look 
for  excitation  of  that  description,  will  not  find 
in  Paris  any  thing  approaching  to  the  open 
and  undisguised  profligacy  of  London.  There 
is  nothing  in  its  public  places  approaching  to 
the  saloons  of  Drury  Lane,  or  the  upper  circles 
of  Covent  Garden ;  the  Strand  and  Regent 
Street  at  night  are  infested  in  a  way  unknown 
even  in  the  Boulevards  Italiens,  or  the  Rue  de 
Richelieu.  The  two  Revolutions  have  organized 
Ucoitioiisncss.  Having  become  the  great  object 
of  life,  and,  as  it  were,  the  staple  commodity 
of  the  capital,  it  has  fallen  under  the  direction 
of  the  police.  Bicnseance  and  decoi'um  are 
there  the  order  of  the  daj^  The  sirens  of 
pleasure  are  confined  to  a  few  minor  theatres, 
and  particular  quarters  of  the  town ;  they 
abound  in  every  street,  almost  in  every  house; 
but  they  can  openly  ply  their  vocation  in  ap- 
pointed districts  only.  Even  the  Palais  Royal, 
the  cradle  of  both  Revolutions,  has  been  purged 
of  the  female  anarchists  who  were  their  first 
supporters.  This  is  certainly  a  very  great 
improvement,  well  worthy  of  imitation  on  the 
British  side  of  the  Channel.  Youth  and 
timidity  are  not  openly  assailed  as  they  are  in 
English  great  towns,  and,  though  those  who 
seek  for  dissipation  will  meet  with  it  in 
abundance,  it  is  not,  willing  or  unwilling, 
thrust  down  their  throats.  It  is  possible,  in 
the  Quartier  de  I'Universite  and  remoter  parts 
of  Pari?,  for  young  men  to  pursue  their  stu- 
dies, infinitely  more  clear  of  temptation  than 
either  at  the  London  University  or  King's 
College. 

But  while  these  advantages  must  be  con- 
ceded to  the  organization  and  arrangements  of 
the  French  police  on  the  one  hand,  it  is  not 
the  less  certain,  on  the  other,  that  all  these  fair 
appearances  are  merely  skin-deep,  and  that 
imder  this  thin  disguise  is  half  concealed  a 
mass  of  licentiousness  probably  impreceden  ted 
in  any  modern  state.  Cei-tainly,  never  since 
the  da}"s  of  the  Roman  emperors,  was  pleasure 
so  uncear.irgly  pursued  by  both  sexes,  as  it  is 
now  at  Paris ;  or  such  efforts  made  to  heighten 
tiatural  desire  by  forced  excitement,  or  talent 
and  art  so  openly  called  in  to  lend  their  aid  to 
the  cause  of  licentiousness.  Profligate  books 
and  prints  exist  everywhere;  but  in  other 
capitals,  they  must  be  sought  after  to  be 
found,  and  where  they  are,  their  character  and 
appearance  show  that  they  are  meant  for  the 
brutal  classes,  or  the  higher  orders  in  their 
moments  of  brutality,  only.  But  in  Paris  the 
case  is  the  reverse.  The  treasures  of  know- 
led  2'e,  the  elegance  of  art,  the  fascination  of 
genius,  are  daily  and  hourly  employed  in  the 
<ause  of  corruption ;  and  of  them  may  truly 

*  General  Donnadieii,  270 — 271. 

I  Dupin's  Force  Cominerciale,  p.  40. 


be  said,  what  Mr.  Burke  falsely  affirmed  of  th«» 
old  French  manners,  that  "  vice  has  lost  half 
its  deformity  by  having  lost  all  its  grossness." 
The  delicacy  and  beauty  of  these  productions, 
as  well  as  their  amazing,  number,  prove  that 
they  find  a  ready  sale  with  the  higher  as  well 
as  the  lower  orders.  They  have  discovered 
the  truth  of  the  old  maxim,  "Ars  est  celare 
artem."  Voluptuousness  is  more  surely  at- 
tained by  being  half  disguised  ;  and  corruption 
spreads  the  more  securely,  from  having  cast 
aside  every  thing  calculated  to  disgust  its  un- 
hardened  votaries.  The  arts  of  lithography 
and  printing  go  hand  in  hand  in  this  refmed 
and  elegant  system  of  demoralization  ;  the 
effusions  of  genius,  the  beauty  of  design,  the 
richness  of  colouring,  are  employed  together 
to  throw  an  entrancing  light  over  the  scenes 
of  profligacy,  and  the  ordinary  seductions  of  a 
great  capital,  heightened  by  all  that  taste  or 
art  can  suggest  to  stimulate  the  passions — 
emblematic  of  the  mixed  good  and  evil  which 
has  resulted  from  these  great  inventions,  and 
the  prodigious  force  they  have  given  to  the 
solvents  of  vice  in  one  age,  as  well  as  the 
hardening  principles  of  virtue  in  another. 

It  is  observed  by  Montesquieu,  that  honour, 
as  the  national  principle,  is  more  durable  in 
its  nature  than  either  virtue  or  religion;  and 
the  present  state  of  Paris  contrasted  with  the 
military  character  of  the  French  aflbrds  a 
strong  confirmation  of  the  observation.  The 
incessant  ptirsuit  of  pleasure  by  both  sexes, 
has  in  every  age  been  the  grand  solvent  which 
has  melted  away  the  principle  of  military  vir- 
tue ;  and  the  reason  is  obvious,  because  those 
whose  chief  object  is  selfish  gratification  can- 
not endure  the  fatigues  and  the  privations 
attendant  on  military  exploits.  There  cannot 
be  a  doubt  that  this  destroying  principle  is  in 
full  operation  in  the  French  capital  ;  but 
though  it  has  completely  eaten  through  the 
safeguards  of  religion  and  virtue,  it  has  hither- 
to left  undecayed  the  passion  for  military  dis- 
tinction. The  extraordinary  strength  which 
this  principle  has  acquired  in  modern  Europe 
in  general,  and  France  in  particular,  from  the 
feudal  institutions,  and  the  great  development 
which  it  received  from  the  wars  of  the  Revolu- 
tion and  the  triumphs  of  Napoleon,  have,  to  all 
appearance,  withstood  the  enervating  influence 
of  a  corrupting  ingredient  which  proved  fatal 
to  the  courage  of  Greece  and  Rome  ;  but  it  is 
not  the  less  certain  that  it  will  ultimately  sink 
before  its  influence.  It  is  by  not  elevating  our 
minds  to  the  slow  progress  of  all  such  great 
changes,  that  we  are  at  all  misled  on  any  oc- 
casion as  to  their  progress,  or  the  efibct  on 
public  fortune  of  the  principles  of  decay,  Avhich 
spring  from  the  progress  of  private  corruption. 
The  alteration,  like  the  decline  of  the  day  in 
autumn,  is  imperceptible  from  day  to  day;  but 
it  becomes  quite  apparent  if  we  contrast  one 
period  or  age  of  the  world  with  another.  Com- 
pare the  age  of  Regulus  or  Scipio,  with  that  of 
Constantine  or  Honorius  ;  or  that  of  the  Lom- 
bard Lcagite  M'ith  the  present  pusillanimity  of 
the  Italian  people ;  and  the  prostration  of  na- 
tional strength  by  the  growth  of  private  selfish 
ness  is  obvious  to  the  most  careless  observer 
The  French  Revolution  is  not  destined  io  form 


148 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


an  exception  to  the  general  law ;  its  fortunes 
will  be  ultimately  destroyed  by  the  efiects  of 
Ihe  poisoned  source  from  M'hich  they  sprung; 
the  conquests  of  its  authors  will  be  lost  by 
their  inability  to  conquer  themselves.  Both 
revolutions  have  begun  in  the  Palais  Royal, 
the  ver)''  focus  of  corruption  from  every  part 
of  France ;  and  through  every  stage  of  their 
progress,  both  have  given  unequivocal  proofs 
of  their  impure  origin.  Let  the  friends  of  reli- 
gion and  virtue  be  of  good  cheer ;  no  institu- 
tions founded  on  such  a  basis  were  ever  yet 
durable ;  the  French  Revolution  began  in  the 
haunts  of  profligacy,  and  they  have  spread  in 
it  the  seeds  of  mortality  which  will  bring  it  to 
the  grave. 

Next  to  sexual  profligacy,  gaming  is  par 
excellence  the  grand  vice  of  Paris ;  and  it,  like 
every  other  principle  of  evil,  has  made  rapid 
and  fearful  progress  since  the  Three  Days.  No 
attempts  whatever  are  made  to  restrain  it ;  on 
the  contrary,  it  is  taken  under  the  safeguard 
of  the  police,  and  a  tax  levied  on  its  profits,  as 
on  those  of  prostitution,  which  constitutes  a 
considerable  part  of  the  municipal  revenue. 
The  prodigious  number  of  suicides  which 
occur  in  Paris,  amounting  on  an  average  to 
above  one  a  night,  frequently  to  a  great  deal 
more,  chiefly  spring  from  the  despair  produced 
by  the  inordinate  passion  for  this  vice.  Unlike 
what  generally  occurs  in  England,  it  exists 
equally  among  the  poorest  as  the  richest 
classes ;  their  hells  are  open  for  the  sous  of 
the  labourer  or  the  francs  of  the  artisan,  as 
well  as  the  Napoleon  of  the  officer  or  the 
rouleaux  of  the  banker.  They  are  to  be  met 
•with  in  every  street ;  they  spread  their  devas- 
tating influence  through  every  workshop  and 
manufactory  in  Paris.  This  perilous  vice,  like 
that  of  sexual  profligacy,  is  the  natural  result 
of  a  successful  levolution ;  of  the  demolition 
of  all  restraint  on  the  passions,  which  has 
arisen  from  silencing  the  voice  of  religion, 
and  the  bounty  offered  to  instant  excitement, 
by  the  uncertainty  in  regard  to  the  future, 
which  the  destruction  of  all  the  institutions  of 
society  inevitably  produces.* 

In  one  particular,  however,  the  French  capi- 
tal offers  a  pleasing  contrast  to  every  con- 
siderable town  in  the  British  isles.  Drunken- 
ness, though  considerably  more  prevalent  than 
formerly,  does  not  exist  in  France  to  an  extent 
at  all  comparable  to  what  it  does  in  England  ; 
and  hence  the  manners  of  the  lower  orders, 
notwithstanding  all  the  anarchy  of  the  Revo- 
lution, are  not  half  so  coarse  and  brutal  as  in 
our  great  manufacturing  towns.  In  truth,  the 
extraordinary  progress  of  this  frightful  vice  in 
Great  Britain,  since  the  reduction  of  the  duty 
on  spirits  and  the  abolition  of  the  beer  tax,f 
is  one  of  the  most  woful  circumstances  in  our 
social  condition,  and  Avhich,  if  not  rapidly 
checked  by  a  proper  set  of  fiscal  regulations, 
promises  soon  to  plunge  our  labouring  classes 

•  A  Croat  cliango  in  tliis  rospcct  has  since  hcen  made 
\iy  tli«  authority  and  interposition  of  ynvorntnent,  after 
the  evil  here  described  liad  heconic  intohjrable. 

t  Nothing  eve-  cave  us  more  pleasure  than  to  observe 
from  a  late  Parliamentary  ri^turn,  that,  since  tlie  sliiiht 
addition  to  the  duty  on  spirits  in  1H30,  the  inanufacturt- 
nf  the  fiery  poison  has  declined  in  ticolland,  1,300,000 
gallons  yearly. 


into  a  state  of  depravity  unparalleled  in  any 
Christian  state.  Drunkenness,  if  seen  in  public 
at  Paris,  is  at  once  punished  by  the  police, 
and  the  prodigious  number  of  civil  and  mili- 
tary employes  who  are  to  be  met  with  in  every 
street  at  night,  renders  it  impossible  for  the 
inebriated  to  indulge  in  those  disgraceful 
brawls  which  then  disgrace  every  English 
city.  The  abstinence  from  this  vice  depends 
chiefly  on  constitutional  causes,  the  warmth 
of  the  climate,  which  renders  the  excitement 
of  intoxication  not  so  desirable  as  in  northern 
latitudes ;  but  much  is  to  be  ascribed  also  to 
the  happy  custom  of  levying  a  heavy  duty 
(a  franc  a  bottle)  on  wine  imported  into  the 
metropolis, — a  burden  which  banishes  intoxi- 
cation in  a  great  degree  to  the  outside  of  the 
barriers,  and  confines  it  to  the  days  when  a 
walk  to  those  remote  stations  can  be  under- 
taken by  the  working  classes.  Would  that  a 
similar  burden  existed  on  all  spirits  imported 
into  the  towns  in  Great  Britain ! 

The  state  of  Literatuhe,  especially  those 
lighter  branches  of  it  which  exhibit  the  faith- 
ful picture  of  the  public  feeling  and  ideas,  is 
equally  instructive  since  the  Three  Days.  It  is 
difficult  to  convey  to  an  English  reader,  un- 
acquainted with  the  modern  French  novels, 
any  adequate  idea  of  the  extraordinary  mix- 
ture which  they  exhibit;  and  they  present 
perhaps  the  most  convincing  proof  which  the 
history  of  fiction  affords,  of  the  indispensable 
necessity  of  fixed  principles  in  religion  and 
virtue  to  restrain  the  otherwise  inordinate  flight 
of  the  human  imagination. 

It  was  long  the  fashion  with  the  apologists 
of  the  Revolution  to  assert  that  public  morals 
had  improved  during  its  progress ;   that  the 
license  and  profligacy  of  the  days  of  Louis 
XV.  and  the  Regent  Orleans  would  no  longer 
be   tolerated;   and   that  with  the   commence- 
ment of  higher  duties  and  the  growth  of  severer 
principles,  the    licentiousness  which   had  so 
long  disgraced  the  French  literature  had  for 
ever  disappeared.  The  present  state  of  French 
novels  may  show,  whether  a  successful  Revo- 
lution, and  the  annihilation  of  all  the  fetters 
of  religion,  is  the  way  to  regenerate  such  a 
corrupted  mass.  Having  lost  nothing  of  former 
profligacy,  having  abated  nothing  of  former 
infidelity,  they  have  been  tinged  by  the  fierce 
passions  and  woful  catastrophes  which  arose 
during  the  first  Revolution.  Romance  has  now 
become  blended  with  sensuality;  German  ex- 
travagance with  French   licentiousness;  the 
demons  of  the  air  with  the  corruptions  of  the 
world.     The  modern  French  novels  are  not 
one  whit  less  profligate  than  those  of  Louis 
XV.,  but  they  are  infinitely  more  extravagant, 
wild,  and  revolting.    To  persons  whose  minds 
have  as  yet  been  only  partially  shaken  by 
the  terrible  catastrophes  of  a  revolution,  it  is 
hardly  conceivable  how  such  extravagant  fic- 
tions should  ever  have   entered  the   human 
imagination.  They  are  poured  forth,  however, 
with  unbounded  profusion   by  their  moder.i 
novelists,  and  passionately  read  by  a  genera- 
tion whose  avidity  for   strong  emotions  and 
vivid    excitement,   whether    from   terror,  as- 
tonishment, despair,  or  licentiousness,  seems 
to  know  no  bounds. 


FRANCE  IN  1833. 


14» 


The  limits  of  an  Essay,  such  as  this,  embrac- 
ing such  a  variety  of  objects,  thoug-h  few  more 
important,  forbid  us  from  attempting  what  we 
intended,  and  possibly  may  hereafter  resume 
— an  analysis  of  some  of  these  extravagant 
and  detestable,  though  often  able  and  power- 
ful publications.  Suffice  it  to  say,  tliat  the 
basis  of  almost  the  whole  of  them  is  adultery, 
or  other  guilty  and  extravagant  sensual  pas- 
sion ;  and  they  generally  terminate  in  suicide, 
or  some  such  horrid  catastrophe.  On  details 
of  this  description  they  dwell  with  minute  and 
often  coarse  avidity;  but  it  is  by  no  means 
with  such  passions  that  they  are  solely  filled ; 
they  have  also  borrowed  largely  from  Gfennan 
fiction  and  extravagance,  from  Catholic  legends 
and  superstition,  from  feudal  manners  and 
oppression,  from  chivalrous  adventure  and 
exploits.  They  form  what  may  be  styled  the 
Romantic  Licentious  School  of  Fiction.  Murders 
and  robberies,  rapes  and  conflagrations,  the 
guillotine  and  the  scaflTold,  demons  and  guar- 
dian angels,  confessors  and  confidants,  Satan 
and  St.  Michael,  ghosts,  wizards,  incest,  sen- 
suality, parricides,  suicides,  and  every  kind 
of  extravagance,  are  thrown  together  in  wild 
confusion;  but  the  general  result  is  ruinous 
to  every  species  of  regular  or  virtuous  con- 
duct, and  may  be  considered  as  affording  a 
specimen  of  the  frame  of  mind  in  which  the 
victims  who  are  shortly  after  stretched  out  on 
the  Morgue,  rush  from  the  gambling-houses 
in  the  Palais  Royal,  to  drown  the  chaos  of 
contending  passions  in  the  waters  of  the  Seine.* 

The  dramatic  pieces  which  have  sprung  up 
since  the  Revolution  of  1830,  afford  the  same 
extraordinary  picture  of  the  confusion  of  ideas, 
feelings,  and  emotions,  in  which  the  French 
youth  are  involved  since  they  pushed  out  to  a 
stormy  sea  without  either  compass  or  rudder. 
They  almost  all  turn  upon  adultery,  incest,  or 
some  such  elegant  and  chastened  depravity; 
but  of  the  chaos  of  extravagance,  fiction, 
allegory,  vice,  and  horror  which  they  present, 
it  is  impossible  to  convey  any  idea.  Some  of 
them,  particularly  "  La  Reine  d'Espagne,"  have 
been  hissed  from  the  stage,  as  too  bad  even 
for  a  Parisian  audience.  From  others,  as  "La 
Tentation,"  the  most  obnoxious  scenes,  in  one 
of  which  a  rape  was  represented  almost  be- 
fore tiie  eyes  of  the  spectators,  have  been 
dropped  out.  But  still  they  are  in  general  so 
extravagant,  indelicate,  and  licentious,  that  it 
is  impossible  to  speak  of  them  in  terms  of 
sufficient  reprobation ;  and  the  most  respecta- 
ble writers  of  France,  of  the  Liberal  school, 
regard  them  with  a  degree  of  horror  e\^en  sur- 
passing that  which  they  excite  in  the  mind  of 
an  English  spectator.  "  If  its  literature,"  says 
Salvandy, "  is  to  be  regarded  as  the  expression 
of  national  character,  not  a  hope  remains  for 
France.  It  is  stained  with  every  species  of 
corruption;  its  fundamental  principle  is  to 
attack  every  sentiment  and  interest  of  which 

•So  monstrous  have  the  extravagances  hecome,  that 
they  have  excited  the  attention  even  of  the  steadiest 
.ipolo!;istsof  the  French  Revolution  ;  and  tiie  Edinlmrch 
Review,  in  a  recent  nunilier,  has  borne  the  candid 
testimony  of  an  iinwilline  witness  to  tlie  demoralizing 
effects  of  their  favourite  political  principles.  S('(;  the 
Late  French  Novelists,  in  No.  110  of  the  Edinburgh 
Review. 


the  social  order  is  composed.  You  would  sup» 
pose  that  it  was  resolutely  bent  on  restoring 
to  France  all  the  vices  which  it  had  imbibed 
at  the  close  of  the  last  century.  A  sort  of 
dogmatic  cynicism  :as  inva/'-d  all  its  depart- 
ments. If,  on  the  strength  of  a  name  of 
celebrity,  or  the  daily  eulogies  of  the  press, 
you  venture  to  a  theatre,  you  see  represented 
scenes  where  the  dignity  of  the  one  sex  is  as 
much  outraged  as  the  modesty  of  the  other. 
Everywhere  the  same  sort  of  spectacles  await 
you.  There  is  a  class  which  they  keep  as  yet 
behind  the  curtain,  contenting  themselves  with 
announcing  atrocities  which  the  public  are 
not  yet  prepared  to  bear.  Romance  has  already 
given  the  example  of  this  depraved  species  of 
composition.  The  muse  now  makes  use  of 
obscenities,  as  formerly  it  did  of  passion.  What 
is  to  follow  when  tragedy  and  romance  have 
exhausted  their  brief  career,  God  only  knows. 
When  they  have  ceased  to  illuminate  these 
hideous  orgies,  the  lights  of  literature  will  be 
extinguished."* 

To  give  some  idea  of  these  extraordinary 
productions  which  now  are  represented  with 
such  prodigious  success  at  the  Parisian  thea- 
tres, we  shall  give  an  abstract  of  two  of  the 
most  unexceptionable,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
the  most  popular  pieces  which  have  appeared 
at  the  opera  since  the  Revolution  of  July,  "La 
Tentation,"  and  "Robert  Le  Diable."  We 
have  selected  the  most  delicate  which  fell 
under  our  observation ;  the  pieces  represented 
at  the  minor  theatres  could  not  be  borne  even 
in  the  decent  guise  of  an  English  description. 

The  first  of  these,  which,  in  splendour  of 
decoration,  exceeds  any  thing  yet  represented 
even  in  that  most  splendid  of  European  theatres, 
turns  upon  the  well-k'nown  legend  of  the  Temp- 
tation of  St.  Anthony;  but  it  is  so  altered  and 
vai'ied  to  admit  their  varied  and  extravagant 
corruptions,  that  it  is  hardly  possible  to  re- 
cognise in  it  the  simple  tale  which  has  been  so 
often  immortalized  by  the  pencil  of  Teniers. 

The  piece  opens  with  the  saint  reposing  on 
his  pallet  at  the  gate  of  a  solitary  chapel,  de- 
dicated to  the  Virgin  Mary,  and  crowds  of  pil- 
grims of  both  sexes  arrive  at  the  shrine  to  offer 
up  their  vows ;  after  which,  they  join  in  festive 
amusements,  and  the  (/ajjscMscs,  arrayed  as  pea- 
sant girls,  dance  round  the  anchorite  with  such 
graceful  motions,  that  he  is  tempted  to  indulge 
in  a  little  waltz  with  the  fairest  of  these  daugh- 
ters of  Eve.  Shortly  after,  when  they  have 
retired,  a  young  woman  of  extraordinary  beauty 
comes  along  to  the  shrine;  dazzled  by  her 
charms,  and  encouraged  by  the  opportunity 
which  the  solitude  of  the  situation  afforded,  he 
forms  the  design  of  seduction,  and  is  endea.-our 
ing  to  carry  his  intentions  into  effect,  when 
she  flies  to  the  chapel  of  the  Virgin,  and  shriek- 
ing, implores  her  powerful  aid  to  ward  ofl  im- 
pending destruction.  Instantly  the  powers  ef 
heaven  and  hell  appear.  Astaroth  and  his 
legions  of  devils,  in  a  thousand  frightful  forms, 
rise  from  the  earth,  and  strive  to  obtain  the 
mastery  of  the  fallen  saint  and  endangered  vir- 
gin ;  while,  high  in  the  clouds  above,  the  an- 
gels of  heaven  appear  to  throw  their  shield 


♦  Salvandy,  Seize  Mois  des  Revo.ini-n  or;»,408. 


150 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


over  supplicant  innocence.  At  length  a  truce 
IS  formed  between  the  contending  powers  ;  the 
condition  of  which  is,  that  the  saint  is  to  be 
surrendered  to  the  powers  of  darkness,  to  be 
by  them  subjected  to  all  the  temptations  which 
can  endanger  human  virtue,  and  if  he  falls 
under  any  one,  he  is  to  be  abandoned  soul  and 
body  to  their  dominion ;  but  if  he  proves  vic- 
torious, he  is  to  be  borne  aloft  to  the  regions  of 
light.  The  decorations  of  this  scene  are  of  the 
most  exquisite  description  ;  the  angels  in  the 
clo'ads  are  placed  in  the  attitudes  pourtrayed 
in  Raphael's  and  Correggio's  celestial  choirs 
in  the  St.  Cecilia  at  Bologna  and  the  St.  Je- 
rome at  Parma ;  and  a  mellow  light  thrown 
over  the  heavenly  group,  in  so  ravishing  a 
manner,  as  to  produce  an  indelible  impression 
on  the  mind  of  the  spectator. 

The  next  act  opens  with  the  convocation  of 
the  powers  of  darkness  in  the  infernal  regions, 
to  consider  the  measures  they  should  adopt, 
and  review  the  force  they  could  command  in 
the  great  undertaking  in  which  they  are  en- 
gaged. This  leads  to  a  grand  review  of  the 
powers  of  hell,  in  which  the  whole  strength 
of  the  opera  and  the  whole  fancy  of  the  artist 
are  put  forth.  The  legions  of  devils,  arra3-ed 
in  every  possible  garb  of  extravagance,  de- 
scend an  immense  stair,  ascending  to  the  top 
of  the  theatre,  on  the  left  hand,  and  march 
before  Astaroth  in  such  numbers,  that  it  is  no 
exaggeration  to  say  that  three  or  four  hundred 
persons,  splendidly  dressed,  are  on  the  stage 
at  the  same  time.  Yet  even  here  French  con- 
ceit is  curiously  manifested,  and  these  legions 
of  infernal  spirits,  in  naked  or  savage  attire, 
are  preceded  by  regular  pioneers,  with  their 
shaggy  beards,  and  axes  on  their  shoulders, 
precisely  as  in  the  reviews  on  the  Place  Ca- 
rousel !  When  the  review  is  concluded,  the 
infernal  conclave,  distrustful  of  their  success 
by  open  force,  resolve  to  carry  on  the  war  by 
more  insinuating  means,  and  it  is  determined 
to  tempt  the  saint  by  means  of  a  young  Avoman 
of  their  own  creation,  gifted  with  every  beauty 
and  charm  which  can  entrance  the  senses,  all 
which  are  to  be  employed  to  seduce  his  virtue. 
A  cauldron  appears,  the  devils  in  succession 
throw  in  some  attractive  or  malignant  ingre- 
dient, and  shortly  the  siren  steps  forth,  and 
comes  forward  to  give  token  of  her  attractive 
powers,  by  dancing  and  waltzing  before  the 
spectators.  At  the  first  representation,  she 
arose  from  the  cauldron  and  danced  in  a  flesh- 
coloured  silk  dress,  tight  to  the  shape,  meant 
to  represent  absolute  nudity ;  but  she  is  now 
arrayed  in  a  slight  muslin  robe,  which  throws 
a  thin  veil  of  decency  over  her  beautiful 
form. 

In  the  third  act,  the  saint  is  subjected  to  the 
double  trial  of  famine  and  the  siren.  The 
scene  is  transported  to  the  gate  of  a  palace  in 
a  desolate  country,  created  by  the  devils  for 
the  purposes  of  their  tejnptation  ;  near  the  gate 
of  which  a  crucifix  appears,  rising  out  of  the 
drifting  snow.  St.  Anthony  approaches,  and 
falls  down  in  sujiplicatinn  at  the  foot  of  the 
tross ;  his  strength  is  exhausted;  his  limbs 
fail ;  his  wallet  does  not  contain  a  single  crust 
>.f  bread.  Astaroth  appears,  followed  by  the  siren 
whom  he  has  created,  at  the  gate  of  the  castle  ; 


tutored  by  him,  she  descends,  approaches  th« 
saint,  and  employs  all  her  art  to  subjugate  his 
resolution.  She  oflers  to  bring  him  food  in 
abundance  from  the  palace,  to  spread  a  couch 
of  down  for  his  wearied  limbs,  to  clothe  ia 
rich  garments  his  shivering  frame,  to  abandon 
herself  to  him,  if  he  will  surrender  the  cruci- 
fix which  hangs  round  his  neck,  and  abjure 
his  faith ;  but  the  resolution  of  Saint  Anthony 
is  immovable.  While  he  lies  shivering  and 
starving  at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  a  sumptuous 
feast  is  prepared  before  his  eyes  by  the  cooks 
in  the  palace ;  the  savoury  flavour  comes  over 
his  fainting  senses;  he  sees  it  carried  up  to 
the  banquet-hall,  where  Astaroth  and  his  de- 
vils are  feasting  and  rioting  in  luxurious  plenty, 
and  crawls  to  the  gate  to  implore  a  crust  of 
bread  to  assuage  the  intolerable  pangs  of  hun- 
ger; but  it  is  sternly  refused, unless  he  will  con- 
sent to  part  with  the  cross,  in  which  case  he  is 
offered  the  most  luxurious  fare.  He  still  re- 
mains firm  to  his  faith,  and  while  drenched 
by  showers  of  snow,  and  starving  of  hunger, 
hears  the  wild  and  frantic  revelry  which  pro- 
ceeds roimd  the  well-covered  boards,  from  the 
brilliantly  lighted  rooms  of  the  palace.  Struck 
with  such  heroic  resolution,  the  siren  is  melted. 
She  is  awakened  by  the  efforts  of  the  Virgin 
to  a  sense  of  virtue ;  she  secretly  supplies  him 
with  provisions  from  the  infernal  abode ;  and 
the  daughter  of  perdition  is  won  over  to  the 
league  of  heaven  by  an  act  of  charily.  In- 
stantly the  black  spot  on  her  breast,  the  mark 
of  reprobation,  disappears,  and  her  bosom 
regains  its  snowy  whiteness.  Astarcth  and 
the  infernal  legion  issue  forth,  frant.c  with 
rage  at  the  failure  of  their  design ;  they  cast 
out  their  unworthy  creation ;  the  palace,  with 
all  its  treasures,  is  consigned  to  the  flames,  into 
which  they  plunge,  leaving  the  saint  and  his 
lovely  convert  alone  in  the  wilderness  of  snow. 

Baflied  in  this  design,  Astaroth  and  his  league 
next  assail  the  anchorite  in  a  different  way. 
The  scene  changes  in  the  next  act  to  the  in- 
terior of  a  magnificent  harem,  where  the  saint 
and  the  converted  maiden  are  surrounded  by 
all  the  pomp  of  eastern  luxury.  The  sultanas 
and  ladies  of  the  seraglio  are  seated  round  the 
walls,  and  the  whole  strength  of  the  opera  is 
again  called  forth  in  the  entrancing  dances 
which  are  there  employed  to  captivate  the 
senses.  Astaroth  causes  Miranda,  the  maiden 
of  his  creation,  to  dance  before  the  Sultan : 
captivated  by  her  beauty,  he  throws  her  the 
handkerchief;  while  at  the  same  time  Astaroth 
endeavours  to  persuade  the  saint  to  murder  the 
Sultan,  on  the  specious  pretence  of  setting  free 
the  numerous  slaves  of  his  passion ;  Miranda 
seizes  the  dagger,  exclaiming  that  she  alone 
should  perpetrate  the  deed  of  blood ;  the  Sul- 
tan is  alarmed;  the  guards  surround  the  her- 
mit and  the  maid,  Avho  throw  themselves  from 
the  windows  of  the  seraglio  into  the  sea,  while 
the  demons  are  swallowed  up  in  a  gulf  cf 
fire. 

In  the  opening  of  the  last  act,  the  anchorite 
is  seen  reposing  on  the  grass  with  the  maiden 
beside  him;  the  demons  sr.rround  him  during 
his  sleep,  but  cannot  pass  the  holy  circle  which 
guards  the  innocent.  When  he  awakens,  he 
finds  himself  enveloped  on  either  side  by  le« 


FRANCE  IN  1833. 


161 


gions  of  devils  in  every  frightful  form,  and  a 
circle  of  sirens  Avho  dance  round  him  willi  the 
most  voluptuous  movements.  MeanwliiloAs- 
taroth  has  seized  Miranda,  and  "  I'a  rendue 
victime  de  sa  brutalitc  et  I'a  frappe  ;*  the  an- 
chorite is  on  the  point  of  yielding  to  the  se- 
ductions of  the  sirens  who  surround  him, 
when  Miranda,  extricated  from  the  arms  of 
Astaroth,  ruslies  forward  and  throws  the  beads 
and  cross  she  had  removed  from  him  over  his 
neck.  His  i-eason  is  restored,  he  regains  the 
dominion  over  his  passion.  Astaroth  plunges 
his  dagger  in  the  breast  of  Miranda  in  despair 
at  the  total  failure  of  his  prospects.  St.  Mi- 
chael and  the  angels  descend  from  heaven ;  a 
desperate  conflict  ensues  between  the  powers 
of  light  and  darkness,  in  the  close  of  which 
Astaroth  and  his  demons  are  overthrown,  and 
the  saint  and  Miranda  are  borne  aloft  through 
the  clouds  into  the  bosom  of  the  heavenly 
host. 

"  Robert  le  Diable"  is  founded  on  a  different 
series  of  adventures,  but  the  same  contest  of 
the  powers  of  this  world  with  those  of  hell. 
The  first  act  opens  on  the  shore  of  the  har- 
bour of  Palermo,  where  Norman  knights,  un- 
der the  shade  of  acacia  trees,  celebrate  their 
mistresses,  their  wines,  their  games.  Robert 
and  his  friend  Bertram  are  seated  together, 
when  a  minstrel  arrives,  leading  a  beauteous 
maid,  his  affianced  bride.  Robert  asks  him 
for  news;  he  recounts  the  story  of  Robert  le 
Diable,  who  was  the  son  of  Bertha,  a  noble 
maid  of  Normandy,  who  had  yielded  to  the 
seduction  of  a  demon,  in  the  form  of  a  hand- 
some stranger.  Unknowingly  he  is  reciting 
the  tale  to  Robert  himself,  who,  in  a  transport 
of  rage  at  the  narrative,  is  on  the  point  of 
plunging  his  dagger  into  his  bosom;  Avhen  he 
is  restrained  by  his  friend  Bertram,  who  pre- 
vails on  him  to  respite  the  minstrel  for  an  hour. 
Meanwhile  he  promises  the  handsome  fancee 
to  his  chevaliers ;  but  when  she  is  introduced 
to  be  surrendered  to  their  desires,  he  discovers 
in  the  maid,  Alice,  his  beauteous  foster-sister, 
the  bearer  of  the  testament  of  his  mother,  who 
on  her  deathbed  had  besought  her  to  convey 
her  last  instructions  to  her  beloved  son.  Ro- 
bert, in  return,  recounts  to  Alice  his  love  for 
the  fair  Princess  Isabella  of  Sicily,  whom  he 
was  on  the  point  of  carrying  off  from  her  pa- 
rents, when  he  was  assailed  by  the  knights  of 
Sicily,  and  only  rescued  by  his  friend  Bertram. 
At  this  juncture,  Bertram  approaches;  Alice 
involuntarily  shudders  at  his  sight,  from  the 
resemblance  which  he  bears  to  the  paintings 
Gf  Satan  combating  St.  Michael,  but  having  re- 
covered from  her  alarm,  undertakes  to  convey 
a  letter  from  Robert  to  the  Princess  Isabella. 

The  next  act  opens  with  the  princess  in  the 
interior  of  the  palace  of  Palermo,  bewailing 
the  loss  of  the  faithful  Robert,  and  her  unhap- 
py fate,  in  being  compelled  to  wed  the  Prince 
of  Grenada,  contrary  to  her  inclinations. 
Young  maidens,  the  bearers  of  petitions,  are 
ittjroduced,  among  whom  is  Alice,  who  insinu- 
ates into  her  hand  the  letter  of  Robert.  She 
consents  to  see  him.  He  is  introduced,  and 
clothed  by  her  attendants  with  a  splendid  suit 

♦  Tliis,  though  still  in  the  programme  of  the  piece, 
Was  found  iti  lie  revoltinc,  and  is  now  omitted. 


of  armour  to  enter  tlie  lists  against  the  princ<* 
in  a  tournament,  where  her  hand  was  to  b(* 
tlic  prize  of  the  victor.  A  herald  appears  and 
defies  Robert,  in  the  name  of  the  prince,  who 
eagerly  accepts  the  challenge.  Bertram,  who 
is  Satan  in  disguise,  and  had  clothed  another 
demon  with  the  form  of  the  Prince  of  Grenada, 
smiles  at  the  success  of  his  projects,  to  win 
over  the  soul  of  Robert  to  perdition.  The 
tournament  takes  place;  -Isabella,  by  her 
father's  orders,  puts  on  his  armour  on  the 
Prince  of  Grenada,  but  when  the  trumpets 
sound,  she  looks  in  vain  for  his  beloved  anta- 
gonist. Robert,  restrained  by  the  po\\-ers  of 
hell,  cannot  appear.  He  is  for  ever  disgraced  ; 
Bertram  beholds  his  schemes  rapidly  ap- 
proaching their  maturity. 

In  the  third  act,  Bertram,  pale  and  agitated, 
emerges  from  a  cavern,  the  council-hall  of 
the  infernal  powers :  He  is  tormented  with 
anxious  thoughts,  for  he  has  learned  the  arret 
of  Fate  that  his  power  over  Robert  termi- 
nates if  he  is  not  devoted  to  the  powers  of 
hell  before  twelve  o'clock  that  night.  There 
is  not  a  moment  to  lose.  He  casts  his  eyes 
on  Alice,  who  had  come  to  that  solitude  to 
meet  her  betrothed  minstrel;  the  demon  is 
seized  with  passion,  and  strives  to  seduce  her, 
but  is  repulsed  with  horror.  She  hears,  how- 
ever, the  choir  of  hell  in  the  cavern  invoking 
the  name  of  Robert,  and  perceives  tliat  Ber- 
tram is  Satan  in  disguise.  By  the  threat  of  in- 
stant death,  he  compels  her  to  promise  secrecy. 
At  this  juncture  Robert  enters,  overwhelmed 
with  horror  at  his  involuntary  failure  to  ap- 
pear at  the  tournament:  Alice  in  vain  ap- 
proaches to  Avarn  him  of  his  danger ;  bound 
by  her  vow  of  secrecy,  she  is  compelled  to 
retire,  leaving  Robert  alone  to  his  satanic  con- 
fidant. Bertram  then  informs  him  that  his 
rival,  the  Prince  of  Grenada,  had  availed  him- 
self of  the  aid  of  the  infernal  powers ;  and 
that  he  never  could  overcome  him  till  he  had 
taken  from  the  tomb  of  Saint  Rosalie,  in  a 
neighbouring  ruin,  a  green  branch,  the  charmed 
wand  which  would  render  the  lover  of  Isabella 
all-powerful.  Misled  by  the  perfidious  advice, 
Robert  enters  the  cavern  which  he  is  told  leads 
to  the  tomb,  and  immediately  a  scene  of  match- 
less beauty  succeeds. 

The  theatre  represents  a  ruined  monastery, 
through  the  lofty  desolate  arches  of  wliich  the 
moon  throws  an  uncertain  light.  Many  old 
tombs  are  scattered  about  on  the  broken  pave- 
ment, on  the  top  of  which  the  marble  figures 
of  ancient  worthies  are  seen.  In  the  midst  of 
them  is  the  sepulchre  of  Saint  Rosalie,  with  a 
branch  of  cypress  in  the  hand  of  her  marble 
effigy.  Bertram  arrives:  he  conjures  up  the 
shades  of  all  the  nuns  who  had  been  interred 
in  the  abbey,  condemned  "en  punition  d'une 
vie  trop  profane,"  to  rise  to  aid  in  seducing 
Robert  into  the  accomplishment  of  his  pro- 
mise. Instantly  the  spirits  rise  out  of  their 
narrow  beds;  the  marble  figures,  which  re- 
clined on  the  monumental  slabs,  step  forth 
from  every  part  of  the  pavement;  a  hundred 
nuns  appear  dressed  in  their  robes  of  white, 
and  slowly  moving  forward  through  the  gloom, 
surround  the  bewildered  knight.  Gradually 
they  seem  to  be  reanimated  by  the  breath  and 


152 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


the  passions  of  life ;  they  join  in  dances,  at  first 
slow  and  mystical,  which  insensibly  warm  into 
grace  and  voluptuousness.  They  exert  all 
their  attractions  to  induce  Robert  to  ad'-'ance 
and  seize  the  fated  brasch.  Seduced  jy  so 
many  charms,  he  approaches  the  sepulchre, 
but  starts  back  on  seeing  in  the  marble  image 
of  the  saint  a  resemblance  to  his  mother;  the 
nuns,  in  encircling  bands,  renew  their  efforts 
to  entrance  his  senses;  he  yields  at  length, 
and  seizes  the  branch.  Instantly  the  spell  is 
broken;  the  spectres  sink  into  their  graves; 
the  figures,  late  so  beauteous,  and  animated, 
freeze  again  into  lifeless  marble,  and  the 
knight  remains  alone  with  tlie  branch,  while 
the  sacred  walls  resound  with  the  wild  yells  of 
the  demons  at  the  completion  of  their  victory. 

In  the  fourth  act,  Isabella,  surrounded  by 
her  maidens,  is  represented  at  her  toilet  dis- 
tributing her  marriage  gifts  to  six  young 
women  who  are  to  be  married  at  the  same 
time  that  she  espouses  the  Prince  of  Grenada. 
Robert  appears  with  the  green  branch;  its 
magical  powers  overwhelm  all  her  attendants 
with  lethargic  slumbers ;  the  knight  approaches 
and  makes  himself  known  to  the  princess  ;  in 
the  midst  of  her  transports,  she  learns  by  what 
means  he  had  obtained  the  green  bough,  and 
conjures  him  to  cast  away  the  infernal  wand; 
overcome  by  love  and  remorse,  he  breaks  the 
branch  ;  the  attendants  instantly  awaken  ;  as- 
tonished at  the  appearance  of  their  lady  in  the 
arms  of  a  stranger  knight,  they  call  in  the 
men-at-arms ;  Robert  is  seized,  and  Isabella 
swoons  away. 

In  the  last  act,  Robert  and  Bertram  appear 
in  the  vestibule  of  the  cathedral  at  Palermo  ; 
the  knight  recounts  that  he  had  fought  the 
Prince  of  Grenada,  and  been  vanquished  by 
him.  Bertram  assures  him  that  this  fatality 
is  owing  to  his  fatal  imprudence  in  breaking 
the  branch,  and  that  his  only  hope  of  success 
is  to  be  found  in  subscribing  an  instant  com- 
pact with  the  powers  of  darkness.  At  the 
moment  when  he  is  about  to  comply,  strains 
of  religious  music  are  heard  from  the  choir, 
which  thrill  through  the  heart  of  the  wavering 
knight,  and  recall  him  to  purer  sentiments. 
In  despair  at  his  failure,  Bertram  reveals  his 
name  and  character :  he  is  Robert's  father,  the 
demon  who  had  seduced  his  mother ;  and  he 
informs  him,  that,  unless  he  signs  the  irrevo- 
cable deed  before  twelve  o'clock,  he  loses  him 
forever;  if  he  does,  he  forthwith  becomes  the 
husband  of  Isabella.  Robert  exclaims,  "  L'ar- 
rSt  est  prononce,  I'Enfer  est  le  plus  fort,"  and 
is  just  going  to  sign,  when  Alice,  his  foster- 
sister,  rushes  in,  places  in  his  hand  the  testa- 
ment of  his  mother,  in  which  she  conjures 
him  to  shun  the  demon  Avho  had  ruined  her; 
he  is  again  shaken.  A  desperate  struggle  en- 
sues between  Alice  and  Bertram,  heaven  and 
hell,  in  which  Robert  is  about  to  yield,  when 
twelve  strikes;  Bertram,  with  a  frightful  yell, 
descends  into  a  gulf  of  fire;  the  veil  of  the 
sanctuary  is  withdrawn,  Isabella  appears  in 
-he  choir,  where  she  receives  the  now  disen- 
.hralled  Robert,  while  an  aerial  choir  celebrates 
he  triumph  of  the  Most  High. 

There  is  one  circumstance  very  remarkable 
•n  these  theatrical  pieces,  which  have  had  so 


prodigious  a  run  at  the  Opera,  that  each  of 
them  has  been  represented  above  a  hundred 
times.  Though  they  originate  in  the  most  11. 
cenlious  capital,  and  are  exhibited  to  the  most 
corrupted  audience  in  Europe,  yet  they  both 
terminate  in  the  triumph  of  virtue  over  vice,—* 
of  resolution  over  temptation, — of  the  graces 
of  heaven  over  the  powers  of  hell.  This,  in 
such  circumstances,  is  very  remarkable.  "The 
excitements  to  the  senses  in  both  are  in- 
numerable ;  the  situations  and  incidents  such 
as  never  could  have  been  figured  but  in  a  li- 
centious capital;  but  still  the  final  result  is 
the  triumph  of  virtue,  and  the  impression 
made  upon  the  spectator  on  the  whole  de- 
cidedly favourable  to  its  cause.  Hypocrisy, 
sa)'s  Rochefoucault,  is  the  homage  which  vice 
pays  to  virtue :  it  would  appear  that  the  senti- 
ments of  devotion,  and  the  admiration  of  in- 
tegrity, are  so  strongly  implanted  in  the  hu- 
man mind,  that  many  ages  of  corruption  must 
elapse  before  they  can  be  wholly  extirpated. 
The  French  have  still  so  much  of  both  linger- 
ing in  their  imaginations  and  their  associations 
at  least,  if  not  in  their  conduct,  that  the  open 
disregard  of  them  cannot  be  as  yet  tolerated  in 
the  higher  theatres.  Centuries  of  degradation, 
however,  similar  to  that  in  which,  from  the  re- 
sult of  the  Revolution,  they  ^re  now  placed, 
will  work  out  this  melancholy  change,  even 
in  the  country  of  Fenelon  and  Bossuet.  The 
modern  Italian  drama  frequently  represents 
the  hero  of  the  piece  suffering  under  the 
agonies  of  fear;  and  poltroonery  is  tolerated 
on  the  stage  by  the  descendants  of  the  Romans 
and  Samnites. 

Another  circitmstance  which  is  well  worth} 
of  observation  in  the  romantic  licentious  lite- 
rature and  drama  of  France,  is  the  frequent  use 
which  is  made  of  the  imager}',  the  language, 
and  the  characters  of  the  Roman  Catholic  re- 
ligion. Even  the  Romish  Calendar,  and  the 
legends  of  the  saints,  are  diligently  ransacked 
to  furnish  stories  and  situations  calculated  to 
satisfy  the  avidity  of  the  Parisian  public  for 
strong  emotions.  It  would  appear  that  the 
Parisians  are  nov/  placed  at  that  distance  from 
religious  belief,  when  they  can  denve  ple.tsure 
from  the  lingering  recollections  which  it 
awakens,  without  being  shocked  by  the  pro- 
fanity to  which  it  is  exposed.  They  look  upon 
religious  impressions  and  the  Catholic  tradi- 
tions, as  the  English  regard  the  fairy  tales 
which  amused  their  childhood,  and  derive  a 
transient  stimulus  from  their  being  brought 
back  to  their  recollection,  as  we  do  from  see- 
ing Bluebeard  or  Cinderella  on  the  stage.  Re- 
ligion is  as  frequently  the  engine  for  moving 
the  imagination  now  as  classical  allusions 
were  in  the  last  age.  The  French  are  in  that 
stage  of  corruption,  when  they  class  religious 
imagery,  and  the  early  traditions  of  Scripture, 
with  the  Gothic  superstition  of  the  middle  ages, 
— with  drawbridges,  knights,  giants,  and  chi- 
valry,— and  are  delighted  with  their  represen- 
tation, as  we  are  with  the  feudal  pictures  and 
ancient  imagery  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  The 
frequent  introduction  of  religious  characters 
and  traditions  in  the  modern  works  of  imagi- 
nation in  France,  affords  decisive  evidence 
that  they  have  passed  from  the  region  of  be- 


FRANCE  IN  1833. 


15il 


lief  into  that  of  imagination;  from  subduing 
the  passions,  or  influencing  the  conduct,  to 
thrilling  the  imagination,  and  captivating  the 
fancy.  A  people  who  entertained  a  sincere 
and  practical  regard  for  religion  of  any  sort, 
never  could  bear  to  see  its  incidents  and  cha- 
racters blended  with  hobgoblins  and  demons, — 
with  the  spectres  of  the  feudal,  or  the  mytholo- 
gy of  the  classic  ages. 

This  cxtraordinarj^  change  in  tlie  lighter 
branches  of  French  literature  is  almost  entirely 
the  result  of  the  late  Revolution.  The  romantic 
school  of  fiction,  indeed,  had  been  steadily 
growing  up  under  the  Restoration ;  and  ac- 
cordingly, t|is  dramatized  tales  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott  had  banished  in  all  but  the  Theatre 
Francais,  the  works  of  Racine  and  Corneille 
froBi  the  stage.  But  it  was  not  till  the  triumph 
of  the  Barricades  had  cast  down  the  barriers 
of  authority  and  influence,  and  let  in  a  flood 
of  licentiousness  upon  all  the  regions  of 
thought,  that  the  present  intermixture  of  ex- 
travagance and  sensuahty  took  place.  Still 
this  grievous  and  demoralizing  effect  is  not  to 
be  ascribed  solely  or  chiefly  to  that  event,  im- 
portant as  it  has  been  in  scattering  far  and 
wide  the  seeds  of  evil.  It  is  not  by  a  mere 
prffitorian  tumult  in  the  capital  that  a  nation 
is  demoralized  ;  Rome  had  twenty  such  urban 
and  military  revolutions  as  that  which  over- 
threw Charles  X.  without  experiencing  any 
material  addition  to  the  deep-rooted  sources  of 
imperial  corruption.  It  was  the  first  Revolu- 
tion, with  its  frightful  atrocities  and  crying 
sins,  which  produced  this  fatal  efl^ect;  the  se- 
cond merely  drew  aside  the  feeble  barrier 
which  the  government  of  the  Restoration  had 
opposed  to  its  devastation.  In  the  present 
monstrous  and  unprecedented  state  of  French 
literature  is  to  be  seen  the  faithful  mirror  of 
the  state  of  the  public  mind  produced  by  that 
convulsion ;  of  that  chaos  of  thoughts  and  pas- 
sions and  recollections,  which  has  resulted 
from  a  successful  insurrection  not  only  against 
the  government,  but  the  institutions  and  the 
belief  of  former  times  ;  of  the  extravagance  and 
frenzy  of  the  human  mind,  when  turned  adrift, 
without  either  principle  or  authority  to  direct 
it,  into  the  stormy  sea  of  passion  and  pleasure. 

The  graver  and  more  weighty  works  wiiich 
were  appearing  in  such  numbers  uryier  the 
Restoration,  have  all  ceased  with  the  victory 
of  the  populace.  The  resplendent  genius  of 
Chateaubriand  no  longer  throws  its  lustre  over 
the  declining  virtue  of  the  age:  the  learning 
and  philosophy  of  Guizot  is  turned  aside  from 
the  calm  sneculations  of  history  to  the  turbu- 
lent sea  of"  politics.  Thierry  has  ceased  to 
diffuse  over  the  early  ages  of  feudal  times,  the 
discriminating  light  of  sagacious  inciuiry:  the 
pen  of  Parente  conveys  no  longer,  in  clear 
and  vivid  colours,  the  manners  of  the  four- 
teenth to  the  nineteenth  century :  Thiers,  trans- 
formed into  an  ambitious  politician,  strives  in 
vain,  in  his  measures  as  a  minister,  to  coun- 
teract the  influence  of  his  eloquent  writings,  as 
an  historian :  the  fervent  spirit  of  Beranger  is 
stilled;  the  poetic  glowof  Laniartino  isquench- 
ed ;  the  pictured  page  of  Salvandy  is  employed 
only  in  pourtraying  the  deplorable  state  of  so- 
eial  and  moral  disorganization  consequent  on 


the  triumph  of  the  Barricades.  Instead  ot 
these  illustrious  men  has  sprung  up  a  host  of 
minor  writers,  who  pander  to  the  depraved 
taste  of  a  corrupted  age;  the  race  of  Dumas's, 
and  Latouchcs,  and  Jai;  ins,  men  who  apply  great 
talent  to  discreditable  but  ])rofitable  purposes: 
who  reflect,  like  the  cameleon,  the  colours  of 
the  objects  by  which  they  are  surrounded,  and 
earn,  like  the  opera-dancer,  a  transient  liveli- 
hood, sometimes  considerable  wealth,  by  ex- 
citing the  passions  or  ministering  to  the  plea- 
sures of  a  depraved  and  licentious  metropolis. 

Thus,  on  all  sides,  and  in  every  department 
of  govei'nment,  religion,  morals,  and  literature, 
is  the  debasing  and  pernicious  influence  of  th* 
Revolution  manifesting  itself;  the  thin  veil 
which  concealed  the  progress  of  con'uptica 
during  the  Restoration,  is  torn  aside;  govern- 
ment is  settling  down  into  despotism,  religion 
into  infidelity,  morals  into  licentiousness,  lite- 
rature into  depraved  extravagance.  "What  is  to 
be  the  final  issue  of  these  melancholy  changes, 
it  is  impossible  confidently  to  predict;  but 
of  this  we  may  be  well  assured,  that  it  is  not 
till  the  fountains  of  wickedness  are  closed  by 
the  seal  of  religion,  and  the  stream  of  thought 
is  purified  by  suflering,  that  the  disastrous 
consequences  of  two  successful  convulsions 
can  be  arrested,  or  freedom  established  on  a 
secure  basis,  or  public  felicity  based  on  a  du- 
rable foundation. 

The  result  of  all  this  is,  not  only  that  no 
real  freedom  exists  in  France,  but  that  the  ele- 
ments of  constitutional  liberty  do  not  exi§t. 
Every  thing  depends  on  the  will  of  the  capital : 
and  its  determination  is  so  much  swayed  at 
present,  at  least  by  the  public  press,  and  armed 
force  in  the  capital,  that  no  reliance  on  the 
stability  of  any  system  of  government  can  be 
placed.  The  first  Revolution  concentrated  all 
the  powers  of  government  in  the  metropolis ; 
the  second  vested  them  in  the  armed  force  of 
its  garrison  and  citizens.  Henceforth  the  strife 
of  faction  is  likely  to  be  a  mere  struggle  for 
the  possession  of  the  public  oflices,  and  the 
iiumense  patronage  with  which  they  are  ac- 
companied :  but  no  measures  for  the  extension 
of  public  freedom  will,  to  all  appearance,  be 
ar!^7npted.  If  the  republican  party  were  to 
dethrone  Louis  Philippe,  they  would  raise  the 
most  violent  outcry  about  the  triumph  of  free- 
dom, and  in  the  midst  of  it  quietly  take  pos- 
session of  the  police-office.  »he  telegraph,  the 
treasury,  and  begin  to  exercise  .'he  vast  powers 
of  government  for  their  own  behoof  in  the 
most  despotic  manner.  No  other  system  of 
administration  is  practicable  in  France.  Ai'ter 
the  state  to  which  it  has  been  reduced  by  its 
two  Revolutions,  a  constitutional  monarchy, 
such  as  existed  in  Great  Britain  prior  to  the 
revolution  of  1832 — that  is,  a  monarchy,  in 
which  the  powers  of  sovereignty  were  ready 
shared  by  the  crown,  the  nobles,  and  the  peo 
pic— could  not  stand  in  France  for  a  week- 
The  populace  of  Paris  and  their  despotic  lead 
ers,  or  the  crown,  with  its  civil  and  military 
employers,  would  swallow  up  supreme  power 
in  a  moment. 

Every  government,  in  the  long  run,  must  be 
founded  on  one  of  three  bases :  either  the  re 
presentation  "and  attachment  of  all  the  great 


IM 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


interests  of  ihe  state ;  or  the  force  of  a  power- 
ful and  devoted  soldiery;  or  the  influence  of 
power  derived  from  the  possession  of  all  the 
patronage  and  appointments  in  the  kingdom. 
Constitutional  monarchies,  the  glory  of  Eu- 
ropean civilization,  are  founded  on  the  first ; 
Asiatic  despotisms  on  the  last.  By  the  de- 
struction of  all  the  intermediate  classes  be- 
tween the  throne  and  the  peasant,  the  French 
have  rendered  the  construction  of  a  representa- 
tive system  and  a  limited  throne  impossible : 
they  have  now  to  choose  only  between  the  fet- 
ters of  a  military,  or  the  corruption  of  an  ori- 


ental, despotism  ;  between  the  government  of 
the  Praetorian  guards,  and  the  servility  of  the 
Byzantine  empire.  They  are  perpetually  de* 
claiming  about  the  new  era  which  liieir  Rerc^ 
lution  has  opened  in  human  aflairs,  and  the 
interminable  career  of  modern  civilization: 
let  them  fix  their  eyes  on  the  court  of  the  Great 
Mogul  and  the  ryots  of  Hindostan,  and  beware 
lest  their  changes  afford  a  new  confirmatioa 
of  the  old  adage,  That  there  is  nothing  new 
under  the  sun;  and  the  dreams  of  republican 
enthusiasm  terminate  at  last  in  the  strife  oi 
eunuchs  and  the  jealousy  of  courtesans. 


ITALIV 


The  scenery  of  Switzerland  is  of  a  dark  and 
gloomy  description.  In  the  higher  Alps,  which 
lie  between  the  canton  of  Berne  and  the  plains 
of  Lombardy,  the  great  elevation  of  the  moun- 
tains, the  vicinity  of  perpetual  snow,  the  tem- 
pests which  frequently  occur,  and  the  devasta- 
tions of  the  avalanches,  have  imprinted  a  stern 
and  often  dismal  aspect  on  the  scenerj%  As 
the  traveller  ascends  any  of  those  paths,  which 
lead  from  the  canton  of  Berne  over  the  ridge 
of  the  central  Alps  to  the  Italian  bailiwicks, 
he  gradually  approaches  the  region  of  eternal 
desolation.  The  beech  and  the  oak  succes- 
sivel}'  give  place  to  the  larch  and  the  fir,  and 
these  in  their  turn  disappear,  or  exhibit  onlj' 
the  stunted  forms  and  blasted  summits  which 
are  produced  b}'  the  rigour  and  severitj'  of  the 
climate.  Towards  the  summit  of  the  pass, 
even  these  marks  of  vegetation  disappear,  and 
huge  blocks  of  granite,  interspersed  with  snow, 
or  surrounding  black  and  gloomy  lakes,  form 
the  only  features  of  the  scenery. 

To  the  eye  which  has  been  habituated  for  a 
few  da5'^s  only  to  these  stern  and  awful  objects, 
there  is  no  scene  so  delightful  as  that  which  is 
exhibited  by  the  valleys  and  the  lakes  which 
lie  on  the  southern  side  of  the  Alps.  The 
riches  of  nature,  and  the  delights  of  a  southern 
climate,  are  there  poured  forth  with  a  profusion 
which  is  hardly  to  be  met  with  in  any  other 
part  of  Europe.  The  valle3-s  are  narrow  and 
precipitous,  bounded  on  either  side  by  the  most 
stupendous  clifls,  and  winding  in  such  a  man- 
ner as  to  exhibit,  in  the  most  striking  point  of 
view,  tne  unrivalled  glories  of  the  scene.  But 
though  the  vallies  are  narrower,  and  the  rocks 
are  higher  on  the  southern  than  the  northern 
side  of  the  Alps,  yet  the  character  of  the  scene 
is  widely  different  in  these  two  situations.  The 
larch  and  the  fir  form  the  prevailing  wood  in 
the  higher  valleys  to  the  north  of  the  St.  Go- 
thard;  but  the  birch,  the  chestnut,  and  the  oak, 
clothe  the  sunny  clifis  which  look  to  the  Italian 
sun.      Every  crevice,   and   every  projecting 

•  Blackwood's  Mnpa/.ine,  Feb.  1818,  and  Supplement 
li»Enryclopj!(lianrilannira,arlirle  Italy. — Writtenwhen 
uavell'ine  '»  that  country  in  1S16  and  1818. 


point  on  which  vegetation  can  grow,  is  cover- 
ed  with  brushwood ;  and,  instead  of  the  gray 
masses  of  granite  which  appear  on  the  north- 
ern side,  the  cliff's  of  the  southern  valleys  seem 
to  have  caught  the  warm  glow  and  varied  tints 
of  the  Italian  skj'.  Nor  is  the  change  less  ap- 
parent in  the  agricultural  productions  of  the 
soil.  At  the  foot  of  the  stupendous  cliffs, 
which  bound  the  narrow  valleys  b)'  which  the 
mountains  are  intersected,  the  vine,  the  olive, 
and  the  maize,  ripen  under  the  ra3's  of  a  ver- 
tical sun,  while  the  sweet  chestnut  and  the 
walnut  clothe  the  sloping  banks  by  which  the 
wider  parts  of  the  valleys  are  surrounded. 
While  sinking  nnder  the  heat  of  a  summer 
sun,  Avhich  acquires  amazing  powers  in  these 
narrow  clefts,  the  traveller  looks  back  with 
delight  to  the  snowj^  peaks  from  which  he  had 
so  lately  descended,  whose  glaziers  are  soften- 
ed by  the  distance  at  which  they  are  seen,  and 
seem  to  partake  in  the  warm  glow  by  which 
the  atmosphere  is  illuminated. 

There  is  another  feature  by  which  these 
valle5's  are  distinguished,  which  d.">es  not  oc- 
cur in  the  Swiss  territories.  Switzerland  is  a 
country  of  peasants:  the  traces  of  feudal 
power  have  been  long  obliterated  in  its  free  and 
happy  vallies.  But  on  the  Italian  side  of  the  i 
Alps,  the  remnants  of  baronial  power  are 
still  to  be  seen.  Magnificent  castles  of  vast 
dimensions,  and  placed  on  the  most  promixient 
situations,  remind  the  trave/Ver  that  he  is  ap- 
proaching the  region  of  feudal  influence;  while 
the  crouching  look  and  abject  manner  of  the 
peasantr)',  tells  but  too  plainly  the  sway  which 
these  feudal  proprietors  have  exercised  over 
their  vassals.  But  whatever  may  be  the  in- 
fluence of  aristocratic  power  upon  the  habits 
or  condition  of  the  people,  the  remains  of 
former  magnificence  which  it  has  left,  add 
amazingly  to  the  beauty  and  sublimity  of  the 
scenery.  In  the  Misocco  these  antiquated  re- 
mains are  peculiarly  numerous  and  imposing. 
The  huge  towers  and  massy  walls  of  thes« 
Gothic  castles,  placed  on  what  seem  inacces- 
sible cliffs,  and  frowning  over  the  villages 
which  have  grown  up  beneath  their  feet,  give     ■ 


ITALY. 


156 


an  air  of  antiquity  and  solemnity  to  the  scene, 

which  nothing  else  is  capable  of  producing; 

for  the  wo-rks  of  nature,  long  as  the}'  have 

i     stood,  are  still  covered  with  the  verdure  of 

[     perpetual  youth.     It  is  in  the  v/orks  of  man 

I     alone  that  the  symptoms  of  age  or  of  decay 

appear. 

The  Italian  lakes  partake,  in  some  measure, 
:  in  the  general  features  which  have  been  men- 
I  tioned  as  belonging  to  the  valleys  on  the  south- 
ern sid;  of  the  Alps ;  but  they  are  charac- 
terized a. so  by  some  circumstances  which  are 
peculiar  to  themselves.  Their  banks  are  al- 
most eveiywhere  formed  of  steep  mountains, 
which  sink  at  once  into  the  lake  without  any 
meadows  or  level  ground  on  the  water  side. 
These  mountains  are  generally  of  great  height, 
and  of  the  most  rugged  forms ;  but  they  are 
clothed  to  the  summit  with  luxuriant  woods, 
except  in  those  places  where  the  steepness  of 
the  precipices  precludes  the  growth  of  vegeta- 
tion. The  continued  appearance  of  front  and 
precipice  which  they  exhibit,  would  lead  to  the 
behef  that  the  banks  of  the  lake  are  uninha- 
bited, were  it  not  for  the  multitude  of  villages 
with  which  the)''  are  everywhere  interspersed. 
These  villages  are  so  numerous  and  extensive, 
that  it  may  be  doubted  whether  the  population 
anywhere  in  Europe  is  denser  than  on  the 
shores  of  the  Italian  lakes.  No  spectacle  in 
nature  can  be  more  beautiful  than  the  aspect 
of  these  clusters  of  human  habitations,  all 
built  of  stone,  and  white-washed  in  the  neatest 
manner,  with  a  simple  spire  rising  in  the  cen- 
tre of  each,  to  mark  the  number  and  devotion 
of  the  inhabitants,  surrounded  by  luxuriant 
forests,  and  rising  one  above  another  to  the 
highest  parts  of  the  mountains.  Frequently 
the  village  is  concealed  by  the  intervention 
of  some  rising  ground,  or  the  height  of  the 
adjoining  woods ;  but  the  church  is  always 
risible,  and  conveys  the  liveliest  idea  of  the 
peace  and  happiness  of  the  inhabitants.  These 
rural  temples  are  uniformly  white,  and  their 
spires  are  of  the  simplest  form  ;  but  it  is  dif- 
ficult to  convey,  to  those  who  have  not  seen 
them,  an  idea  of  the  exquisite  addition  which 
they  form  to  the  beauty  of  the  scenery. 

On  a  nearer  approach,  the  situation  of  these 
villages,  so  profusely  scattered  over  the  moun- 
tains which  surround  the  Italian  lakes,  is  often 
interesting  in  the  extreme.  Placed  on  the 
summit  of  projecting  rocks,  or  sheltered  in  the 
defile  of  secluded  valleys,  they  exhibit  every 
variety  of  aspect  that  can  be  imagined ;  but 
wherever  situated,  they  add  to  the  interest,  or 
enhance  the  picturesque  effect  of  the  scene. 
The  woods  by  which  they  are  surrounded,  and 
which,  from  a  distance,  have  the  appearance 
of  a  continued  forest,  are  in  reality  formed, 
for  the  most  part,  of  the  \Talnuts  and  sweet 
chestnuts,  which  grow  on  the  gardens  that 
bebng  to  the  peasantry,  and  conceal  beneath 
their  shade,vineyards,  corn-fields,  and  orchards. 
Each  cottager  has  his  little  domain,  which  is 
cultivated  by  his  own  family;  a  single  chest- 
nut, and  a  few  mulberry  trees,  with  a  small 
vineyard,  constitutes  often  the  whole  of  their 
humble  property.  On  this  little  spot,  however, 
they  find  wherewithal  both  to  satisfy  their 
Wants  and  to  occupy  their  industry;  the  chil- 


dren take  care  of  the  mulberries  and  the  silk 
worms,  which  are  here  produced  in  grea 
abundance;  the  husband  dresses  the  vineyard, 
or  works  in  the  garden,  as  the  season  maji 
require.  On  an  incredibly  small  piece  of 
ground,  a  numerous  family  live,  in,  what  ap- 
pears to  them,  ease  and  afiluence;-  and  if  they 
can  maintain  themselves  during  the  year,  and 
pay  their  rent  at  its  termination,  their  desires 
never  go  beyond  the  space  of  their  own  em- 
ployment. 

In  this  simple  and  unambitious  style  of  life, 
it  may  easily  be  conceived  what  the  general 
character  of  the  peasantry  must  be.  Gene- 
rally speaking,  they  are  a  simple,  kind-hearted, 
honest  people,  grateful  to  the  last  degree  for 
the  smallest  share  of  kindness,  and  always 
willing  to  share  with  a  stranger  the  produce 
of  their  little  domains.  The  crimes  of  murder 
and  robbery  are  almost  unknown,  at  least 
among  the  peasantry  themselves,  although,  on 
the  great  roads  in  their  vicinity,  banditti  are 
sometimes  to  be  found.  But  if  a  stranger 
lives  in  the  country,  and  reposes  confidence  in 
the  people,  he  will  find  himself  as  secure,  and 
more  respected,  than  in  most  other  parts  of 
the  world. 

There  is  one  delightful  circumstance  which 
occurs  in  spring  in  the  vicinity  of  these  lakes, 
to  which  a  northern  traveller  is  but  little  ac 
customed.  During  the  months  of  April  and 
May,  the  woods  are  filled  with  nightingales, 
and  thousands  of  these  little  choristers  pour 
forth  their  strains  every  night,  with  a  richness 
and  melody  of  which  it  is  impossible  to  form 
a  conception.  In  England  we  are  accustomed 
frequently  to  hear  the  nightingale,  and  his  song 
has  been  celebrated  in  poetry  from  the  earliest 
periods  of  our  history.  But  it  is  generally  a 
single  song  to  which  we  listen,  or  at  most  a 
few  only,  which  unite  to  enliven  the  stillness 
of  the  night.  But  on  the  banks  of  the  lake  of 
Como,  thousands  of  nightingales  are  to  be 
fouiul  in  every  wood ;  they  rest  in  every  tree,— 
they  pour  forth  their  melody  on  the  roof  of 
every  cottage.  Wherever  you  walk  during  the 
delightful  nights  of  April  or  May,  you  hear  the 
unceasing  strains  of  these  imseen  warblers, 
swelling  on  the  evening  gales,  or  dying  away, 
as  you  recede  from  the  woods  or  thickets 
where  the)'  dwell.  The  soft  cadence  and  me- 
lodious swelling  of  this  heavenly  choir,  re- 
sembles more  the  enchanting  sounds  of  the 
Eolian  harp  than  any  thing  produced  by  mor- 
tal organs.  To  those  who  have  seen  the  lake 
of  Como,  with  such  accompaniments,  duiing 
the  serenity  of  a  summer  evening,  and  with 
the  surrounling  headlands  and  mountains  re- 
flected on  i's  placid  waters,  there  are  few  scenes 
in  nature,  and  few  moments  in  life,  which  can 
be  the  source  of  such  delightful  recolieciion. 

The  forms  of  the  mountains  which  surround 
the  Italian  lakes  are  somewhat  similar  to  those 
that  are  to  be  met  with  in  the  Highlands  of 
Scotland,  or  at  the  Lake  of  Kiliarncy;  but  the 
great  superiority  which  they  possess  over  any 
thing  in  this  country,  consists  in  ihc  any  atid 
s»u7(n£f  aspcrl  which  nature  ihere  exhibits.  The 
base  only  of  the  Highland  hills  is  ciolheclwith 
wood;  huge"  and  shapeless  swells  of  heath 
form  the  upper  parts  of  the  moijniains;  and 


1C6 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


the  snm-.Tiits  partake  of  the  gloomy  character 
which  the  lint  of  brown  or  purple  throws  over 
the  scene.  But  the  mountains  which  surround 
the  Italian  lakes  are  varied  to  the  summit  with 
life  and  animation.  The  woods  ascend  to  the 
highest  peaks,  and  clothe  the  most  savage 
cliffs  in  a  robe  of  verdure;  white  and  sunn}'- 
villages  rise  one  above  another,  in  endless 
succession,  to  the  upper  parts  of  the  moun- 
tains ;  and  innumerable  churches,  on  every 
projecting  point,  mark  the  sway  of  religion, 
even  in  the  most  remote  and  inaccessible  si- 
tuations. The  English  lakes  are  often  cold 
and  cheerless,  from  the  reflection  of  a  dark  or 
lowering  sky ;  but  the  Italian  lakes  are  per- 
fectl)'-  blue,  and  partake  of  the  brilliant  colours 
with  which  the  firmament  is  filled.  In  the 
morning,  in  particular,  when  the  level  sun 
glitters  on  the  innumerable  white  villages 
which  surround  the  Lago  Maggiore,  the  reflec- 
tion of  the  cottages,  and  steeples,  and  woods, 
in  the  blue  and  glassy  surface  of  the  lake, 
seems  to  realize  the  descriptions  of  the  poets  in 
their  happiest  and  most  inspired  veins. 

The  Lago  Maggiore  is  the  most  celebrated  of 
these  lakes,  because  it  lies  most  in  the  way  of 
ordinary  travellers ;  but,  in  variety  of  forms, 
and  in  the  grandeur  of  the  surrounding  objects, 
it  is  decidedly  inferior  to  the  Lago  Lugano, 
which  is,  perhaps,  upon  the  whole,  the  most 
beautiful  lake  in  Europe.  The  mountains 
which  surround  this  lake  are  not -only  very 
lofty,  from  4000  to  5000  feet  high,  hut  broken 
into  a  thousand  fantastic  forms,  and  split  with 
chasms  of  the  most  terrific  description.  On 
one  of  the  loftiest  of  these  pinnacles,  immedi- 
ately above  the  centre  of  the  lake,  is  placed  the 
castle  of  St.  Salvador ;  and  the  precipice,  from 
its  turrets  to  the  surface  of  the  water,  is  cer- 
tainly not  less  than  2000  feet.  Nevertheless, 
this  stupendous  cliff  is  clothed,  in  every  cre- 
vice where  the  birch  can  fix  its  root,  with 
luxuriant  woods ;  and  so  completely  does  this 
soft  covering  change  the  character  of  the  scene, 
that  even  this  dreadful  precipice  is  rather  a 
beautiful  than  a  terrific  object.  The  great 
characteristic  and  principal  beauty  of  the  Lago 
Lugano,  arises  from  its  infinite  variety,  occa- 
sioned by  the  numbers  of  mountains  Vi^hich 
project  into  its  centre,  and  by  presenting  an 
infinite  variety  of  headlands,  promontories,  and 
bays,  give  it  rather  the  appearance  of  a  great 
number  of  s:naU  lakes  connected  together,  than 
of  one  extensive  sheet  of  water.  Nor  can 
imagination  itself  conceive  any  thing  equal  to 
the  endless  variety  of  scenery,  which  is  pre- 
sented by  following  the  deeply  indented  shores 
of  this  lake,  or  the  varied  effect  of  the  number- 
less villages  and  churches,  vv'hich  present 
tHemselves  at  every  turn,  to  relieve  and  ani- 
mate the  scene. 

Foreigners,  from  every  part  of  Europe,  arc 
accustomed  to  speak  of  the  Bnromcan  Islands 
with  a  degree  of  enthusiasm  which  raises  the 
expectation  to  too  high  a  pitch,  and  of  course 
is  apt  to  produce  disappointment.  They  are 
laid  out  in  the  Italian  style  of  gardening,  with 
KtifT  alleys,  rnarble  fountains,  statues,  terraces, 
and  other  works  of  art.  But  this  style,  how- 
ever curious  or  meritorious  in  itself,  and  as  a 
Bpeciincn  of  the  skill  or  dexterity  af  the  gar- 


dener, is  universally  allowed  to  be  ill  adaptef} 
to  the  scenery  of  real  nature,  and  is  more  pap 
ticularly  out  of  place  in  the  Italian  lakes, 
where  the  vast  and  broken  ridge  of  the  Alps 
forms  the  magnificent  distance,  and  gives  the 
prevailing  character  to  the  scene. 

The  Isola  Madrc  is  the  most  pleasing  of  these 
celebrated  islands,  being  covered  with  wood  ia 
the  interior,  and  adorned  round  the  shores 
with  a  profusion  of  the  most  beautiful  flower- 
ing  shrubs.  It  is  diflicult  to  imagine  a  more 
splendid  prospect  than  the  view  from  this 
island,  looking  towards  the  ridge  of  the  Simplon. 
Numerous  white  villages,  placed  at  intervals 
along  the  shore,  enliven  the  green  luxuriant 
woods  which  descend  to  the  lake ;  and  in  the 
farther  distance,  the  broken  and  serrated  ridge 
of  the  mountains,  clustering  round  the  snowy 
peaks  of  Monte  Rosa,  combines  the  grandeur 
of  Alpine  with  the  softness  of  Italian  scenery. 
The  buildings,  which  are  so  beautifully  dis- 
posed along  the  shore,  partake  of  the  elegance 
of  the  scene ;  they  are  distinguished,  for  the 
most  part,  by  the  taste  which  seems  to  be  the 
native  growth  of  the  soil  of  Italy ;  and  the  lake 
itself  resembles  a  vast  mirror,  in  which  the 
splendid  scenery  which  surrounds  it  is  reflected, 
with  more  even  than  its  original  beauty. 

The  lake  of  Como,  as  is  well  known,  was 
the  favourite  residence  of  Pliny;  and  a  villa 
on  its  shore  bears  the  name  of  the  Villa  Pli- 
niana;  but  whether  it  is  built  on  the  scite  of 
the  Roman  philosopher's  dwelling,  has  not 
been  ascertained.  The  immediate  vicinity, 
however,  of  the  intermitting  spring,  which  he 
has  so  well  described,  makes  it  probable  that 
the  ancient  villa  was  at  no  great  distance  from 
the  modern  one  which  bears  its  name.  Eustace 
has  dwelt,  with  his  usual  eloquence,  on  the 
interest  Avhich  this  circumstance  gives  to  this 
beautiful  lake. 

Towards  its  upper  end,  the  lake  of  Como 
assumes  a  different  aspect  from  that  by  which 
it  is  distinguished  at  its  lower  extrerrity.  The 
hills  in  the  vicinity  of  Como,  and  as  far  to  the 
north  as  Menagio,  are  soft  in  their  forms,  and 
being  clothed  to  their  suinmiis  with  vinej'ards 
and  woods,  they  present  rather  a  beautifu' 
than  a  sublime  spectacle.  But  tov/ards  the 
upper  end  the  scene  c.ssumes  a  more  savage 
character.  The  chestnut  woods  and  orange 
groves  no  longer  appear;  the  oak  and  the  fir 
cover  the  bold  and  precipitous  banks  which 
hang  over  the  lake ;  and  the  snowy  peaks  of 
the  Bernhardin  and  Mount  Spluger.  rise  in 
gloomy  magnificence  at  the  extremity  of  the 
scene.  On  approaching  Chiavcnna,  the  broad 
expanse  of  water  dwindles  into  ?.  narrow 
stream ;  the  banks  on  either  side  approach  so 
near,  as  to  give  the  sceneiy  the  appearance  of 
a  mountain  valley;  and  the  Alps,  which  close 
it  in,  are  clothed  with  forests  of  fir,  or  present 
vast  and  savage  precipices  of  rock.  From 
this  point  there  is  an  easy  passage  over  the 
Bernhardin  to  the  Rheinthal,  and  the  interest- 
ing country  of  the  Grisons;  and  the  Val  de 
Misox,  through  which  the  road  leads,  is  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  on  the  southern  side  of  the 
Alps,  and  particularly  remarkable  for  the 
magnificent  castles  with  which  its  projecting 
points  are  adorned. 


ITALY. 


167 


The  tour  which  is  usually  followed  in  the 
Italian  lakes,  is  to  visit  first  the  Lago  Maggiore, 
and  then  drive  to  Como,  and  ascend  to  the 
Villa  Pllniana,  or  to  Menngio,  and  return  to 
Como  or  Lecco.  By  following  this  course, 
however,  the  Lago  Luganc  is  wholly  omitted, 
which  is  perhaps  the  most  picturesque  of  all 
the  three.  The  better  plan  is  to  ascend  from 
Baveno,  on  the  Lago  Maggiore,  to  the  upper 
end  of  that  lake ;  and  after  exploring  its  varied 
beauties,  land  at  Luvino,  and  cross  from  thence 
to  Pontc  Tresa,  and  there  embark  for  Lugano, 
from  whence  you  reach  Porlezza  by  Avater, 
through  the  most  magnificent  part  of  the  Lago 
Lugano;  from  thence  cross  to  Mcnagio,  on  the 
lake  of  Como,  whence,  as  from  a  central 
point,  the  traveller  may  ascend  to  Chiavenna, 
or  descend  to  Lecco  or  Como,  as  his  time  or 
incUnation  may  prescribe. 

It  is  one  most  interesting  characteristic  of 
tlie  people  who  dwell  on  these  beautiful  lakes, 
that  they  seem  to  be  impressed  with  a  genuine 
and  unaffected  piety.  The  vast  number  of 
churches  placed  in  every  village,  and  crown- 
ing every  eminence,  is  a  proof  of  how  much 
has  been  done  for  the  service  of  religion.  But 
it  is  a  more  interesting  spectacle,  to  behold 
the  devotion  with  which  the  ordinances  of 
rehgion  are  observed  in  all  these  places  of 
worship.  Numerous  as  the  churches  are,  they 
seem  to  be  hardly  able  to  contain  the  numbers 
who  frequent  them ;  and  it  is  no  unusual 
spectacle  to  behold  crowds  of  both  sexes 
kneeling  on  the  turf  in  the  church-yard  on 
Sunday  forenoon,  who  could  not  find  room  in 
I  the  church  itself.  There  is  something  singu- 
ji  larly  pleasing  in  such  manifestation  of  simple 
I  devotion.  Whatever  may  be  the  diversity  in 
j'  points  of  faith,  which  separate  Christians  from 
each  other,  the  appearance  of  sincere  piety, 
j  more  especially  in  the  poorer  classes,  is  an 
object  of  interest,  and  fitted  to  produce  respect. 
We  are  too  apt  to  imagine,  in  England,  that 
real  devotion  is  little  felt  in  Catholic  states ; 
but  whoever  has  travelled  in  the  Alps,  or 
dwelt  on  the  Italian  Lakes,  must  be  convinced 
that  this  belief  is  without  foundation.  The 
poor  people  who  attend  these  churches,  are  in 
general  neatly,  and  even  elegantly;  dressed; 
and  the  Scripture  pieces  which  are  placed 
above  the  altar,  rude  as  they  may  be,  are  dis- 
tinguished by  a  beauty  of  expression,  and  a 
grace  of  design,  which  proves  in  the  most 
striking  way  how  universally  a  taste  for  the 
fine  aits  is  diff'used  throughout  the  peasantry 
of  Italy.  While  gliding  along  the  placid  sur- 
face of  these  lakes,  the  traveller  beholds  with 
delight  the  crowds  of  well-dressed  people  who 
descend  from  the  churches  that  are  placed 
along  their  shores ;  and  it  is  sometimes  a  most 
interesting  incident,  amidst  the  assemblage  of 
forests  and  precipices  which  the  scenery  pre- 
sents, to  see  the  white  dresses  of  the  peasantry 
winding  down  the  almost  perpendicular  face 
of  the  mountains,  or  emerging  from  the  luxu- 
riant forests  with  which  their  sides  arc  clothed. 
The  climate  in  these  lakes  is  delightful.  The 
vicinity  of  the  mountain  indeed  attracts  fre- 
quent rains,  which  has  rendered  Como  pro- 
verbial in  Lombardy  for  the  wetness  of  its 
climate ;  but  when  the  shower  is  over,  the  sky 


reassumes  its  delicious  blue,  and  the  sun 
shines  with  renovated  splendour  on  the  green 
woods  and  orange  groves  which  adorn  the 
mountain  sides.  Perhaps  the  remarkable  and 
beautiful  greenness  of  the  foliage,  which  cha 
racterizes  the  scenery  of  all  these  lakes,,  it; 
owing  to  the  frequent  showers  which  the 
height  of  tho  surrounding  mountains  occa 
sions ;  and  if  so,  we  owe  to  them  one  of  the 
most  singular  and  characteristic  beauties  by 
which  they  are  distinguished. 

Italy  comprises  four  great  divisions:  in 
each  of  which  the  face  of  nature,  the  mode  of 
cultivation,  and  the  condition  of  the  people,  is 
very  difl"erent  from  what  it  is  in  the  others. 

The  first  of  these  emibraces  the  vast  plain 
which  lies  between  the  Alps  and  the  Apen- 
nines, and  extends  from  Coni  on  the  west  to 
the  Adriatic  on  the  east.  It  is  bounded  on  the 
south  by  the  Apennines,  which,  branching  off 
from  the  Maritime  Alps,  run  in  a  south-easterly 
direction  to  the  neighbourhood  of  Lorretto, 
and  on  the  north  by  the  chain  of  the  Alps, 
which  presents  a  continued  face  of  precipices 
from  sea  to  sea.  This  rich  and  beautiful  plain 
is,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  inconsiderable 
hills,  a  perfect  level;  insomuch  that  for  two 
hundred  miles  there  is  not  a  single  ascent  to 
be  met  with.  Towards  its  western  end,  in  the 
plain  of  Piedmont,  the  soil  is  light  and  sandy; 
but  it  becomes  richer  as  you  proceed  to  the 
eastward,  and  from  Lodi  to  Ferrara  is  com- 
posed of  the  finest  black  mould.  It  is  watered 
by  numberless  streams,  which  descend  from 
the  adjacent  mountains,  and  roll  their  tributary 
waters  to  the  Po,  and  this  supply  of  water 
joined  to  the  unrivalled  fertility  of  the  soil, 
renders  this  district  the  richest,  in  point  of 
agricultural  produce,  that  exists  in  Etu-ope. 
An  admirable  system  of  cultivation  has  long 
been  established  in  this  fertile  plain  ;  and  three 
successive  crops  annually  reward  the  labours 
of  the  husbandman. 

The  second  extends  over  all  the  declivities 
of  the  Apeiuiines,  from  the  frontiers  of  France 
to  the  southern  extremity  of  Calabria.  This 
immense  region  comprises  above  half  of  the 
whole  superficial  extent  of  Italy,  and  main- 
tains a  very  great  proportion  of  its  inhabitants. 
It  everywhere  consists  of  swelling  hills,  rapid 
descents,  and  narrov/ valleys,  and  yields  spon- 
taneously the  choicest  fruits.  The  olive,  the 
vin?,  the  fig  tree,  the  pomegranate,  the  sweet 
chestnut,  and  all  the  fruits  of  northern  climates, 
flourish  in  the  utmost  luxuriance  on  the  sunny 
slopes  of  Tuscany  and  the  Roman  States;  while 
in  Naples  and  Calabria,  in  addition  to  these, 
are  to  be  found  the  orange  tree,  the  citron,  the 
palm,  and  the  fruits  of  tropical  regions.  The 
higher  parts  of  these  mountains  are  covered 
by  magnific.ent  forests  of  sweet  chestnuts, 
which  yield  subsistence  to  a  numerous  popu- 
lation, at  the  height  of  many  thousand  fee' 
above  the  fea;  while,  at  the  summit, fasturp^ 
are  to  be  Ijund,  similar  to  those  of  the  Che- 
viot Hills  in  Scotland. 

The  third  region  comprises  the  plains  which 
lie  between  the  Apennines  and  iho  .Mediterra- 
nean, and  extends  from,  the  neighbourhood  of 
Pisa  to  the  mountains  of  Terracino.  This  dis 
trict,  once  covered  by  a  numerous  poDulation. 


168 


ALISON'S   MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


and  cultivated  in  the  most  careful  manner,  is 
now  almost  a  desert.  It  is  the  region  of  insa- 
ubrious  air;  and  no  means  have  3-ct  been 
devised  by  which  it  is  possible  to  enable  the 
human  race  to  flourish  under  its  pestilential 
influence.  After  leaving  the  highest  state  of 
civilization  in  Florence  or  Rome,  the  traveller 
is  astonished  to  find  himself  in  the  midst  of 
vast  plains,  over  which  numerous  flocks  of 
cattle  wander  at  large  under  the  care  of  shep- 
herds mounted  on  horseback,  and  armed  after 
the  fashion  of  the  steppes  of  Tartar}'.  This 
division  includes  under  it  all  the  plains  which 
lie  between  the  Apennines  and  the  Mediterra- 
nean, in  the  Neapolitan  territory,  among  M'hich 
the  Maremma  of  Pestuni  is  most  conspicuous ; 
and  nothing  but  the  vast  population  of  Naples 
prevents  its  celebrated  Campagna  from  relaps- 
ing into  the  same  desolate  state. 

The  fourth  great  division  comprehends  the 
plains  which  lie  to  the  eastward  of  the  Apen- 
nines, in  the  kingdom  of  Naples,  and  is  bound- 
ed b}^  the  Adriatic  sea  on  the  one  side,  and  the 
irregular  line  of  the  mountains  on  the  other.  It 
is  in  some  places  from  fifty  to  one  hundred  miles 
broad,  and  in  others  the  mountains  approach 
the  sea-shore.  The  country  is  flat,  or  rises  into 
extensive  downs,  and  is  cultivated  in  large 
farms,  where  it  is  under  agricultural  manage- 
ment; but  a  great  proportion  is  devoted  entirely 
to  pasturage.  Immense  forests  of  olive  are 
to  be  met  with  in  this  remote  district,  and  the 
hills  are  covered  with  vines,  and  oranges,  and 
other  fruits,  with  corn  growing  under  them. 

The  only  range  of  mountains  which  pro- 
perly and  exclusively  belongs  to  Italy  is  the 
Apennines ;  and  they  extend  over  more  than 
half  of  the  country.  Their  height  is  very  va- 
rious ;  in  the  vicinity  of  Genoa  they  rise  to 
about  4500  feet;  above  Pontrimoli,  on  the 
borders  of  Tuscany  and  Lombardy,  they  reach 
5500  to  6000  feet,  and  the  great  ridge  which 
stretches  from  Bologna  by  Valombrosa,  to  the 
south-east,  rises  in  some  places  to  between 
JOOO  and  7000.  They  are  not,  in  general,  very 
rock}-;  at  least  it  is  only  in  their  higher  emi- 
nences that  this  character  appears.  Their 
lower  parts,  everywhere  almost,  are  covered 
with  fruit  trees,  under  the  shade  of  which,  in 
the  southern  exposures,  crops  of  grain  are 
brought  to  maturity.  Higher  up,  the  sweet 
chestnut  covers  the  ascent,  and  supports  an 
immense  population  at  an  elevation  above  the 
sea  where  no  food  for  man  covild  be  procured 
in  our  climate.  The  pine,  the  beech,  and  the 
fir,  occupy  those  higher  regions  in  which  are 
Valombrosa,  Lavernia,  and  Camaldoli ;  and  at 
the  summits  of  all,  the  open  dry  pastures  fur- 
nish subsistence  to  numerous  flocks.  This 
great  capability  of  the  Apennines  to  yield  food 
for  the  use  of  man,  is  the  cause  of  the  extraor- 
dinary populousnes.s  oi  its  slopes.  In  the 
remotest  recesses  the  traveller  discovers  vil- 
lages and  towns ;  and  on  the  face  of  mountains 
where  the  eye  at  a  distance  can  discern  nothing 
but  wood,  he  finds,  on  a  nearer  approach,  every 
spot  of  ground  carefully  cultivated.  The  vil- 
;ages  and  towns  are  commonly  situated  on  the 
summits  of  eminences,  and  frequently  sur- 
rounded by  walls  and  towers ;  a  practice  which 
began  in  the  turbulent  periods  of  the  Italian  re- 


publics, and  has  been  since  continued  froi 
the  dread  of  malaria  in  the  bottom  of  the  va 
leys.  It  adds  greatly  to  the  picturesque  eff© 
of  the  mountain  scenerj',  and  gives  it  a  ch^ 
racter  altogether  peculiar.  In  the  Tuscan 
states,  the  lower  ranges  of  the  Apennines  have 
been  the  object  of  the  utmost  care,  and  of  an 
almost  inconceivable  expenditure  of  capital. 
They  are  regularly  cut  in  terraces,  and  when- 
ever an  opportunity  occurs,  water  is  brought 
from  the  adjoining  canals  to  every  field,  so 
that  the  whole  valley  is  as  it  were  covered 
with  a  network  of  small  streams,  which  convey 
their  freshness  all  around.  The  olives  and 
figs  which  flourish  in  this  delightful  region  are 
foreign  to  the  Tuscan  soil;  there  is  not  a  tree 
there  which  is  the  spontaneous  production  of 
nature;  they  are  all  planted  and  pruned  by  the  1 
hand  of  man.  ! 

Nothing  can  be  imagined  more  sterile  in 
itself,  or  more  adverse  to  any  agricultural  im- 
provement, than  the  aspect  of  nature  in  the 
Apennines.  Their  sides  present  a  series  of 
broken  rocks,  barren  slopes,  or  arid  cliffs. 
The  roots  of  the  bushes,  laid  bare  by  the  au- 
tumnal rains,  are,  by  degrees,  dried  up  by  the 
heat  of  the  sun.  They  perish,  and  leave  nothing 
behind  them  but  a  few  odoriferous  shrubs  dis-  i 
persed  on  the  rocks  to  cover  the  wreck.  The 
narrow  ravines  between  them  present,  in 
summer,  only  the  dry  beds  of  torrents,  in 
which  fallen  trees,  rocks,  and  gravel,  are 
accumulated  by  the  violence  of  the  winter 
rains.  This  debris  is  brought  down  by  the  ; 
torrents  into  the  wider  valleys,  and  whole  tracts 
of  country  are  desolated  by  a  sterile  mass  ol 
stone  and  gravel.  Thus  the  mountains  and 
the  valleys  at  their  feet  seem  equally  incapa- 
ble of  culture;  but  the  industry  of  the  Italians 
has  overcome  these  obstacles,  and  converted 
mountains,  to  appearance  the  most  sterile  that  i 
imagination  could  conceive,  into  a  succession 
of  gardens,  in  which  every  thing  that  is  most 
delightful,  as  well  as  useful,  is  assembled. 

This  astonishing  metamorphosis  has  been 
effected  by  the  introduction  of  the  terrace  sys- 
tem of  culture,  an  improvement  which  seems 
to  have  been  unknown  to  the  ancient  Romans,  ' 
and  to  have  spread  in  Europe  with  the  return 
of  the  Crusaders  in  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth 
centuries.  (Chateauvieux, 300.)  Nothingcould 
oppose  the  destructive  force  of  the  torrents,  but 
altering  the  surface  of  the  hills,  and  thereby 
breaking  the  course  of  the  waters.  This  was  ' 
an  immense  work,  for  it  required  the  whole 
soil  to  be  displaced,  and  built  up  by  means  of 
artificial  walls  into  successive  terraces;  and 
this  in  many  places  could  be  effected  only  by 
breaking  solid  ro(?ks,  and  bringing  a  new  soil  ' 
from  distant  places. 

The  artificial  land,  so  dearly  purchased,  is 
designed  for  the  cultivation  of  fruits  and  vege- 
tables. The  terraces  are  always  covered  with 
fruit-trees  placed  in  a  reflected  sun.  Amidst 
the  reverberations  of  so  many  Avails,  the  fruit 
is  most  abundant  and  superior  in  its  kind 
No  room  is  lost  in  these  limited  situations. — 
the  vine  extends  its  branches  along  the  walls; 
a  hedge  formed  of  the  same  vine  branches 
surrounds  each  terrace,  and  cover?:  U  with 
verdure.    In  the  corners  formed  by  the  meeting 


ITALY. 


W) 


af  the  supporting  walls,  fig-trccs  are  planted 
10  vegetate  under  their  protection.  The  owner 
lakes  advantage  of  every  vacant  space  left  be- 
tween the  olive-trees  to  raise  melons  and  vege- 
tables ;  so  that  he  obtains  on  a  very  limited  ex- 
tent, olive,  grapes,  pomegranates,  and  melons. 
So  great  is  the  produce  of  this  culture  that, 
under  good  management,  half  the  crop  of  seven 
acres  is  sufficient  for  a  family  of  five  persons  : 
being  little  more  than  the  produce  of  three- 
fourths  of  an  acre  to  each  soul.  This  little 
space  is  often  divided  into  more  than  twenty 
terraces. 

A  great  part  of  the  moiuitainous  part  of 
Italy  has  adopted  this  admirable  culture:  and 
tliis  accounts  for  the  great  population  which 
everywhere  inhabit  the  Italian  mountains,  and 
explains  the  singular  fact,  that,  in  scenes 
where  nothing  but  continued  foliage  meets  the 
e)'e,  the  traveller  finds,  on  a  nearer  approach, 
villages  and  hamlets,  and  all  the  signs  of  a 
numerous  peasantry. 

Continued  vigilance  is  requisite  to  maintain 
these  works.  If  the  attention  of  the  husband- 
man is  intermitted  for  any  considerable  time, 
the  violence  of  the  rains  destroys  what  it  had 
cost  so  much  labour  to  create.  Storms  and 
torrents  wash  down  the  soil,  and  the  terraces 
are  broken  through  or  overwhelmed  by  the 
rubbish,  which  is  brought  down  from  the 
higher  parts  of  the  mountain.  Every  thing 
returns  rapidly  to  its  former  state  ;  the  vigour 
of  southern  vegetation  covers  the  ruins  of 
human  industry:  and  there  soon  remains  only 
shapeless  vestiges  covered  by  briers. 

The  system  of  irrigation  in  the  valley  of  the 
Vrno  is  a  most  extraordinary  monument  of 
auman  industrj'.  Placed  between  two  ridges 
of  mountains,  one  of  them  very  elevated,  it  was 
periodically  devastated  by  numerous  torrents, 
which  were  precipitated  from  the  mountains, 
charged  Avilh  stone  and  rubbish.  To  control 
these  destructive  inundations,  means  were 
contrived  to  confine  the  course  of  the  torrents 
within  strong  walls,  which  serve  at  the  same 
time  for  the  formation  of  a  great  number  of 
canals.  At  regular  distances,  openings  are 
formed  below  the  mean  level  of  the  stream, 
that  the  water  may  run  out  laterally,  overflow 
the  land,  and  remain  on  it  long  enough  to 
deposit  the  mud  with  which  it  is  charged.  A 
great  many  canals,  by  successive  outlets  of  the 
water,  divide  the  principal  current  and  check 
its  rapiditj-.  These  canals  are  infinitely  sub- 
divided, and  to  such  a  degree,  that  there  is  not 
a  single  square  of  land,  which  is  not  sur- 
rounded by  them.  They  are  all  lined  with 
walls,  built  with  square  bricks;  the  scarcity 
of  water  rendering  the  most  vigilant  economy 
of  it  necessary.  A  number  <if  small  bridges 
connect  the  multitude  of  little  islands,  into 
which  these  canals  subdivide  the  country. 
These  Morks  are  still  kept  in  good  repair;  but 
the  whole  wealth  of  Tuscany  could  not  now 
furnish  the  sums  requisite  for  their  construc- 
tion. That  was  done  by  Florence  in  the 
thirteenth  and  fimrtecnth  centuries,  in  the  days 
of  her  republican  freedom. 

The  third  agricultural  division  of  Italy,  is 
the  Maremma,  or  the  plains  on  the  sea-shore 
ja  Tuscanv,  and  the  Roman  States,  where  the 


prevalence  of  the  malaria  renders  it  impossible 
to  live  permanently.  This  region  is  every* 
Avhere  divided  into  great  estates,  and  let  ir 
lai-ge  farms.  The  Maremma  of  Kome,  forty 
leagues  in  length  and  from  ten  to  fifteen  in 
breadth,  and  which  feeds  annually  67,000 
horned  cattle,  is  cultivated  by  only  eighty  farm- 
ers. These  farmers  live  in  Rome  or  Sienna, 
for  the  unhealthiness  of  the  atmosphere  pre- 
cludes the  possibility  of  their  dwelling  on  the 
lands  they  cultivate.  Each  farm  has  on  it 
only  a  single  house,  which  rises  in  the  midst 
of  desolation.  No  garden,  or  orchards,  or 
meadows,  announce  the  vicinity  of  a  human 
habitation.  It  stands  alone  in  the  midst  of  a 
vast  solitude,  with  the  cattle  pasturing  up  to 
the  walls  of  the  dwelling. 

The  whole  wealth  of  these  great  farms  con- 
sists in  their  cattle.  The  farm  servants  are 
comparatively  few,  and  they  are  constantly 
on  horseback.  Armed  with  a  gun  and  a  lance, 
the  shepherds,  as  in  the  wilds  of  Tartary,  are 
constantly  in  the  open  air  tending  the  herds 
committed  to  their  care.  They  receive  no 
fixed  wages,  but  are  paid  in  cattle,  which  graze 
with  the  herds  of  their  masters.  The  mildness  of 
the  climate  permits  the  grass  to  grow  during  all 
the  winter,  and  so  the  flocks  are  maintained  there 
in  that  season.  In  summer,  as  the  excessive  heat 
renders  the  pastures  parched  and  scant)'-,  the 
flocks  are  sent  to  the  highest  ridges  of  the  Apen- 
nines in  quest  of  cool  air  and  fresh  herbage. 
The  oxen,  however,  and  cows  of  the  Hungarian 
breed,  are  able  both  to  bear  the  heat  of  sum- 
mer, and  to  find  food  during  its  continuance  in 
the  Maremma.  They  remain,  therefore,  during 
all  the  year;  and  the  shepherds  who  tend  them 
continue  exposed  to  the  pestilential  air  during 
the  autumnal  months.  The  woods  are  stocked 
with  swine,  and  the  marshes  with  buffaloes. 
So  great  is  the  quantity  of  the  live-stock  on 
these  immense  farms,  that  on  one  visited  by 
Mr.  Chateauvieux  were  cattle  to  the  value  of 
16,000/.  sterling,  and  the  farmer  had  two  other 
farms  on  which  the  stocking  was  of  equal 
value. 

In  the  Terra  di  Lavoro,  or  Campagna  of  Na- 
ples, the  extreme  richness  of  the  soil  has  given 
rise  to  a  mode  of  culture  different  from  any 
which  has  yet  been  described.  The  aspect  of 
this  great  plain  is,  perhaps,  the  most  striking 
in  point  of  agricultural  riches  that  exists  in  the 
world.  The  great  heat  of  the  sun  renders  it 
necessary  that  the  grain  should  be  shaded  by 
trees  ;  and  accordingly  the  whole  country  is 
intersected  by  rows  of  elms  or  willows,  which 
divide  it  into  small  portions  of  half  or  three 
quarters  of  an  acre  each.  A  vine  is  planted 
at  the  foot  of  ever)'  tree  ;  and  such  is  the 
luxuriance  of  vegetation,  that  it  not  only  rises 
in  a  few  years  to  the  very  summit,  but  extends 
its  branches  in  a  lateral  direction,  so  as  to 
admit  of  festoons  being  trained  from  one  tree 
to  another.  These  trees  are  not  pollarded  as 
in  Tuscany  and  Lombardy,  but  allowed  to 
grow  to  tlicir  full  height,' so  that  it  is  not 
unusual  to  sec  a  vine  clustering  around  the 
top  of  a  poplar  sixty  or  eighty  feet  high, 
Under  their  shade  the  soil  produces  annua.ly 
a  double  crop,  one  of  which  is  of  wheat  of 
maize.    Melons  arc  cultivated  in  great  quanl 


160 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAVS. 


ties,  and  with  hardly  any  manure.  Thickets 
of  fig-trees,  of  peaches,  and  aloes,  grow  spon- 
taneously on  the  borders  of  the  fields.  Groves 
of  orange  clothe  the  slopes,  and  spread  their 


charming  perfumes  over  the  adjoining  country 
while  the  rocky  eminences  are  covered  witfc 
vines,  which  produce  fruits  of  the  most  deli 
cious  flavour. 


SCOTT,  CAMPBELL,   AND  EYEOIW 


"We  have  listened  with  admiration  to  the 
eloquent  strains  in  which  the  first  in  rankf 
and  the  first  in  genius^  have  proposed  the 
memory  of  the  immortal  bard  whose  genius 
we  are  this  day  assembled  to  celebrate  ;  but  I 
know  not  whether  the  toast  which  I  have  now 
to  propose  has  not  equal  claims  to  our  enthu- 
siasm. Your  kindness  and  that  of  the  com- 
mittee has  intrusted  to  me  the  memory  of  three 
illustrious  men — the  far-famed  successors  of 
Burns,  who  have  drank  deep  at  the  fountains 
of  his  genius,  and  proved  themselves  the  worthy 
inheritors  of  his  inspiration.  And  Scotland, 
I  rejoice  to  say,  can  claim  them  all  as  her 
own.  For  if  the  Tweed  has  been  immortalized 
by  the  grave  of  Scott,  the  Clyde  can  boast  the 
birthplace  of  Campbell,  and  the  mountains 
of  the  Dee  first  inspired  the  muse  of  Byron. 
I  rejoice  at  that  burst  of  patriotic  feeling ;  I 
hail  it  as  the  presage,  that  as  Ayrshire  has 
raised  a  fitting  monument  to  Burns,  and  Edin- 
burgh has  erected  a  fitting  structure  to  the 
author  of  Waverley,  so  Glasgow  will,  ere  long, 
raise  a  worthy  monument  to  the  bard  whose 
name  will  never  die  while  hope  pours  its  balm 
through  the  human  heart ;  and  Aberdeen  will, 
worthily,  commemorate  the  far-famed  tra- 
veller who  first  inhaled  the  inspiration  of  na- 
ture amidst  the  clouds  of  Loch-na-Gar,  and 
afterwards  poured  the  light  of  his  genius  over 
those  lands  of  the  sun,  where  his  descending 
orb  sets — 

"  Not  as  in  northern  climes  obscurely  bri<rht, 
But  one  unclouded  blaze  of  living  light." 

Sco^tland,  my  lord,  may  well  be  proud  of  hav- 
ing given  birth  to,  or  awakened  the  genius  of 
such  men;  but  she  can  no  longer  call  these 
exclusively  her  own — their  names  have  be- 
come household  words  in  every  land.  Man- 
kind claims  theia  as  the  common  inheritance 
of  the  numan  race.  Look  around  us,  and  we 
shall  see  on  every  side  decisive  proof  how 
far  and  wide  admiration  for  their  genius  has 
sunk  into  the  hearts  of  men.  What  is  it  that 
attiacts  strangers  from  every  part  of  the  world, 
into  this  distant  land,  and  has  more  than  com- 
pensated for  a  remote  situation  and  a  churlish 
soil,  and  .given  to  our  own  northern  isle  a 
splendour  unknown  to  the  regions  of  the  sun? 
What  is  it  Avhich  has  brought  together  this 
mighty   assemblage,   and   united   the    ardent 


♦  Speech  delivered  at  the  Burns  Festival,  on  6th  Au- 
gust, 1841,  on  proposing  the  memory  of  Scott,  Campbell, 
and  Uyron. 

t  K.-irl  of  Eslinton,  who  presided. 

t  Professor  Wilson. 


and  the  generous  from  eveiy  part  of  the  world, 
from  the  Ural  mountains  to  the  banks  of  the 
Mississippi,  on  the  shores  of  an  island  in  the 
Atlantic  1  My  lord,  it  is  neither  the  magni- 
ficence of  our  cities,  nor  the  beauty  of  our 
valleys,  the  animation  of  our  harbours,  nor 
the  stillness  of  our  mountains :  it  is  neither 
our  sounding  cataracts  nor  our  spreading 
lakes:  neither  the  wilds  of  nature  we  have 
subdued  so  strenuously,  nor  the  blue  hills  we 
have  loved  so  well.  These  beauties,  great  as 
they  are,  have  been  equalled  in  other  lands; 
these  marvels,  wondrous  though  they  be,  have 
parallels  in  other  climes.  It  is  the  genius  of 
her  sons  which  have  given  Scotland  her  proud 
pre-eminence ;  this  it  is,  more  even  than  the 
shades  of  Bruce,  of  Wallace,  and  of  Mary, 
which  has  rendered  her  scenes  classic  ground 
to  the  whole  civilized  world,  and  now  brings 
pilgrims  from  the  most  distant  parts  of  the 
earth,  as  on  this  day,  to  worship  at  the  shrine 
of  genius. 

Yet  Albyn !  yet  the  praise  be  thine. 

Thy  scenes  with  story  to  combine  ; 

Thou  bid'st  him  who  by  Roslin  strays. 

List  to  the  tale  of  other  days. 

Midst  Cartlane  crags  thou  showest  the  cave, 

The  refuge  of  thy  champion  brave ; 

Givins!  each  rocic  a  storied  tale, 

Pouring  a  lay  through  every  dale; 

Knitting,  as  with  a  moral  band, 

Thy  story  to  thy  native  land  ; 

Combining  thus  the  interest  high, 

Which  genius  lends  to  beauty's  eye! 

But  the  poet  who  conceived  these  beautiful 
lines,  has  done  more  than  all  our  ancestors' 
valour  to  immortalize  the  land  of  his  birth; 
for  he  has  united  the  interest  of  truth  with  the 
charms  of  fiction,  and  peopled  the  realm  not 
only  with  the  shadows  of  time,  but  the  crea- 
tions of  genius.  In  those  brilliant  creations, 
as  in  the  glassy  wave,  we  behold  mirrored  the 
lights,  the  shadows,  the  forms  of  reality;  and 
yet 

So  pure,  so  fair,  the  mirror  gave. 
As  if  there  lay  beneath  the  wave, 
Secure  from  trouble,  toil,  and  care, 
A  world  than  earthly  world  more  fair. 

Years  have  rolled  on,  but  they  have  taken  no- 
thing, they  have  added  much,  to  the  fame  of 
those  illustrious  men. 

Time  but  the  impression  deeper  makes. 
As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear. 

The  voice  of  ages  has  spoken :  it  has  given 
Campbell  and  Byron  the  highest  place,  with 
Burns,  in  lyric  poetry,  and  destined  Scott 
To  rival  all  but  Shakspeare's  name  below. 
Their  names  now  shine  in   unapproachable 
splendour,  far  removed,  like  the  fixed  stars, 


SCOTT,  CAMPBELL,  AND  BYRf)X. 


10. 


from  the  clouds  and  the  rivahy  of  a  lower 
•world.  To  the  end  of  time,  they  Avill  maintain 
their  exalted  station.  Never  will  the  culti- 
vated traveller  traverse  the  sea  of  the  Archipe- 
lago, that  "The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of 
Greece,"  will  not  recur  to  his  recollection  ; 
never  will  he  approach  the  shores  of  Loch 
Katrine,  that  the  image  of  Ellen  Douglas  will 
not  be  present  to  his  memory;  never  will  he 
gaze  on  the  clifTs  of  Britain,  that  he  will  not 
thrill  at  the  exploits  of  the  "mariners  of  Eng- 
land, who  guard  our  native  seas."  Whence 
has  arisen  this  great,  this  universally  acknow- 
ledged celebrity  1  My  lord,  it  is  hard  to  say 
whether  we  have  most  to  admire  the  brilliancy 
of  their  fancy,  or  the  creations  of  their  genius, 
the  beautj'  of  their  verses,  or  the  magic  of 
their  language,  the  elevation  of  their  thoughts, 
or  the  pathos  of  their  conceptions.  Yet  can 
each  boast  a  separate  grace ;  and  their  age 
has  witnessed  in  every  walk  the  genius  of 
poetry  elevated  to  its  highest  strain.  In  Scott 
it  is  variety  of  conception,  truth  and  fidelity 
of  delineation  in  character,  graphic  details  of 
the  olden  time,  which  is  chiefly  to  be  admired. 
Who  can  read  without  transport  his  glowing 
descriptions  of  the  age  of  chivalry  ?  Its  massy 
castles  and  gloomy  vaults,  its  haughty  nobles 
and  beauteous  dames,  its  gorgeous  pageantry 
and  prancing  steeds,  stand  forth  under  his 
magic  pencil  with  all  the  colours  and  bril- 
liancy of  reality.  We  are  present  at  the  shock 
of  armies,  we  hear  the  shouts  of  mortal  com- 
batants, we  see  the  flames  of  burning  castles, 
we  weep  in  the  dungeon  of  captive  innocence. 
Yet  who  has  so  well  and  truly  delineated  the 
less  obtrusive  but  not  less  impressive  scenes 
of  humble  life  1  Who  has  so  faithfully  por- 
trayed the  virtues  of  the  cottage;  who  has  done 
so  much  to  elevate  human  nature,  by  exhibiting 
its  dignity  even  in  the  abyss  of  misfortune; 
who  has  felt  so  truly  and  told  so  well  "the 
might  that  slumbers  in  a  peasant's  arral"  In 
Byron  it  is  the  fierce  contest  of  the  passions 


the 


of  a  soul  longing  for  the  stern 


realities  of  life,  amidst  the  seduction  of  its 
frivolity;  the  brilliant  conceptions  of  a  mind 
fraught  with  the  imagery  and  recollections  of 
the  east,  which  chiefly  captivates  every  mind. 
His  pencil  is  literally  "dipt  in  the  orient  hues 
of  heaven."  He  transports  us  to  enchanted 
11 


ground,  where  the  scenes  which  speak  mos' 
powerfully  to  the  heart  of  man  are  brought 
successively  before  our  eyes.  The  east,  with 
its  deathless  scenes  and  cloudless  skies;  it.'i 
wooded  steeps  and  mouldering  fanes,  its  glassy 
seas  and  lovely  vales,  rises  up  like  magic  be- 
fore us.  The  haughty  and  yet  impassioned 
Turk;  the  crouching  but  still  gifted  Greek; 
the  wandering  Arab,  the  cruel  Tartar,  the  fa- 
natic Moslem,  stand  before  us  like  living  beings, 
they  are  clothed  with  flesh  and  blood.  But 
there  is  one  whose  recent  death  we  all  deplore, 
but  who  has  lighted  "  the  torch  of  Hope  at  na- 
ture's funeral  pile,"  v/ho  has  evinced  a  yet 
higher  inspiration.  In  Campbell,  it  is  the  mo- 
ral purposes  to  which  he  has  directed  his 
mighty  powers,  which  is  the  real  secret  of  his 
success;  the  lofty  objects  to  which  he  has  de- 
voted his  life,  which  have  proved  his  passport 
to  immortality.  To  whatever  quarter  he  has 
turned  his  iniiul,  we  behold  the  working  of  the 
same  elevated  spint.  Whether  he  paints  the 
disastrous  day,  when, 

Oh  bloodiest  picture  in  theboolt  of  Time, 
Sarinatia  foil,  unwept,  without  a  crime ; 

or  portrays  with  generous  ardour  the  ima- 
ginary paradise  on  Susquehanna's  shore, 
where 

The  world  was  sad,  the  pardon  was  a  wild. 
And  man,  tlio  hermit,  sighed  till  woman  smiled  ; 

or  transports  us  to  that  awful  time  when  Chris- 
tian faith  remains  unshaken  amidst  the  disso- 
lution of  nature. 

And  ships  are  driflin3  with  their  dead, 
To  shores  where  all  is  dumb, 

we  discern  the  same  mind,  seeing  every  ob- 
ject through  its  own  sublime  and  lofty  vision. 
Thence  has  arisen  his  deathless  name. — It  is 
because  he  has  unceasingly  contended  for  tlie 
best  interests  of  humanity;  because  he  has 
ever  asserted  the  dignity  of  a  human  soul;  be- 
cause he  has  never  forgotten  that  amidst  all 
the  distinctions  of  time — 

"The  rank  is  but  the  cuinoa  stamp. 
The  man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that ;" 

because  he  has  regarded  himself  as  the  high- 
priest  of  nature,  and  the  world  which  we  in- 
habit as  the  abode  not  merely  of  human  cares 
and  human  joys,  but  as  the  temple  of  the  liv- 
ing Gud,  in  which  praise  i?  due,  and  where 
service  is  to  be  performed. 


18> 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


SCHOOLS   or  DESIGN. 


J  * 


We  stand  in  this  community  in  a  very 
peculiar  situation,  and  which  loudly  calls  for 
immediate  attention  of  all  interested  in  their 
country's  greatness.  We  have  reached  the  very 
highest  point  of  commercial  greatness.  Such 
has  been  the  growth  of  our  mechanical  power, 
such  the  marvels  of  our  commercial  enter- 
prise !  But,  when  we  tarn  to  the  station  we  oc- 
cupy in  the  arts  of  design,  in  these  very  arts 
in  which,  as  a  manufacturing  community,  we 
are  so  deeply  interested,  we  see  a  very  different 
spectacle.  We  see  foreignei's  daily  flocking 
from  all  parts  of  the  world  to  the  shores  of  the 
Clyde  or  the  Mersey,  to  study  our  railways, 
and  our  canals;  to  copy  our  machinery,  to 
take  models  of  our  steam-vessels — but  we  see 
none  coming  to  imitate  our  designs.  On  the 
contrary,  we,  who  take  the  lead  of  all  the  world 
in  mechanical  invention,  in  the  powers  of  art, 
are  obliged  to  follow  them  in  the  designs  to 
which  these  powers  are  to  be  applied.  Gentle- 
men, this  should  not  be.  We  have  now  arrived 
at  that  period  of  manufacturing  progress,  when 
we  must  take  the  lead  in  design,  or  we  shall 
cease  to  have  orders  for  performance — we 
must  be  the  first  in  conception,  or  we  will  be 
the  last  in  execution.  To  others,  the  Fine  Arts 
may  be  a  matter  of  gratification  or  ornament; 
to  a  manufacturing  community  it  is  one  of 
life  or  death.  We  may,  however,  be  encou- 
raged to  hope  that  we  may  yet  and  ere  long 
attain  to  eminence  in  the  Fine  Arts,  from  ob- 
serving how  uniformly  in  past  times  com- 
mercial greatness  has  co-existed  with  purity 
of  taste  and  the  development  of  genius  ;  in  so 
much  that  it  is  hard  to  say  whether  art  has 
owed  most  to  the  wealth  of  commerce,  or  com- 
merce to  the  perfection  of.  art.  Was  it  not 
the  wealth  of  inland  commerce  which,  even  in 
the  deserts  of  Asia,  reared  up  that  great  com- 
monwealth, which  once,  under  the  guidance 
of  Zenobia,  bade  defiance  to  the  armies  of 
imperial  Rome,  and  the  ruins  of  which,  at 
Tadmor  and  Palmyra,  still  attract  the  admira- 
tion of  the  traveller?  Was  it  not  the  wealth 
of  maritime  commerce  which,  on  the  shores 
t)f  the  ^gean  sea,  raised  that  great  republic 
which  achieved  a  dominion  over  the  minds  of 
men  more  durable  than  that  which  had  been 
reared  by  the  legions  of  Cccsar,  or  the  phalanx 
of  Alexander  7  Was  it  not  the  manufactures 
of  Tuscany  vvhich  gave  birth  at  Florence  to 
that  immorial  school  of  painting,  the  works 
of  which  still  attract  the  civilized  world  to  the 
shores  of  the  Arno?  The  velvets  of  Genoa,  the 
jewelry  of  Venice,  long  maintained  their  as- 
cendency after  tho  political  importance  of 
these  republics  had  declined;  and  the  school 
of  design  established  sixty  years  ago  at  Lyons 
has  enabled  its  silk  manufactures  to  preserve 
Che  lead  in  Europe — despite  the  carnage  of  the 
Convention,  and  the  wars  of  Napoleon.     In 

•  Spcorli  delivered  on  Nov.  2S.  1SI3,  in  proposing  the 
CKStublisliiiient  of  a  Scliool  of  Design  in  Glasgow. 


Flanders  and  Holland  the  wealth  and  en;er« 
prise  of  commerce,  notwithstanding  the  dis- 
advantages of  a  level  soil,  a  cloudy  atmosphere, 
and  a  humid  climate,  have  produced  the  im- 
mortal works  of  Rubens,  Vandyke,  and  Rem- 
brandt. Why  should  a  similar  result  not  take 
place  here  1  Arrived  at  the  summit  of  manu- 
facturing greatness,  why  should  we  be  second 
to  any  in  the  arts  of  design  1  Have  they  pos- 
sessed advantages  which  we  do  not  enjoy  1 
Had  they  finer  cataracts  than  the  Falls  of  the 
Clyde,  or  glens  more  romantic  than  Cartland 
Crags — had  they  nobler  oaks  than  those  of 
Cadzow,  or  ruins  more  imposing  than  those 
of  Bothwell — had  they  galleries  finer  than  the 
halls  of  Hamilton,  or  lakes  more  lovely  than 
Loch  Lomond,  or  mountains  more  sublime 
than  those  ofArranl  Gentlemen,  within  two 
hours'  journey  from  Glasgow  are  to  be  found 
combined 

"Whate'er  Lorrain  hath  touched  with  softeninj  hue 
Or  savage  Rosa  dashed,  or  learned  Poussin  drew." 

The  wealth  is  here,  the  enterprise  is  here, 
the   materials   are  here;  nothing  is  wanting 
but  the  hand  of  genius  to  cast  these  precious 
elements  into  the  mould  of  beauty — the  lofty 
spirit,  the  high  aspirations  which,  aiming  at 
greatness,  never  fail  to  attain  it.     Are  we  to 
be  told  that  we  cannot  do  these   things;  that 
like  the  Russians  we  can  imitate  but  cannot 
conceive  1     It  is  not  in  the  nation  of  Smith 
and  of  Watt, — it  is  not  in   the  land  of  Bums 
and  Scott, — it  is  not  in  the  country  of  Shak- 
speare  and  Milton, — it  is  not  in  the  empire  of 
Reynolds   and  Wren,  that  we  can  give  any 
weight   to   that   argument.     Nor  is   it   easy 
to  believe   that   the  same  genius   which  has 
drawn  in  such  enchanting  colours  the  lights 
and  shadows  of  Scottish    life,  might  not,  if 
otherwise  directed,  have  depicted,  with  equal 
felicity,  the  lights   and   shadows   of  Scottish 
scenery.     We  have  spoken  of  our  interests 
M^e  have  spoken  of  our  capabilities, — we  have 
spoken  of  what  other  nations  have  done; — but 
there  are  greater  things  done  than  these.    No 
one  indeed  can  doubt  that  it  is  in  the  moral  and 
religious  feelings  of  the  people,  that  the  broad 
and  deep  foundations  of  national  prosperity 
can  alone  be  laid,  and  that  every  attempt  to 
attain  durable  greatness  on  any  other  basis 
will  prove  nugatory.     But  Ave  are  not  only 
moral  and  intellectual,  we  are  active  agents. 
We  long  after  gratification — we  thirst  for  en- 
joyment ;    and   the   experienced   obsen-er  of 
inan  will  not  despise  the  subsidiary,  but  still 
important  aid  to  be  derived  in  the  great  work 
of  moral  elevation,  from  a  due  direction  of  the 
active  propensities.     And  he  is  not  the  least 
friend  to  his  species,  who,  in  an  age  peculiar- 
ly vehement  in  desire,  discovers  gratifications 
ivhich   do  not  corrupt — enjoyments  which  do 
not  degrade.     But  if  this  is  true  of  enjoyments 
simply  innocent,  what  shall  we  say  of  those 
which  refine,  which  not  only  do  not  lead  to 


LAMARTLXE. 


163 


Tire,  but  exalt  to  virtue? — whirh  open  to  the 
pe.isaiii,  equally  villi  the  prince,  that  pure 
graiilication  which  arises  to  ail  nlilce  from  the 
contemplation  of  the  f^rand  and  the  beautiful 
in  Art  and  in  Nature  ?  We  have  now  reached 
ibai  point   where   such   an   election  can   no 


longer  be  delaj-ed.  Our  wealth  is  so  fjreat,  n 
has  come  on  us  so  sudilenly,  it  will  cornipt  if 
it  does  not  refine  ;  if  not  directed  to  the  arts 
which  raised  Athens  to  immortality,  it  wUL 
sink  us  to  those  which  hurled  Babylon  to  per- 
dition. 


lamaktine; 


It  is  remarkable,  that  although  England  is 
the  country  in  the  world  which  has  sent  forth 
the  greatest  number  of  ardent  and  intrepid 
travellers  to  explore  the  distant  parts  of  the 
earth,  yet  it  can  by  no  means  furnish  an  array 
of  writers  of  travels  which  will  bear  a  compa- 
rison with  those  whom  France  can  boast.  In 
skilful  navigation,  daring  adventure,  and  heroic 

Eerseverance,  indeed,  the  country  of  Cook  and 
lavis,  of  Bruce  and  Park,  of  Vlackenzie  and 
Buckingham,  of  Burckhardt  and  Byron,  of  Par- 
ry and  Franklin,  may  well  claim  the  pre-emi- 
nence of  all  others  in  the  world.  An  English- 
man first  circumnavigated  the  globe ;  an 
Englishman  alone  has  seen  the  fountains  of 
the  Nile  ;  and,  five  years  after  the  ardent  spi- 
rit of  Columbus  had  led  his  fearful  crews 
across  the  Atlantic,  Sebastian  Cabot  dis- 
covered the  shores  of  Newfoundland,  and 
planted  the  British  standard  in  the  regions 
destined  to  be  peopled  with  the  overflowing 
multitudes  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race. 

But  if  we  come  to  the  literary  works  which 
have  followed  these  ardent  and  energetic  ef- 
forts, and  which  are  destined  to  perpetuate 
their  memory-  to  future  times — the  interesting 
discoveries  which  have  so  much  extended  our 
knowledge  and  enlarged  our  resources — the 
contemplation  is  by  no  means,  to  an  inhabitant 
of  these  islands,  equally  satisfactory.  The 
British  traveller  is  essentially  a  man  of  en- 
ergy and  action,  but  rarely  of  contemplation 
or  cloijuonce.  He  is  seldom  possessed  of  the 
scientific  acquirements  requisite  to  turn  to  the 
best  accotint  the  vast  stores  of  new  and  original 
information  which  arc  placed  within  his  reach. 
He  offn  obsf-rves  and  collects  facts;  but  it  is 
as  a  prnriical  man,  or  for  professional  pur- 
poses, rather  than  as  a  philosopher.  The  ge- 
nius of  the  AngUvSaxon  race — boM,  sagacious, 
and  « nierprising,  rather  than  conti-mplative 
and  scientific — nowhere  appears  m 
than  in  the  accotints  of  the  niiniei 
trcpi'l  travellers  whom  they  are  ciuiiinually 
seniling  forth  into  every  part  of  the  earth.  We 
admire  their  vigour,  we  aremoved  by  iheirhard- 
ships,  w:  are  enriched  by  their  (Jiscoveries ; 
but  if  we  turn  to  our  lil'rnrie<;  fur  works  to  con- 
vey to  future  aires  an  •  and  interesting 
acciMint  of  these  fa  ■  .,  ndvenltires,  we 
fhall,  in  general,  experience  nothing  but  dis- 
appointment. Few  of  them  arc  written  with 
the  practised  hand,  the  graphic  eye.  necessary 
•o  convey   vivid    pictures   to   future   times; 

•  Olarkwood'a  Mnsiizint**  Nov.  1M4. 


and  though  numerous  and  valuable  books  of 
travels,  as  works  of  reference,  load  the  shelves  ' 
of  our  libraries,  there   are   surprisingly  few 
which  are  fitted,  from  the  interest  and  vivacitj 
of  the  style  in  which  they  are  written,  to  pos 
sess  permanent  attractions  for  mankind. 

One  great  cause  of  this  remarkable  peculi- 
arity is  without  doubt  to  be  found  in  the  widely 
different  education  of  the  students  in  our  uni- 
versities, and  our  practical  men.  In  the  for- 
mer, classical  attainments  are  in  literature  the 
chief,  if  not  exclusive,  objects  of  ambition ; 
and  in  consequence,  the  young  aspirants  for 
fame,  who  issue  from  these  learned  retreats, 
have  their  minds  filled  with  the  charms  and 
associations  of  antiquity,  to  the  almost  entire 
exclusion  of  objects  of  present  interest  and  im- 
portance. The  vigorous  practical  men.  again, 
who  are  propelled  by  the  enterprise  and  exer- 
tions of  our  commercial  towns,  are  sagacious 
and  valuable  observers ;  but  they  have  seldom 
the  cultivated  minds,  pictorial  eye,  or  powers 
of  description,  requisite  to  convey  vivid  or  in- 
teresting impressions  to  others.  Thus  our 
scholars  give  us  little  more  than  treatises  on 
inscriptions,  and  disquisitions  on  the  sites  of 
ancient  towns;  while  the  accounts  of  our  ac- 
tive men  are  chiefly  occupied  with  commercial 
inquiries,  or  subjects  connected  with  trade  and 
navieation.  The  cultivated  and  enlightened  tra- 
veller, whose  mind  is  alike  open  to  the  charm 
of  ancient  story  and  the  interest  of  nioilern 
achievement — who  is  classical  without  being 
pedantic,  graphic  and  yet  faithful,  enthusiastic 
and  yet  accurate,  discursive  and  at  the  same 
time  imaginative,  is  almost  unknown  amoncrst 
us.  It  will  continue  to  be  so  as  long  as  edu- 
cation in  our  universities  is  exclusively  devot- 
ed to  CJreek  and  Latin  verses,  or  the  higher  ma- 
thematics; and  in  academies,  to  book-keeping 
and  the  rule  of  three;  while  so  broad  and  sul 
len  a  line  as  heretofore  is  drawn  between  the 
studies  of  our  scholars  and  the  pursuits  of  our 
practical  citizens.  To  travel  to  good  purpose 
requires  n  mind  stored  with  much  and  varied 
information,  in  science,  statistics,  geocraphy, 
literature,  history,  and  poetry.  To  descnbi" 
what  the  traveller  has  seen,  requires,  in  .ml'li 
lion  to  thi-i,  the  eye  of  a  painter,  the  soul  of  a 
poet,  and  the  hand  ofa  practised  composer.  Pro- 
bably it  will  be  deemed  no  ea.sy  matter  to  find 
such  a  combination  in  any  countrv  or  in  any 
age ;  and  most  certainly  the  svsteni  of  eihir.-\iion, 
neither  at  our  learned  un  'iir  com- 

mercial acadi-mies,  is  ll  •  e  n. 

It  is  from  inattention  to  the  va.st  <:«yre  t4 


164 


ALISON'S   MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


previous  information  reqiiisite  to  make  an  ac- 
complished traveller,  and  still  more  a  writer 
of  interesting  travels,  that  failures  in  this 
branch  of  literature  are  so  glaring  and  so  fre- 
quent. In  other  departments  of  knowledge, 
a  certain  degree  of  information  is  felt  to  be 
requisite  before  a  man  can  presume  to  Avrite 
a  book.  He  cannot  produce  a  treatise  on  ma- 
thematics without  knowing  at-  least  Euclid, 
nor  a  worlc  on  history  without  having  read 
Hume,  nor  on  political  economy  without 
having  acquired  a  smattering  of  Adam  Smith. 
But  in  regard  to  travels,  no  previous  informa- 
tion is  thought  to  be  requisite.  If  the  person 
who  sets  out  on  a  tour  has  only  money  in  his 
pocket,  and  health  to  get  to  his  journey's  end,  he 
is  deemed  sufficiently  qualified  to  come  out 
with  his  two  or  three  post  octavos.  If  he  is 
an  Honourable,  or  known  at  Almack's,  so  much 
the  better ;  that  will  ensure  the  sale  of  the  first 
edition.  If  he  can  do  nothing  else,  he  can  at 
least  tell  the  dishes  which  he  got  to  dinner  at 
the  inns,  and  the  hotels  where  comfortable 
beds  are  to  be  found.  This  valuable  informa- 
tion, interspersed  with  a  few  descriptions  of 
scenes,  copied  from  guide-books,  and  anecdotes 
picked  up  at  tabks-d'lwlc  or  on  board  steam- 
boats, constitute  the  stock  in  trade  of  many  an 
adventurer  who  embarks  in  the  speculation 
of  pa3dng  by  publication  the  expenses  of  his 
travels.  We  have  no  individuals  in  view  in 
these  remarks;  we  speak  of  things  in  general, 
as  they  are,  or  rather  have  been ;  for  we  be- 
lieve these  ephemeral  travels,  like  other  ephe- 
merals,  have  had  their  day,  and  are  fast  dying 
out.  The  market  has  become  so  glutted  with 
them  that  they  are,  in  a  great  many  instances, 
unsaleable. 

The  classical  /avellers  of  England,  from 
Addison  to  Eustace  and  Clarke,  constitute  an 
important  and  valuable  body  of  writers  in  this 
branch  of  literature,  infinitely  superior  to  the 
fashionable  tours  which  rise  up  and  disappear 
like  bubbles  on  the  surface  of  society.  It  is 
impossible  to  read  these  elegant  productions 
without  feeling  the  mind  overspread  with  the 
charm  which  arises  from  the  exquisite  remains 
and  heart-stirring  associations  with  which  they 
are  filled.  But  their  interest  is  almost  exclu- 
sively classical ;  they  are  invaluable  to  the  ac- 
complished scholar,  but  they  speak  in  an  un- 
known tongue  to  the  great  mass  of  men.  They 
see  nature  only  through  the  medium  of  anti- 
quity; beautiful  in  their  allusion  to  Greek  or 
Roman  remains,  eloquent  in  the  descriptions 
of  scenes  alluded  to  in  the  classical  writers, 
they  have  dwelt  little  on  the  simple  scenes  of 
the  unhistoric  world.  To  the  great  moral  and 
social  questions  which  now  agitate  society,  and 
so  strongly  move  the  hearts  of  the  great  body 
of  men,  they  are  entire  strangers.  Their  works 
are  the  elegant  companions  ofthe  scholar  or 
the  antiquary,  not  the  heart-stirring  friends  of 
the  cottage  on  the  fireside. 

Inferior  to  Britain  in  the  energy  and  achieve- 
ments of  the  travellrrs  whom  she  has  sent 
forth,  and  beyond  measure  beneath  her  in  the 
amount  of  the  addition  she  has  made  to  geo- 
Rraphical  science,  France  is  yet  greatly  supe- 
rior, at  least  of  late  years,  in  the  literary  and 
scientific  attainments  of  the  wanderers  whose 


works  have  been  given  to  the  world.  Four 
among  these  stand  pre-eminent,  whose  works, 
irt  very  different  styles,  are  at  the  head  of  Eu- 
ropcon  literature  in  this  interesting  department 
— Humboldt,  Chateaubriand,  Michaud,  and  La- 
martine.  1'heir  st3'les  are  so  various,  and  the 
impressions  produced  by  reading  them  so  dis- 
tinct, that  it  is  diflicult  to  believe  that  they  have 
arisen  in  the  same  nation  and  age  ofthe  world- 

Humboldt  is,  in  many  respects,  and  perhaps 
upon  the  whole,  at  the  head  of  the  list;  and  to 
his  profound  and  varied  works  we  hope  to  be 
able  to  devote  a  future  paper.  He  unites,  ia 
a  degree  that  perhaps  has  never  before  been 
witnessed,  the  most  various  qualities,  and 
which,  from  the  opposite  characters  of  mind 
which  they  require,  are  rarely  found  in  uniton. 
A  profound  philosopher,  an  accurate  observer 
of  nature,  an  unwearied  statist,  he  is  at  the 
same  time  an  eloquent  writer,  an  incompara- 
ble descriher,  and  an  ardent  friend  of  social 
improvement.  Science  owes  to  his  indefati- 
gable industry  many  of  her  most  valuable  ac- 
quisitions :  geography,  to  his  intrepid  perse- 
verance, many  of  its  most  important  discove- 
ries ;  the  arts,  to  his  poetic  eye  and  fervid  elo- 
quence, many  of  their  brightest  pictures.  He 
unites  the  austere  grandeur  of  the  exact 
sciences  to  the  bewitching  charm  of  the  fine 
arts.  It  is  this  very  combination  which  pre- 
vents his  Avorks  from  being  generally  popular. 
The  riches  of  his  knoAvledge,  the  magnitude 
of  his  contributions  to  scientific  discover}', 
the  fervour  of  his  descriptions  of  nature,  al- 
ternately awaken  our  admiration  and  excitf 
our  surprise ;  but  they  oppress  the  mind.  To 
be  rightly  apprehended,  they  require  a  readei 
in  some  degree  familiar  Avitli  all  these  subjects , 
and  how  many  of  these  are  to  be  met  Avith  ? 
The  man  Avho  takes  an  interest  in  his  scienti- 
fic observations  will  seldom  be  transported  by 
his  pictures  of  scenery;  the  social  observer, 
Avho  extracts  the  rich  collection  of  facts  Avhich 
he  has  accumulated  regarding  the  people  Avhom 
he  visited,  will  be  indifl"erent  to  his  geographi- 
cal discoA'eries.  There  are  few  Humboldts 
either  in  the  reading  or  thinking  Avorld. 

Chateaubriand  is  a  traA'eller  of  a  Avholly 
different  character.  He  lived  entirely  in  anti- 
quity; but  it  is  not  the  antiquity  of  Greece 
and  Home  Avhich  has  alone  fixed  his  regards, 
as  it  has  done  those  of  Clarke  and  Eustace — it  is 
the  recollections  of  chiA'alry,  the  dcA'out  spirit 
of  the  pilgrim,  AA'hich  chiefly  Avarmed  his  ar- 
dent imagination.  He  is  uniA'ersally  alloAved 
by  Frenchmen  of  .all  parties  to  be  their  first 
Avriter;  and  it  maybe  conceived  what  brilliant 
Avorks  an  author  of  such  poA\-ers,  and  emi- 
nently gifted  both  with  the  soul  of  a  poet  and 
the  eye  of  a  painter,  must  haA^e  produced  in 
describing  the  historic  scenes  to  Avhich  his 
pilgrimages  extended.  He  Avcnt  to  Greece  and 
the  Uo\y  Land  with  a  mind  devout  rather  than 
enlightened,  credulous  rather  than  inquisitive. 
Thirsting  for  strong  emotions,  he  would  be 
satisfied;  teeming  Avith  the  recollections  and 
visions  of  the  past,  he  traversed  the  plnccT 
halloAvcd  by  his  early  affections  Avith  the  fond- 
ness of  a  lover  who  returns  to  the  home  of 
his  bliss,  of  a  mature  ma^i  aa-Iio  rcA'isits  the 
scenes  of  his  infancy.    He  cared  not  to  inquire 


LA.MARTINE. 


165 


whnt  was  tnie  or  what  was  Icgcndan'  in  ihosc 
timi^-hallowcd  traditions;  ho  gladly  acct'iilcd 
thi'in  as  ihey  stood,  and  studiously  averted  all 
inquiry  into  the  foundation  on  which  they 
rested.  He  wandered  over  the  Peloponn^us 
or  Jndra  with  the  fond  ardour  of  an  English 
Sfhiilar  who  seeks  in  the  Palatine  Mount  the 
traces  of  Virgil's  enchanting  description  of 
the  hut  of  Evander,  and  rejects  as  sacrilege 
every  attempt  to  shake  his  faith. 

"  WliPn  i'oipnre  from  Crfal  ion's  face 
Eiirhanliiienl's  visions  draws. 
W'lial  lovely  visions  yield  Iheir  i)lace 
To  cold  nintorial  laws ;  " 

Even  in  the  woods  of  America,  the  same  rul- 
ing passion  was  evinced.  In  those  pathless 
solitudes,  where  no  human  foot  had  ever  trod 
luit  that  of  the  wandering  savage,  and  the 
majesty  of  nature  appeared  in  undisturbed 
repose,  his  thoughts  were  still  of  the  Old 
World.  It  was  on  the  historic  lands  that  his 
heart  was  set.  A  man  himself,  he  dwelt  on 
the  scenes  which  had  been  signalized  by  the 
deeds,  the  sufferings,  the  glories  of  man. 

Michaud's  mind  is  akin  to  that  of  Chateau- 
briand, and  yet  different  in  many  important 
particulars.  The  learned  and  indefatigable 
historian  of  the  Crusades,  he  has  traversed 
the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean — the  scene, 
as  Dr.  Johnson  observed,  of  all  that  can  ever 
interest  man — liis  religion,  his  knowledge,  his 
arts — with  the  ardent  desire  to  imprint  on  his 
mind  the  scenes  and  images  which  met  the 
eyes  of  the  holy  warriors.  He  seeks  to  trans- 
port us  to  the  days  of  Godfrey  of  Bouillon  and 
Raymond  of  Toulouse;  he  thirsts  with  the 
Christian  host  at  Dorislaus,  he  shares  in  its 
anxieties  at  the  siege  of  Antioch,  he  partici- 
pates in  its  exultation  at  the  storming  of  Jeru- 
salem. The  scenes  visited  by  the  vast  multi- 
tude of  warriors  who,  during  two  hundred 
years,  were  precipitated  from  Europe  on  Asia, 
have  almost  all  been  visited  by  him,  and  de- 
scribed with  the  accuracy  of  an  antiriuary  and 
the  enthusiasm  of  a  poet.  With  the  old  chro- 
nicles in  his  hand,  he  treads  with  veneration 
the  scenes  of  former  generous  sacrifice  and 
heroic  achievements,  and  the  vast  and  massy 
structures  erected  on  cither  sidg  iluring  those 
terrible  wars — when,  for  centuries,  Europe 
strove  hand  to  hand  with  Asia — most  of  which 
have  undergone  very  little  alteration,  enable 
him  to  descrilie  them  almost  exactly  as  they 
appeared  to  the  holy  warriors.  The  interest 
of  his  pilgrimage  in  the  cast,  accordingly,  is 
peculiar,  but  ver}'  great;  it  is  not  so  much  a 
book  of  travels  as  a  moving  chronicle;  but, 
like  JSir  W.  Scott's  Miiislrrlty  of  thr  Jinrrlrrii,  it  is 
achroniclc  cbuhed  in  a  very  difTerr-nt  garb  from 
the  homely  dress  of  the  oblcn  time.  It  trans- 
ports us  back,  not  only  in  time  but  in  idea,  six 
nnndred  years;  but  it  docs  so  with  the  grace 
of  modern  times — it  clothes  the  profound  feel- 
ings, the  generous  sacrifices,  the  forgeifulness 
of  self  of  the  twrlfth  century,  with  the  poetic 
mind,  the  cultivated  taste,  the  refined  imagery 
of  the  nineteenth. 

Lamartine  has  traversed  the  same  scenes 
with  Chateaubriand  and  Michaud,  and  yet  he 
has  done  so  in  a  dilTerent  spirit;  and  the 
character  of  his  work  is  essentially  different 


from  either.  He  has  not  the  dc7out  credulity 
of  the  lirsi,  nor  ihc  antiquarian  zeal  and  know- 
ledge of  the  la^t;  but  he  is  superior  to  either 
in  the  description  of  nature,  and  the  painting 
vivid  and  interesting  scenes  on  the  mind  of 
the  reader.  His  work  is  a  moving  panorama, 
in  which  the  historic  scenes  and  azure  skies, 
and  placid  seas,  and  glowing  sunsets,  of  the 
cast,  arc  portrayed  in  all  their  native  bril- 
lianc)^  and  in  richer  even  than  their  native 
colours.  His  mind  is  stored  with  the  associa- 
tions and  the  ideas  of  antiquity,  and  he  has 
thrown  over  his  descriptions  of  the  scenes  of 
Greece,  or  Holy  Writ,  all  the  charms  of  such 
recollections ;  but  he  has  done  so  in  a  more 
general  and  catholic  spirit  than  either  of  his 
predecessors.  He  embarked  for  the  Holy 
Land  shortly  before  the  revolution  of  1830; 
and  his  thoughts,  amidst  all  the  associations 
of  antiquity,  constantly  reverted  to  the  land 
of  his  fathers — its  distractions,  its  woes,  its 
ceaseless  turmoil,  its  gloomy  social  prospects. 
Th''^  with  all  his  vivid  imagination  and  unri- 
valled powers  of  description,  the  turn  of  his 
mind  is  essentially  contemplative.  He  looks 
on  the  past  as  an  emblem  of  the  present;  he 
sees,  in  the  fall  of  Tyre,  and  Athens,  and  Jeru- 
salem, the  fate  which  one  day  awaits  his  own 
country;  and  mourns  less  the  decay  of  human 
things,  than  the  popular  passions  and  national 
sins  which  have  brought  that  instability  in 
close  proximity  to  his  own  times.  This  sen- 
sitive and  foreboding  disposition  was  much 
increased  by  the  death  of  his  daughter — a 
charming  child  of  fourteen,  the  companion  of 
his  wanderings,  the  depositary  of  liis  thoughts, 
the  darling  of  his  affections — who  was  snatched 
away  in  the  spring  of  life,  when  in  health  and 
joy,  by  one  of  the  malignant  fevers  incidental 
to  the  pestilential  plains  of  the  east. 

Though  Lamartine's  travels  are  continuous, 
he  does  not,  like  most  other  wanderers,  fur- 
nish us  with  a  journal  of  ever}- day's  proceed- 
ings. He  was  too  well  aware  that  many, 
perhaps  most,  days  on  a  journey  are  monoto- 
nous or  uninteresting;  and  that  great  part 
of  the  details  of  a  traveller's  progress  are 
wh(dly  unworthy  of  being  recorded,  because 
they  are  neither  amusing,  elevating,  nor  in- 
structive. He  paints,  now  and  then,  with  all 
the  force  of  his  magical  pencil,  the  more  bril- 
liant or  characteristic  scenes  which  he  visited, 
and  intersperses  them  with  reneclions,  moral 
and  social ;  such  as  woultl  naturally  be  aroused 
in  a  sensitive  mind  by  the  sight  of  the  ruins 
of  ancient,  and  the  contemplation  of  the  decay 
of  modern,  times. 

He  embarked  at  Marseilles,  with  Madame 
T.amartine  and  his  liille  daughter  Julia,  on  the 
lOlh  of  July,  IR.'K).  The  following  is  the  pic- 
ture  of  the  yearnings  of  his  mind  on  leaving 
his  native  land;  and  they  convey  a  faithful 
image  <if  his  intellectual  temperament: — 

"I  fiej  it  deeply:  I  am  one  only  of  those 
men,  without  a  distinctive  chararier,  of  a 
transitory  and  fading  epoch,  whose  .sighs  have 
found  an  echo — only  because  the  echo  was 
more  poetical  than  the  p<tet.  I  belong  to 
another  age  by  my  desires:  I  feel  in  myself 
another  man :  the  immense  and  houndles* 
horizon  of  philosophy,  at  once  profound.  r» 


lee 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


Jigions,  and  poetical,  has  opened  to  my  view; 
but  the  punishment  of  a  wasted  youth  over- 
took me ;  it  soon  faded  from  my  sight.  Adieu, 
then,  to  the  dreams  of  genius,  to  the  aspira- 
tions of  intellectual  enjoyment!  It  is  too  late: 
I  have  not  physical  strength  to  accomplish 
any  thing  great.  I  will  sketch  some  scenes — 
I  will  murmur  some  strains ;  and  that  is  all. 
Yet  if  God  would  grant  my  prayers,  here  is 
the  object  for  which  I  would  petition — a  poem, 
such  as  my  heart  desires,  and  his  greatness 
deserves!— a  faithful,  breathing  image  of  his 
creation  :  of  the  boundless  world,  visible  and 
invisible  !  That  would  indeed  be  a  worthy 
inheritance  to  leave  to  an  era  of  darkness,  of 
doubt,  and  of  sadness! — an  inheritance  which 
would  nourish  the  present  age,  and  cause  the 
next  to  spring  with  renovated  youth." — O'oy- 
agcs  en  Orient,  I.  49,  50.)* 

One  of  his  first  nocturnal  reveries  at  sea, 
portrays  the  tender  and  profoundly  religious 
impressions  of  his  mind: — 

"lAvalked  for  an  hour  on  the  deck  of  the 
vessel  alone,  and  immeised  alternately  in  sad 
or  consoling  reflections..  I  repeated  in  my 
heart  all  the  prayers  which  I  learned  in  in- 
fancy from  my  mother ;  the  verses,  the  frag- 
ments of  the  Psalms,  which  I  had  so  often 
heard  her  repeat  to  herself,  when  Avalking  in 
"the  evening  in  the  garden  of  Milly.  I  experi- 
enced a  melancholy  pleasure  in  thus  scatter- 
ing them,  in  my  turn,  to  the  waves,  to  the 
winds,  to  that  Ear  which  is  ever  open  to  every 
real  movement  of  the  heart,  though  not  yet 
uttered  by  the  lips.  The  praj-er  which  we 
have  heard  repeated  by  one  we  have  loved,  and 
who  is  no  more,  is  doubly  sacred.  Who  among 
us  M^ould  not  prefer  a  few  words  of  prayer  taught 
us  by  our  mother,  to  the  most  eloquent  sup- 
plication composed  by  ourselves  1  Thence  it 
is  that  whatever  religious  creed  we  may  adopt 
at  the  age  of  reason,  the  Christian  prayer  will 
be  ever  the  prayr  r  of  the  human  race.  I  prayed 
in  the  prayer  of  the  church  for  the  evening  at 
sea ;  also  for  that  dear  being,  who  never  thought 
of  danger  to  accompany  her  husband,  and  that 
lovely  child,  who  played  at  the  moment  on  the 
poop  with  the  goat  M-hich  was  to  give  it  milk 
on  board,  and  with  the  little  kids  which  licked 
her  snow-white  hands,  and  sported  with  her 
long  and  fliir  ringlets." — (I.  57.) 

A  night-scene  on  the  coast  of  Provence  gives 
a  specimen  of  his  descriptive  powers. 

"It  was  night— that  is,  what  they  call  night 
in  those  climates;  but  how  many  days  have  I 
seen  less  brilliant  on  the  banks  of  the' Thames, 
the  Seine,  the  Saone,  or  the  Lake  of  Geneva! 
A  full  moon  shone  in  the  firmament,  and  cast 
into  the  shade  our  vessel,  Avhich  lay  motion- 
less on  the  water  at  a  little  distance  from  the 
quay.  The  moon,  in  her  progress  through 
the  heavens,  had  loft  a  path  marked  as  if  with 
red  sand,  with  which  she  had  besprinkled  the 
half  of  the  sky:  the  remainder  Avas  clear  deep 
blue,  which  melted  into  white  as  she  advanced. 
On  the  horizon,  at  the  distance  of  two  miles, 
between  two  little  isles,  of  which  the  one  had 


•  Wp  t;ivo  translated  nil  tlic  pnssacos  mirsnlves  :  the 
verhlnii.s  hiiliiTtn  pulillslii'il  In  this  country  pive,  as  most 
Knelisti  translations  of  rrcncli  works  do.'a  most  imper- 
fect idea  oftlic  original. 


headlands  pointed  and  coloured  like  the  Coli- 
seum   at   Home,   while   the  other  was  violet 
like  the  flower  of  the  lilac,  the  image  of  a  vast 
city  appeared  on  the  sea.     It  was  an  illusion, 
doubtless ;  but  it  had  all  the  appearance  of 
reality.     You  saw  clearly  the  domes  glancing 
— dazzling  lines  of  palaces — quays  flooded  by 
a  soft  and  serene  light;  on  the  right  and  the 
left  the  waves  were  seen  to  sparkle  and  en- 
close it  on  either  side  :  it  was  Venice  or  Malta 
reposing   in   the  midst  of  the   waters.     The 
illusion  was  produced  by  the  reflection  of  the 
moon,  when  her  rays  fell  perpendicularly  on 
the  waters  ;  nearer  the  eye,  the  radiance  spread 
and  expanded  in  a  stream  of  gold  and  silver 
between  two  shores  of  azure.     On  the  left,  the 
gulf  extended  to  the  summit  of  a  long  and  ob> 
scure   range   of  serrated  mountains ;   on  the  ; 
right  opened  a  narrow  and  deep  valley,  where 
a  fountain  gushed  forth  beneath  the  shade  of 
aged  trees;  behind,  rose  a  hill,  clothed  to  the 
top  with  olives,  which  in  the  night  appeared 
dark,  from  its  summit  to  its  base — a  line  ol 
Gothic  towers  and  white  houses  broke  the  ob-  ■ 
scurity  of  the  wood,  and  drew  the  thoughts  to  i 
the  abodes,  the  joys,  and  the  sufferings  of  man. 
Further  ofl^,  in  the  extremity  of  the  gulf,  three 
enormous  rocks  rose,  like  pillars  Avithout  base, 
from   the   surface  of  the  waters — their  forms  : 
were  fantastic,  their  surface  polished  like  flints  j 
by  the  action   of  the  waves;  but  those  flints  \ 
were  mountains — the  remains,  doubtless,  of  ! 
that  primeval  ocean  which  once  overspread  \ 
the  earth,  and  of  which  our  seas  are  but  a  ' 
feeble  image."— (L  66.) 

A  rocky  bay  on  the  same  romantic  coast,  ; 
now  rendered  accessible  to  travellers  by  the  i 
magnificent  road  of  the  Corniche,  projected,  ; 
and  in  part  executed  by  Napoleon,  furnishes 
another  subject  for  this  exquisite  pencil: — 

"  A  mile  to  the  eastward  on  the  coast,  the 
mountains,  which  there  dip  into  the  sea,  are 
broken  as  if  by  the  strokes  of  enormous  clubs 
— huge  fragments  have  fallen,  and  are  strewed  ; 
in  wild  confusion  at  the  foot  of  the  clifls,  or 
amidst  the  blue  and  green  waves  of  the  sea, 
which  incessantly  laves  them.     The  waves 
break   on  these  huge  masses  without   inter 
mission,  AvitlT  a  hollow  and  alternating  roar, 
or  rise  up  in  sheets  of  foam,  Avhich  besprinkle 
their  hoary  fronts.     These  masses  of  moun- 
tains— for  they  are  too  large  to  be  called  rocks 
— are  piled  and  heaped  together  in  such  num- 
bers, that  they  form  an  innumerable  number 
of  narrow  havens,  of  profound  caverns,  of 
sounding    grottoes,    of    gloomy   fissures — of 
which  the  children  of  some  of  the  neighbouring 
fishermen  alone  know  the  windings  and  the 
issues.     One  of  these  caverns,  into  Avhich  you 
enter  by  a  natural  arch,  the  summit  of  which 
is  formed  by  an  enormous  block  of  granite, 
lets  in  the  sea,  through  which  it  flows  into  a 
dark  and  narrow  valley,  which  the  waters  fill 
entirely,  with  a  surface  as  limpid  and  .smooth 
as  the  firmament  which  they  reflect.     The  sea 
preserves  in  tliis  sequestered  nook  thatbcautiful 
tint  of  bright  green,  of  which  marine  painters 
so  strongly  feel  the  value,  but  which  they  can 
never   transfer   exactly   to  their  canvas;  for 
the  eye  sees  much  which  the  hand  strives  in 
vain  to  imitate. 


LAMAIITINE. 


167 


"On  ihe  two  sides  oflhatmariiievcillcyri.se 
two  pri'iliRious  walls  of  perpeiuliciilar  rock, 
of  an  unifunn  and  sombre  hue,  similar  to  that 
of  iron  ore,  after  it  has  issued  and  cooled  from 
the  furnace.  Not  a  plant,  not  a  moss  can  find 
a  slope  or  a  crevice  wherein  to  insert  its  roots 
or  cover  the  rocks  with  those  waving  garlands 
which  so  often  in  Savoy  clothe  the  clilfs,  where 
Uiey  llower  to  God  alone.  Black,  naked,  per- 
pendicular, repelling  the  eye  by  their  awful 
aspect — they  seem  t\)  have  been  placed  there 
for  no  other  purpose  but  to  protect  from  the 
sea-breezes  the  hills  of  olives  and  vines,  which 
bloom  under  their  shelter;  an  image  of  those 
ruling  men  in  a  stormy  epoch,  who  seem  placed 
by  Providence  to  bear  the  fury  of  all  the  tem- 
pests of  passion  and  of  lime,  to  screen  the 
weaker  but  happier  race  of  mortals.  At  the 
bottom  of  the  bay  the  sea  expands  a  little,  as- 
sumes a  bluer  tint  as  it  comes  to  reflect  more 
of  the  cloudless  heavens,  and  at  length  its  tiny 
waves  die  away  on  a  bed  of  violets,  as  closely 
netted  together  as  the  sand  upon  the  shore.  If 
you  disembark  from  the  boat,  you  find  in  the 
cleft  of  a  neighbouring  ravine  a  fountain  of 
living  water,  which  gushes  beneath  a  narrow 
path  formed  by  the  goats,  which  leads  up  from 
this  sequestered  solitude,  amidst  overshadow- 
ing fig-trees  and  oleanders,  to  the  cultivated 
abodes  of  man.  Few  scenes  struck  me  so 
much  in  my  long  wanderings.  Its  charm  con- 
sists in  that  exquisite  union  of  force  and  grace 
which  forms  the  perfection  of  natural  beauty 
as  of  the  highest  class  of  intellectual  beings; 
it  is  that  mysterious  hymen  of  the  land  and 
the  sea,  surprised,  as  it  were,  in  their  most 
secret  and  hidden  imion.  It  is  the  image  of 
perfect  calm  and  inaccessible  solitude,  close 
to  the  theatre  of  tumultuous  tempests,  where 
their  near  roar  is  heard  with  such  terror,  where 
iheir  foaming  but  lessened  waves  yet  break 
upon  the  shore.  It  is  one  of  those  numer- 
ous rhrjs-cVauvrc  of  creation  which  God  has 
scattered  over  the  earth,  as  if  to  sport  with 
contrasts,  but  which  he  conceals  so  frequently 
on  the  summit  of  naked  rocks,  in  the  deplh  of 
inaccessible  ravines,  on  the  unappmachable 
shores  of  the  ocean,  lilcc  jewels  which  he 
unveils  rarely,  and  that  only  to  simple  be- 
ings, to  children,  to  shepherds  or  fishermen, 
or  the  devout  worshippers  of  nature." — (I.  73 
-74.) 

This  style  of  description  of  scenery  is 
peculiar  to  this  age,  and  in  it  liamarline  may 
safely  be  pronounced  without  a  rival  in  the 
whole  range  of  literature.  It  wa.s  with  Scott 
and  Chateaubriand  that  the  f^mphir  style  of 
df-rripiion  arose  in  England  and  Franco;  but 
he  has  pushed  the  art  furlhi-r  than  cither  of 
his  irre.-it  piivlecssors.  Milton  and  'rhf)nis()n 
had  l.n/.'  I,  mdeed,  in  poetry,  painted  nature 
in  the  mo'-t  enchaniing,  as  well  as  the  truest 
colours;  but  in  prose  litllc  was  to  be  found 
except  a  ^<ii<t  il  and  vague  description  of  a 
class  of  i>tij<(ts,  as  lakes,  mountains,  and 
rivers,  without  any  specification  of  features 
and  details,  so  as  to  convey  a  definite  and  dis- 
tinct impression  to  the  mind  of  the  reader. 
Even  the  rl  i  iml  mind  and  rrfin^fl  taste  of 
Addison  cuild  not  attain  this  graphic  style  ;  his 
iescnptions  of  scenerj',  like  that  of  all  prose 


writers  down  to  the  close  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  are  lost  in  vague  generalities.  Llk? 
almost  all  descriptions  of  battles  in  mod'-rn 
times,  before  Napier,  they  are  so  like  each 
other  that  you  cannot  distinguish  one  from  the 
other.  Scott  and  Chateaubriand,  when  they 
did  apply  their  great  powers  to  the  delineation 
of  nature,  were  incomparably  faithful,  as  well 
as  powerfully  imaginative;  but  such  descrip- 
tions were,  for  the  most  part,  but  a  secondary 
object  with  them.  The  human  heart  was  their 
great  study;  the  vicissitudes  of  life,  the  inex- 
haustible theme  of  their  genius.  With  La- 
martine,  again,  the  description  of  nature  is  the 
primary  object.  It  is  to  convey  a  vivid  im- 
pression of  the  scenes  he  has  visited  that  he 
has  written;  to  kindle  in  his  reader's  mind  the 
train  of  emotion  and  association  which  their 
contemplation  awakened  in  his  own,  that  he 
has  exerted  all  his  powers.  He  is  much  more 
laboured  and  minute,  in  consequence,  than 
either  of  his  predecessors ;  he  records  the 
tints,  the  forms,  the  lights,  the  transient  effects 
with  all  a  painter's  enthusiasm  and  all  a  poet's 
power ;  and  succeeds,  in  any  mind  at  all  fa- 
miliar with  the  objects  of  nature,  in  conjuring 
up  images  as  vivid,  sometimes  perha])s  more 
beautiful,  than  the  originals  which  he  por 
trayed. 

From  the  greatness  of  his  powers,  however, 
in  this  respect,  and  the  facility  with  which  he 
commits  to  paper  the  whole  features  of  the 
splendid  phantasmagoria  with  which  his  me- 
mory is  stored,  arises  the  principal  defect  of 
his  work ;  and  the  circumstance  which  has 
hitherto  prevented  it,  in  this  country  at  least, 
from  acquiring  general  popularity  commen- 
surate to  its  transcendent  merits.  He  is  too 
rich  in  glowing  images ;  his  descriptions  are 
redundant  in  number  and  beauty.  The  mind 
even  of  the  most  imaginative  reader  is  fatigued 
by  the  constant  drain  upon  its  admiration — 
the  fancy  is  exhausted  in  the  perpetual  elTort  to 
conceive  the  scenes  which  he  portrays  to  the 
eye.  Images  of  beauty  enough  are  to  be  found 
in  his  four  volumes  of  Travels  in  the  East,  to 
emblazon,  with  the  brightest  colours  of  the 
rainbow,  forty  volumes  of  ordinary  adventure. 
We  long  for  some  repose  amidst  the  constant 
repetition  of  dazzling  objects ;  monotony,  in 
sipidity,  ordinary  life,  even  dulness  itself. 
would  often  be  a  relief  amidst  the  ceaseless 
flow  of  rousing  images.  Sir  Walter  Scott 
says,  in  one  of  his  novels — "  Be  assured  that 
whenever  I  am  particularly  dull,  it  is  not  with- 
out an  object;"  and  Lamartinc  would  some- 
times be  the  better  of  following  the  advice. 
We  generally  close  one  of  his  volumes  with 
the  feeling  s(»  well  known  to  travellers  in  the 
Italian  cities,  "I  hope  to  (Jod  there  is  nothing 
more  to  be  seen  here."  And  having  given  the 
necessary  respite  of  unexciting  disquisition  to 
rest  our  readers'  minds,  we  shall  again  bring 
forward  one  of  his  glowing  pictures: — 

"  Between  tlie  sea  and  the  last  heights  of 
Lebanon,  which  sink  rapidly  almost  to  the 
water's  edge,  extends  a  plain  eight  b-agues  in 
length  by  one  or  two  broad ;  sandy,  bare, 
covered  only  with  thorny  arbiilns.  browsed  by 
the  camels  of  caravans.  From  ii  darls  out  into 
the  sea  an  advanced  peninsula,  linked  to  lh« 


I68 


ALISON'S  mSCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


continent  only  by  a  narrow  chaussee  of  shining 
sand,  borne  hither  by  the  winds  of  Egypt. 
Tyre,  now  called  Sour  by  the  Arabs,  is  situated 
at  the  extremity  of  this  peninsula,  and  seems, 
at  a  distance,  to  rise  out  of  the  waves.  The 
modern  town,  at  lirst  sight,  has  a  gay  and 
smiling  appearance;  but  a  nearer  approach 
dispels  the  illusion,  and  exhibits  only  a  few 
hundred  crumbling  and  half-deserted  houses, 
where  the  Arabs,  in  the  evening,  assemble  to 
shelter  their  flocks  which  have  browsed  in  the 
narrow  plain.  Such  is  all  that  now  remains 
of  the  mighty  Tyre.  It  has  neither  a  harbour  to 
the  sea,  nor  a  road  to  the  land  ;  the  prophecies 
have  long  been  accomplished  in  regard  to  it. 

"  We  moved  on  in  silence,  buried  in  the 
contemplation  of  the  dust  of  an  empire  which 
we  trod.  We  followed  a  path  in  the  middle 
of  the  plain  of  Tyre,  between  the  town  and  the 
hills  of  gray  and  naked  rock  which  Lebanon 
has  thrown  down  towards  the  sea.  We  arrived 
abreast  of  the  city,  and  touched  a  moundof 
sand  which  appears  the,  sole  remaining  ram- 
part to  prevent  it  from  being  overwhelmed  by 
the  waves  of  the  ocean  or  the  desert.  I  thought 
of  the  prophecies,  and  called  to  mind  some  of 
the  eloquent  denunciations  of  Ezekiel.  As  I 
was  making  these  reflections,  some  objects, 
olack,  gigantic,  and  motionless,  appeared  upon 
ihe  summit  of  one  of  the  overhanging  cliffs  of 
Lebanon  which  there  advanced  far  into  the 
plain.  They  resembled  five  black  statues, 
placed  on  a  rock  as  their  huge  pedestal.  At 
first  Ave  thought  it  was  five  Bedouins,  who 
were  there  stationed  to  fire  upon  us  from  their 
inaccessible  heights  ;  but  when  we  were  at  the 
distance  of  fifty  yards,  we  beheld  one  of  them 
open  its  enormous  wings,  and  flap  them 
against  its  sides  with  a  sound  like  the  unfurl- 
ing of  a  sail.  We  then  perceived  that  they 
were  five  eagles  of  the  largest  species  I  have 
ever  seen,  either  in  the  Alps  or  our  museums. 
They  made  no  attempt  to  move  when  we  ap- 
proached ;  they  seemed  to  regard  themselves 
as  kings  of  the  desert,  looked  on  Tyre  as  an 
appanage  which  belonged  to  them,  and  whither 
they  were  about  to  return.  Nothing  more 
supernatural  ever  met  my  eyes  ;  I  could  almost 
suppose  that  behind  them  I  saw  the  terrible 
figure  of  Ezekiel,  the  poet  of  vengeance,  point- 
ing to  the  devoted  city  which  the  divine  wrath 
had  overwhelmed  with  destruction.  The  dis- 
charge of  a  few  muskets  made  them  rise  from 
their  rock :  but  they  showed  no  disposition  to 
move  from  their  ominous  perch,  and,  soon 
returning,  floated  over  our  heads,  regardless 
of  the  shots  fired  at  them,  as  if  the  eagles  of 
God  were  beyond  the  reach  of  human  injury." 
— (IL  8—9.) 

Jerusalem  M'as  a  subject  to  awaken  all  our 
author's  enthusiasm,  and  call  forth  all  his 
descriptive  powers.  The  first  approach  to  it 
has  exercised  the  talents  of  many  writers  in 
prose  and  verse  ;  but  none  has  drawn  it  in 
such  graphic  and  brilliant  colours  as  our 
author : — 

"  We  ascended  a  mountain  ridge  strewed 
over  with  enormous  gray  rocks  piled  one  on 
another  as  if  by  human  hands.  Here  and 
there  a  few  stunted  vines,  yellow  with  the  co- 
<our  of  autumn,  irept  along  the  soil  in  a  few 


places  cleared  out  in  the  wilderne:.  Yie 
trees,  with  their  tops  withered  or  shin'ed  bv 
the  blasts,  often  edged  the  vines,  and  isttheit 
black  fruit  on  the  gray  rock.  On  o-  ri'^ht, 
the  desert  of  St.  John,  where  former  ''the 
voice  was  heard  crying  in  the  wil'rness* 
sank  like  an  abyss  in  the  midst  of  fii.  or  six 
black  mountains,  through  the  oper-o-g  of 
which,  the  sea  of  Egypt,  overspread  rith  a 
dark  cloud,  could  still  be  discerned.  )n  the 
left,  and  near  the  eye,  was  an  old  towe -,-jlaced 
on  the  top  of  a  projecting  eminence  other 
ruins,  apparently  of  an  ancient  aquetct,  de- 
scended from  that  tower,  overgrown  v,h  ver- 
dure, now  in  the  sere  leaf;  that  teer  is 
Modin,  the  stronghold  and,  tomb  of  o  last 
heroes  of  sacred  story,  the  Maccabee  We 
left  behind  us  the  ruins,  resplendent  -nh  the 
first  rays  of  the  morning — rays,  not  bleled  as 
in  Europe  in  a  confused  and  vague  lumi- 
nation,  but  darting  like  arrows  of  fireinted 
with  various  colours,  issuing  from  a  dizling 
centre,  and  diverging  over  the  whole  hvens 
as  they  expand.  Some  were  of  blue,  tghUy 
silvered,  others  of  pure  white,  some  of  nder 
rose-hue,  melting  into  gray;  many  of  b'ning 
fire,  like  the  coruscations  of  a  flaming  mfla- 
gration.  All  were  distinct,  yet  all  unid  in 
one  harmonious  whole,  forming  a  respkdent 
arch  in  the  heavens,  encircling,  and  i;'.ung 
from  a  centre  of  fire.  In  proportion  ;  the 
day  advanced,  the  brilliant  light  of  thesej-pa- 
rate  rays  was  gradually  dimmed — or  rher, 
they  were  blended  together,  and  compost  the 
colourless  light  of  day.  Then  the  moon,  •'lich 
still  shone  overhead,  'paled  her  ineffiiual 
fire,'  and  melted  away  in  the  general  illuma- 
tion  of  the  heavens. 

"After  having  ascended  a  second  Jge, 
more  lofty  and  naked  than  the  forme  the 
horizon  suddenly  opens  to  the  right,  andre- 
sents  a  view  of  all  the  country  which  exnds 
between  the  last  summits  of  Judea  andhe 
mountains  of  Arabia.  It  was  already  flcled 
with  the  increasing  light  of  the  morning  imt 
beyond  the  piles  of  gray  rock  which  lay  irhe 
foreg-round,  nothing  was  distinctly  visible'Ut 
a  dazzling  space,  like  a  vast  sea,  interspc-ed 
with  a  few  islands  of  shade,  which  stood  rth 
in  the  brilliant  surface.  On  the  shores  of  at 
imaginary  ocean,  a  little  to  the  left,  and  amt 
a  league  distant,  the  sun  shone  with  uncn- 
mon  brilliancy  on  a  massy  tower,  a  lofty  m- 
aret,  and  some  edifices,  which  crowned  le 
summit  of  a  low  hill  of  which  you  could  ot 
see  the  bottom.  Soon  the  points  of  other  i* 
narets,  a  few  loopholed  walls,  and  the  crk 
summits  of  several  domes,  which  successivy 
came  into  view,  and  fringed  the  descendg 
slope  of  the  hill,  announced  a  cit)%  It  vs 
Jerusalem,  and  every  one  of  the  party,  A\f 
out  addressing  a  word  to  the  guides  or  to  e;'n 
other,  enjoyed  in  silence  the  entrancing  sp  - 
tacle.  We  rested  our  horses  to  contemplc 
that  mysterious  and  dazzling  apparition;  i' 
when  we  moved  on,  it  was  soon  snatched  fm 
our  view;  for  as  we  descended  the  hill,  a' 
plunged  into  the  deep  and  profound  vail' 
which  lay  at  its  feet,  we  lost  sight  of  the  he 
city,  and  were  surrounded  only  by  the  solitui 
and  desolation  of  the  desert."— (11.163— 165 


I.AMARTIAE. 


1C9 


The  environs  of  Jerusalem  arc   dcscnlvil 
ilh  e(ju;il  force  by  the  same  master-liaiul : — 
"The  general  aspect  of  the  environs  of  Je- 
nsalcin   niaj'  be  described   in  a  few  words. 
Viountains  without  shade,  and  valleys  without 
•.aler — the  earth  without  verdure,  rocks  wiih- 
ut  grandeur.     Here  and  there  a  few  blocks 
f  gray  stone  start  up  out  of  the  dry  and  fis- 
ured  earth,  between  which,  beneath  the  shade 
f  an  old  fii;-tree,  a  gazelle  or  a  hya?na  are  oc- 
asionally  seen  to  emerge  from   the  fissures 
f  the  rock.     A  few  plants  or  vines  creep  over 
lie  surface  of  that  gray  and  parched  soil ;  in 
le  distance,  is  occasionally  seen  a  grove  of 
live-trees,  casting  a  shade  over  the  arid  side 
f  the  mountain — the  mouldering  walls  and 
•   owers  of  the  city  appearing  from  afar  on  the 
ummit  of  Mount  Sion.     Such  is  the  general 
haracter  of  the  countr}-.     The  sky  is  ever 
ure,  bright,  and  cloudless ;  never  does  even 
lie  slightest  film  of  mist  obscure  the  purple 
int  of  evening  and  morning.     On  the  side  of 
Vrabia,  a  wide  gulf  opens  amidst  the  black 
idges,  and  presents  a  vista  of  the  shining  sur- 
\\ce  of  the  Dead  Sea,  and  the  violet  summits 
•f  the  mountains  of  Moab.    Rarely  is  a  breath 
f  air  heard  to  murmur,  in  the  fissures  of  the 
ocks,  or  among   the  branches  of  the   aged 
■lives ;  not  a  bird  sings,  nor  an  insect  chirps 
a  the  waterless  furrows.    Silence  reigns  uni- 
ersally,  in  the  city,  in  the  roads,  in  the  fields. 
■>uch  was  Jerusalem  during  all  the  time  that 
ve  spent  within  its  walls.    Not  a  sound  ever 
let  our  ears,  but  the  neighing  of  the  horses, 
i'ho  grew  impatient  under  the  burning  rays  of 
.16  sun,  or  who  furrowed  the  earth  with  their 
eet,  as  they  stood  picketed  round  our  camp, 
ningled  occasionally  with  the  crying  of  the 
lOur  from  the  minarets,  or  the  mournful  ca- 
lences  of  the  Turks  as  they  accompanied  the 
lead  to  their  cemeteries.     Jerusalem,  to  which 
he  world  hastens  to  visit  a  sepulchre,  is  itself 
L  vast  tomb  of  a  people;  but  it  is  a  tomb  with- 
)Ut  cj-pre.sses,  without   inscriptions,   without 
nonumcnts,  of  which  they  have  broken   the 
rravcstones,  and  the  ashes  of  which  appear  to 
■over  the  earth  which  surrounds  it  with  mourn- 
ng,  silence  and  sterility.     We  cast  our  eyes 
ack  frequently   from    the    top  of  every  hill 
vhich  we  passed  on  this  mournful  and  dcso- 
ate  region,  and  at  length  we  saw  for  the  last 
ime,  liie  crown  of  olives  which  snrmnuntsthe 
Uount  of  the  same  name,  and  whith  long  rises 
iImivc  the  horizon  after  you  have  hist  sight  of 
he  town  itself.    At  length  it  also  sank  beneath 
he  rocky   screen,  and   disappeared  like  the 
'haplets  of  flowers  which  we  throw  on  a  sc- 
lulrhP-."— (II.  a?.-)— 27fi.) 

Fron>  Jenisalcm  he  made  an  expedition  to 
Oalbec  in  the  desert,  which  produced  the  same 
impression  upon  him  that  it  does  upon  all 
other  travellers: — 

"  We  rose  with  the  51m,  the  first  rays  of 
which  struck  m\  the  temples  of  Balbi-c,  and 
,'ave  to  those  mysterious  nuns  that  atttt  which 
his  brilliant  light  throws  ever  over  rains 
which  it  illuminates.  9oon  wc  arrived,  on  the 
northern  sidi-,  at  the  foot  of  the  gigantic  walls 
which  surround  those  beautiful  remains.  A 
'•'var  stream,  flowing  over  a  bed  qf  granite, 
<.urmurcd   around  lh»!  enormous  blocks  of 


stone,  fallen  from  the  top  of  the  wall  which 
obstructed  its  course.  Weauliful  sculptures 
were  half  concealed  in  the  limpid  stream 
We  passed  the  rivulet  by  an  arch  formed  by 
these  fallen  remains,  and  mounting  a  narrow 
breach,  were  soon  lost  in  admiration  of  the 
scene  which  surrounded  us.  At  every  step  a 
fresh  exclamation  of  surprise  broke  from  our 
lips.  Every  one  of  the  stones  of  which  that 
wall  was  composed  was  from  eight  to  ten  feet 
in  length,  by  five  or  six  in  breadth,  and  as 
much  in  height.  They  rest,  without  cement, 
one  upon  the  other,  and  almost  all  bear  the 
mark  of  Indian  or  Egyptian  sculpture.  At  a 
single  glance,  you  see  that  these  enormous 
stones  are  not  placed  in  their  original  site- 
that  they  are  the  precious  remains  of  temples 
of  still  more  remote  antiquity,  which  were 
made  use  of  to  encircle  this  colony  of  Grecian 
and  Roman  citizens. 

"  When  we  reached  the  summit  of  the 
breach,  our  eyes  knew  not  to  what  object  first 
to  turn.  On  ail  sides  were  gates  of  marble  of 
prodigious  height  and  magnitude  ;  windows  or 
niches,  fringed  with  the  richest  friezes ;  fallen 
pieces  of  cornices,  of  entablatures,  or  capitals, 
thick  as  the  dust  beneath  our  feet ;  magnificent 
vaulted  roofs  above  our  heads;  everywhere  a 
chaos  of  confused  beauty,  the  remains  of 
which  lay  scattered  about,  or  piled  on  each 
other  in  endless  variety.  So  prodigious  was 
the  accumulation  of  architectural  remains, 
that  it  defies  all  attempts  at  classification,  or 
conjecture  of  the  kind  of  buildings  to  which 
the  greater  part  of  them  had  belonged.  After 
passing  through  this  scene  of  ruined  magnifi- 
cence, we  reached  an  inner  wall,  which  we 
also  ascended;  and  from  its  summit  the  view 
of  the  interior  was  yet  more  splendid.  Of 
much  greater  extent,  far  more  richly  decorated 
than  the  outer  circle,  it  presented  an  immense 
platform  in  the  form  of  a  long  rectangle,  the 
level  surface  of  which  was  frequently  broken 
by  the  remains  of  still  more  elevated  pave- 
ments, on  which  temples  to  the  sun,  the  object 
of  adoration  at  Balbec,  had  been  erected.  All 
around  that  jdatform  were  a  series  of  lesser 
tem])les — or  chapels,  as  weshmild  call  them — 
decorated  with  niches,  admirably  engraved, 
and  loaded  with  sculptured  ornaments  to  a  de- 
gree that  appeared  excessive  to  those  who  had 
seen  the  severe  simplicity  of  the  Parlhenon  or 
the  Coliseum.  Ihit  how  prodigious  the  accu- 
mulation of  architectural  riches  in  the  middle 
of  an  eastern  desert !  Combine  in  imagination 
the  Temple  of  Jupiter  Slator  and  the  Coliseum 
at  Roim-.  of  Jupiter  Olympius  and  the  .\cropo- 
lis  at  Athens,  and  you  will  yet  fall  short  of  that 
marvellous  assemblage  of  admirable  edifices 
and  sculptures.  Many  of  lh(!  temples  rest  on 
columns  seventy  feet  in  height,  and  seven  feet 
in  diameter,  yet  composed  only  of  two  or  three 
blocks  of  stone,  so  perfectly  joined  locreiher 
that  to  this  day  you  can  barely  discrm  the 
lines  of  their  junction.  Sili-nce  is  ilf  only 
language  which  befits  man  when  words  are 
inade(|uatc  to  convey  his  imp--  "  ""•  We 
remained  mute  with  admiratifm  n  the 

eternal  luins. 

"The  shades  of  night  overtook  us  while  we 
yet  rested  in  amazement  at  the  scene  by  which 


170 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


we  were  surrounded.  One  by  one  the\'  enve- 
loped tlie  columns  intheirobscurity,  and  added 
a  mystery  the  more  to  that  magical  and  mys- 
terious work  of  time  and  man.  We  ajij)earcd, 
as  compared  with  the  gigantic  mass  and  long 
duration  of  these  monuments,  as  the  swallows 
which  nestle  a  season  in  the  crevices  of  the 
capitals,  without  knowing  by  whom,  or  for 
whom,  they  have  been  constructed.  The 
thoughts,  til?  wishes,  which  moved  these 
masses,  are  to  is  unknown.  The  dust  of  marble 
which  we  tread  beneath  our  feet  knows  more 
of  it  than  we  do,  but  it  cannot  tell  us  what  it 
has  seen ;  and  in  a  few  ages  the  generations 
which  shall  come  in  their  turn  to  visit  our 
monuments,  will  ask,  in  like  manner,  wherefore 
we  have  built  and  engraved.  The  works  of 
man  survive  his  thought.  Movement  is  the 
law  of  tlie  human  mind  ;  the  definite  is  the 
dream  of  his  pride  and  his  ignorance.  God  is 
a  limit  which  appears  ever  to  recede  as  hu- 
manity approaches  him ;  we  are  ever  advanc- 
ing, and  never  arrive.  This  great  Divine  Fi- 
gure which  man  from  his  infancy  is  ever  striv- 
ing to  reach,  and  to  imprison  in  his  structures 
raised  by  hands,  for  ever  enlarges  and  ex- 
pands; it  outsteps  the  narrow  limits  of  tem- 
ples, and  leaves  the  altars  to  crumble  into 
dust;  and  calls  man  to  seek  for  it  where  alone 
it  resides — in  thought,  in  intelligence,  in  vir- 
tue, in  nature,  in  infinity."— (II.  39, 46,  47.) 

This  passage  conveys  an  idea  of  the  peculiar 
style,  and  perhaps  unique  charm,  of  Lamar- 
tine's  work.  It  is  the  mixture  of  vivid  paint- 
ing with  moral  reflection — of  nature  with  sen- 
timent— of  sensibility  to  beaut3%with  gratitude 
to  its  Author,  which  constitutes  its  great  attrac- 
tion. Considering  in  what  spirit  the  French 
Revolution  was  cradled,  and  from  what  infide- 
lity it  arose,  it  is  consoling  to  see  such  senti- 
ments conceived  and  published  among  them. 
True  they  are  not  the  sentiments  of  the  major- 
ity, at  least  in  towns;  but  what  then?  The 
majority  is  ever  guided  by  the  thoughts  of  the 
great,  not  in  its  own  but  a  preceding  age.  It 
is  the  opinions  of  the  great  among  our  grand- 
fathers that  govern  the  majority  at  this  time  ; 
our  great  men  will  guide  our  grandsons.  If 
we  would  foresee  what  a  future  age  is  to 
think,  we  must  observe  what  a  few  great  men 
are  now  thinking.  Voltaire  and  Rousseau 
have  ruled  France  for  two  generations ;  the 
day  of  Chateaubriand  and  Guizot  and  Lamar- 
tine  will  come  in  due  time. 

But  the  extraordinary  magnitude  of  these 
ruins  in  the  middle  of  an  Asiatic  wilderness, 
sugsests  another  consideration.  We  are  per- 
petually speaking  of  the  march  of  intellect,  the 
vast  spread  of  intelligence,  the  advancing  civi- 
lization of  the  world  ;  and  in  some  respect  our 
boasts  are  well  founded.  Certainl}',  in  one 
particular,  society  has  made  a  mighty  step  in 
advance.  The  abolition  of  domestic  slavery 
has  emancipated  the  millions  who  formerly 
toiled  in  bondage  ;  the  art  of  printing  has  mul- 
tiplied an  hundred  fold  the  reading  and  think- 
ing world.  Our  opportunities,  therefore,  have 
been  prodigiously  enlarged ;  our  means  of  ele- 
vation are  tenfold  what  they  were  in  ancient 
times.  But  has  our  elevation  itself  kept  pace 
■with    these  enlarged   means  ?     Has  the  in- 


creased direction  of  the  oopuiar  mind  to  lofty 
and  spiritual  objects,  the  more  complete  subju. 
gation  of  sense,  the  enlarged  perception  of  the  { 
useful  and  the  beautiful,  been  in  proportion] 
to  the  extended  facilities  given  to  the   gre^^ 
body  of  the  people  t     Alas  !  the  fact  is  just  tlw 
reverse.     Balbec  was  a  mere  station  in  the 
desert,  without  territor}',  harbour,  or  subjects 
— maintained  solely  by  the  commerce  of  the 
East  with  Europe  which  flowed  through  its 
walls.     Yet  Balbec  raised,  in  less  than  a  cen- 
tur}^  a  more  glorious  pile  of  structures   de« 
voted  to  religious  and  lofty  objects,  than  Lon- 
don, Paris,  and  St.  Petersburg  united  can  now 
boast.     The  Decapolis  was  a  small  and  remote 
mountain  district  of  Palestine,  not  larger  in 
proportion  to  the  Roman,  than  Morayshire  is 
in   propoVtion   to   the   British    empire;  yet   it 
contained,  as  its  name  indicates,  and  as  their 
remains  still  attest,  ten  cities,  the  least  consi- 
derable of  which,  Gebora,  contains,  as  Buck- 
ingham tells  us  in  his  Travels  beyond  the  Jordan, 
the  ruins  of  more  sumptuous  edifices  than  any 
city  in  the  British  islands,  London  itself  not  ex- 
cepted, can  now  boast.   It  was  the  same  all  over 
the  east,  and  in  all  the  southern  provinces  of  the 
Roman  empire.     Whence  has  arisen  this  asto- 
nishing disproportion  between  the  great  things 
done  by  the  citizens  in  ancient  and  in  modern 
times,  M'hen  in  the  latter  the  means  of  enlarged 
cultivation  have  been  so  immeasurabl)^  extend- 
ed 1     It  is  in  vain  to  say,  it  is  because  we  have 
more  social  and  domestic  happiness,  and  our 
wealth  is  devoted  to  these  objects,  not  external 
embellishment.  Social  and  doxnestic  happiness 
are  in  the  direct,notin  the  inverse  ratio  of  gene- 
ral refinement  and  the  spread  of  intellectual 
intelligence.     The  domestic  duties  are  better 
nourished  in  the  temple  than  in  the  gin-shop ; 
the   admirers  of  sculpture  will  make  belter 
fathers  and  husbands  than  the  lovers  of  whisky. 
Is  it  that  we  want  funds  for  such  undertakings  ] 
Wh}'-,  London  is  richer  than  ever  Rome  was ; 
the  commerce  of  the  world,  not  of  the  eastern 
caravans,  flows  through  its  bosom.    The  sums 
annually  squandered  in  Manchester  and  Glas- 
gow on  intoxicating  liquors,  would  soon  maJce 
them  rival  the  eternal  structures  of  Tadmor 
and  Palmyra.     Is  it  that  the  great  bulk  of  our 
people  are  unavoidably  chained  by  their  cha- 
racter and  climate  to  gross  and  degrading  en- 
joyments ?     Is  it  that  the  spreading  of  know- 
ledge, intelligence,  and  free  institutions,  only 
confirms  the  sway  of  sensual  gratification ;  and 
that  a  pure  and  spiritual  religion  tends  only 
to  strengthen  the  fetters  of  passion  and  self- 
ishness]    Is  it  that  the  inherent  depravity  of 
the  human  heart  appears  the  more  clearly  as 
man  is  emancipated  from  the  fetters  of  autho- 
rity :  must  we  go  back  to  early  ages  for  noble 
and  elevated  motives  of  action ;  is  the  spread 
of  freedom  but  another  word  for  the  extension 
of  brutality?     God  forbid  that  so  melancholy 
a  doctrine  should  have  any  foundation  in  hu- 
man nature  !     We  mention  the  facts,  and  leave 
it  to  future  ages  to  discover  their   solution: 
contenting  ourselves  with  pointing  out  to  our 
self-applauding  countrymen  how  much   they 
have  to  do  before  they  attain  the  level  of  their 
advantages,  or  justify  the  boundless  blessings 
which  Providence  has  bestowed  upon  them. 


LAMARTINE. 


171 


The  plain  of  Tro)',  seen  b)'  mooiili:rlit,  fur- 
nishes the  subject  of  one  of  our  autlior's  most 
Striking  passages. 

"It  is  midnight:  the  sea  is  calm  as  a  mir- 
ror; the  vessel  floats  motionless   on   the  re- 
splendent surface.     On  our  left,  Tenedos  rises 
above  tiie  waves,  and  shuts  out  tlic  view  of  the 
open  sea ;  on  our  right,  and  close  to  us.  stretched 
out  like  a  dark  bar.  the  low  shore  and  indented 
coasts  of  TnoT.    The  full  moon,  which  rises 
behind  the   snow-streaked  summit  of  Mount 
Ida,  sheds  a  serene  and  doubtful  light  over  the 
summits  of  the  mountains,  the  hills,  the  plain; 
its  extending  rays  fall  upon  the  sea,  and  reach 
the  shadow  of  our  brig,  forming  a  bright  path 
which  the  shades  do  not  venture  to  approach. 
We  can  discern  the  tumuli,  Avhich  tradition  still 
marks  as  the  tombs  of  Hector  and  Patroclus. 
The  full  moon,  slightly  tinged  with  red,  which 
discloses  the  undulations  of  the  hills,  resembles 
the  bloody  buckler  of  Achilles ;  no  light  is  to 
be  seen  on  the  coast,  but  a  distant  twinkling, 
lighted  by  the  shepherds  on  Mount  Ida — not  a 
sound  is  to  be  heard  but  the  flapping  of  the 
sail  on  the  mast,  and  the  slight  creaking  of  the 
mast  itself;  all   seems  dead,  like  the  past,  in 
that  deserted  land.    Seated  on  the  forecastle, 
I  see  that  shore,  those  mountains,  those  ruins, 
those  tombs,  rise  like  the  ghost  of  the  departed 
world,  reappear  from  the  bosom  of  the  sea  with 
shadowy  form,  by  the  rays  of  the  star  of  night, 
which  sleep  on  the  hills,  and  disappear  as  the 
moon  recedes  behind  the  summits  of  the  moun- 
tains.    It  is  a  beautiful  additional  page  in  the 
poems  of  Homer,  the  end  of  all  history  and  of 
all  poetry!     Unknown   tombs,  ruins    without 
a  certain  name ;  the  earth  naked  and  dark,  but 
imperfectly  lighted  by  the  immortal  luminaries ; 
new  spectators  passing  by  the  old  coast,  and 
repeating  for  the  thousandth  time  the  common 
epitaph  of  mortality!     Here   lies  an  empire, 
here  a  town,  here  a  people,  here  a  hero  !    God 
alnne  is  great,  and  the  thought  which   seeks 
and  adores  him  alone  is  imperishable   upon 
earth.    I  feel  no  desire  to  make  a  nearer  ap- 
proach in  daylight  to  the  doubtful  remains  of 
the  ruins  of  Tro)'.    I  prefer  that  nocturnal  ap- 
paritiiin  which  allows  the  thought  to  repeopic 
those  deserts,  and  sheds  over  them  only  the  dis- 
t.ant  light  of  the  moon  and  of  the  poetry  of  Homer. 
And  what  concerns  me  Tmy,  its  heroes,  and  its 
gods  !     That  leaf  of  the  heroic  world  is  turned 
for  ever  !"— (II.  218—2.50,) 

What  a  magnificent  testimonial  to  the  genius 
of  Homer,  written  in  a  foreign  tongue,  two 
thoiis.Trid  seven  hundred  years  after  his  death  ! 

The  Dardanelles  and  the  IJosphorus  have, 
from  the  dawn  of  letters,  excrciseil  the  descrip- 
tive talents  of  the  greatest  historians  of  modem 
Europe.  The  truthful  chronicle  of  Villchar- 
douin,  and  the  elo(|uent  pictures  of  Gibbon  and 
^  of  the  siege  of  Constantinople,  will 

i  '•''•ly  occur  to  every  scholar.     The  fol- 

lowing passage,  however,  will  show  that  no 
subject  can  be  worn  out  when  it  is  handled  by 
ihc  pen  of  genius  : 

"It  was  five  in  the  morning.  I  w.is  standing 
on  deck;  we  made  sail  towards  the  mouth  of 
tie  Bosphorus,  skirting  the  walls  of  Constan- 
inople.  Afler  half  an  hour's  navigation 
through  ships  at  anchor,  we  touched  the  walls 


of  the  seraglio,  which  prolongs  those  of  the  city, 
and  form  at  the  extremity  of  the  hill  which  supt 
ports  the  proud  Stamboul,  the  angle  which 
separates  the  sea  of  Marmora  from  the  canal 
of  the  Bosphorus,  and  the  harbour  of  the  Gold' 
en  Horn.  It  is  there  that  God  and  man,  na- 
ture and  art,  have  combined  to  form  the  most 
marvellous  spectacle  which  the  human  eye 
can  behold.  I  uttered  an  involuntary  cry  when 
the  magnificent  panorama  opened  upon  my 
sight;  I  forgot  for  ever  the  bay  of  Naples  and 
all  its  enchantments ;  to  compare  any  thing  to 
that  marvellous  and  graceful  combination  would 
be  an  injury  to  the  fairest  work  of  creation 

"The  walls  which  support  the  circular  ter- 
races of  the  immense  gardens  of  the  seraglio 
were  on  our  left,  with  their  base  perpetually 
washed  by  the  -wafers  of  the  Bosphorus,  blue 
and  limpid  as  the  Rhone  at  Geneva;  the  ter- 
races which  rise  one  above  another  to  the  pa- 
lace of  the  sultana,  the  gilded  cupolas  of  which 
rose  above  the  gigantic  summits  of  the  plane- 
tree  and  the  cypress,  were  themselves  clothed, 
with  enormous  trees,  the  trunks  of  which  over- 
hang the  walls,  while  their  branches,  over- 
spreading the  gardens,  spread  a  deep  shadow 
even  far  into  the  sea,  beneath  the  protection 
of  which  the  panting  rowers  repose  from  their 
toil.  These  stately  groups  of  trees  are  from 
time  to  time  interrupted  by  palaces,  pavilions, 
kiosks,  gilded  and  sculptured  domes,  or  bat- 
teries of  cannon.  These  maritime  palaces  form 
part  of  the  seraglio.  You  see  occasionally 
through  the  muslin  curtains  the  gilded  roofs 
and  sumptuous  cornices  of  those  abodes  of 
beauty.  At  every  step,  elegant  Moorish  foun- 
tains fall  from  the  higher  parts  of  tlie  gardens, 
and  murmur  in  marble  basins,  from  whence, 
before  reaching  the  sea,  they  are  conducted  in 
little  cascades  to  refresh  the  passengers.  As 
the  vessel  coasted  the  walls,  the  prospect  ex- 
panded— the  coast  of  Asia  appeared,  and  the 
mouth  of  the  Bosphorus,  properly  so  called, 
began  to  open  between  hills,  on  one  side  of 
dark  green,  on  the  other  of  smiling  verdure, 
which  seemed  variegated  by  all  the  colours  of 
the  rainbow.  'I'he  smiling  shores  of  Asia,  dis- 
tant about  a  mile,  stretched  out  to  our  right, 
surmounted  by  lofty  hills,  sharp  at  the  top,  and 
clothed  to  the  summit  with  dark  forests,  with 
their  sides  varied  by  hedge-rows,  villas,  or- 
chards, and  gardens.  Deep  precipitous  ravines 
occasionally  descended  on  this  side  into  the  sea, 
r)vershadowed  by  huge  overgrown  oaks,  the 
branches  of  which  dipped  into  the  water.  Fur- 
ther on  still,  on  the  .Asiatic  side,  an  advanced 
headland  projected  into  the  waves,  rovered 
with  white  hou'^es — it  was  Soiiiari,  with  its 
vast  whilrt  barracks,  its  resplcn<Ient  mosques, 
its  animated  quays,  forming  a  vast  city.  Fur- 
ther still,  the  Bosphorus,  like  a  deeply  imbed- 
ded river,  opened  between  o]]  'iuMin- 
tains — the  ailvaiicing  pnMnoiii  1  r»*- 
cediiig  bays  of  which,  clothed  to  ine  «aier'i 
ed;:e  with  forests,  exhibited  aconfns  \  ;i^^<in- 
blage  of  masts  of  vessels,  shadv  i  .Me 
palaces,  hanging  ganlcns,  and  ir.m.nnl  ha- 
vens. 

"The  harbour  of  Constat  •  lut.  pro- 

periy  spcakin?.  a  port.     It  :  r  a  great 

nvcr  like  the  Thames,  shut  lo  on  either  sid« 


172 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


Dy  hills  covered  with  houses,  and  covered  by 
innumerable  lines  of  ships  lying  at  anchor 
along  the  quays  Vessels  of  every  description 
are  to  be  seen  there,  from  the  Arabian  haik, 
the  prow  of  wh.ch  is  raised,  and  darts  along 
like  the  ancient  galleys,  to  the  ship  of  the  line, 
with  three  decks,  and  its  sides  studded  with 
brazen  mouths.  Multitudes  of  Turkish  barks 
circulate  through  that  forest  of  masts,  serving 
the  purpose  of  carriages  in  that  ii-uiritime  city, 
and  disturb,  in  their  swift  progress  through  the 
waves,  clouds  of  albatros,  which,  like  beau- 
tiful white  pigeons,  rise  from  the  sea  on  their 
approach,  to  descend  and  repose  again  on  the 
unruffled  surface.  It  is  impossible  to  count  the 
vessels  which  lie  on  the  water  from  the  Se- 
raglio point  to  the  suburb  of  Eyoub  and  the 
delicious  valley  of  the  Sweet  Waters,  The 
Thames  at  London  exhibits  nothing  compara- 
ble to  it."— (II.  262—265.) 

"Beautiful  as  the  European  side  of  the 
Bosphorus  is,  the  Asiatic  is  infinitely  more 
striking.  It  owes  nothing  to  man,  but  every 
thing  to  nature.  There  is  neither  a  Buyukdere 
nor  a  Therapia;  nor  palaces  of  ambassadors, 
nor  an  Armenian  nor  Frank  city;  there  is  no- 
thing but  mountains  with  glens  which  separate 
them ;  little  valleys  enamelled  with  green, 
which  He  at  the  foot  of  the  overhanging  rocks  ; 
torrents  which  enliven  the  scene  with  their 
foam  ;  forests  which  darken  it  by  their  shade, 
or  dip  their  boughs  in  the  waves  ;  a  variety  of 
forms,  of  tints,  and  of  foliage,  which  the  pen- 
cil of  the  painter  is  alike  unable  to  represent 
or  the  pen  of  the  poet  to  describe.  A  few 
cottages  perched  on  the  summit  of  projecting 
rocks,  or  sheltered  in  the  bosom  of  a  deeply 
indented  baj',  alone  tell  you  of  the  presence 
of  man.  The  evergreen  oaks  hang  in  such 
masses  over  the  waves  that  the  boatmen  glide 
under  their  branches,  and  often  sleep  cradled 
in  their  arms.  Such  is  the  character  of  the 
coast  on  the  Asiatic  side  as  far  as  the  castle 
of  Mahomet  II.,  which  seems  to  shut  it  in  as 
closely  as  any  Swiss  lake.  Beyond  that,  the 
character  changes ;  the  hills  are  less  rugged, 
and  descend  in  gentler  slopes  to  the  water's 
edge ;  charming  little  plains,  checkered  with 
fruit-trees  and  shaded  by  planes,  frequently 
open  ;  and  the  delicious  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 
exhibit  a  scene  of  enchantment  equal  to  any 
described  in  the  Arabian  Nights,  Women, 
children,  and  black  slaves  in  every  variety  of 
costume  and  colour;  veiled  ladies  from  Con- 
stantinople ;  cattle  and  bufTaloc;  ruminating  in 
the  pastures  ;  Arab  horses  clothed  in  the  most 
sumptuous  trappings  of  velvet  and  gold ; 
caiques  filled  with  Armenian  and  Circassian 
young  women,  seated  under  the  shade  or  play- 
ing Avilh  their  children,  some  of  the  most 
ravishing  beauty,  form  a  scene  of  variety  and 
interest  probably  unique  in  the  world." — (III. 
331,3.32.) 

Tiiese  are  the  details  of  the  piece:  here  is 
the  general  impression  : — 

"One  evening,  by  the  light  of  a  splendid 
moon,  which  was  reflected  from  the  sea  of 
Marmora,  and  the  violet  summits  of  Mount 
Olympus,  I  sat  alone  under  the  cypresses  of 
*he  '  Ladders  of  the  Dead ;'  those  cypresses 
*hich    overshadow   innumerable    tombs    of 


Mussulmen,  ar.l  descend  from  the  heights  of 
Pera  to  the  shores  of  the  sea.  No  one  evef 
passes  ct  that  hour:  you  would  suppose  )'our« 
self  an  hundred  miles  from  the  capital,  if  a 
confused  hum,  wafted  by  the  wind,  was  not 
occasionally  heard,  which  speedily  died  away 
among  the  branches  of  the  cypress.  These 
sounds  weakened  by  distance; — the  songs  of 
the  sailors  in  the  vessels ;  the  stroke  of  the 
oars  in  the  water;  the  drums  of  the  military 
bands  in  the  barracks  ;  the  songs  of  the  women 
who  lulled  their  children  to  sleep  ;  the  cries  of 
the  Muetzlim  who,  from  the  summits  of  the 
minarets,  called  the  faithful  to  evening  prayers ; 
the  evening  gun  which  boomed  across  the 
Bosphorus,  the  signal  of  repose  to  the  fleet- 
all  these  sounds  combined  to  form  one  con- 
fused murmur,  which  strangely  contrasted 
with  the  perfect  silence  around  me,  and  pro- 
duced the  deepest  impression.  The  seraglio, 
with  its  vast  peninsula,  dark  Avith  plane-trees 
and  cypresses,  stood  forth  like  a  promontory 
of  forests  between  the  two  seas  which  slept 
beneath  my  eyes.  The  moon  shone  on  the  nu- 
merous kiosks;  and  the  old  walls  of  the  palace 
of  Amurath  stood  forth  like  huge  rocks  from 
the  obscure  gloom  of  the  plane-trees.  Before 
me  was  the  scene,  in  my  mind  was  the  recol- 
lection, of  all  the  glorious  and  sinister  events 
which  had  there  taken  place.  The  impression 
was  the  strongest,  the  most  overwhelming, 
which  a  sensitive  mind  could  receive.  All 
M'as  there  mingled — man  and  God,  society  and 
nature,  mental  agitation,  the  melancholy  repose 
of  thought.  I  know  not  whether  I  participated 
in  the  great  movement  of  associated  beings 
who  enjoy  or  suffer  in  that  mighty  assemblage, 
or  in  that  nocturnal  slumber  of  the  elements, 
which  murmured  thus,  and  raised  the  mind 
above  the  cares  of  cities  and  empires  into  the 
bosom  of  nature  and  of  God."— (IIL  283,  284.) 

"II  faut  du  terns,"  says  Voltaire,  "pourque 
les  grandes  reputations  murissent."  As  a  de- 
scriber  of  nature,  we  place  Lamartine  at  the 
head  of  all  writers,  ancient  or  modern — above 
Scott  or  Chateaubriand,  Madame  de  Stael  or 
Humboldt,  He  aims  at  a  different  object  from 
any  of  these  great  writers.  He  does  not,  like 
them,  describe  the  emotion  produced  on  the 
mind  by  the  contemplation  of  nature;  he 
paints  the  objects  in  the  scene  itself,  their 
colours  and  traits,  their  forms  and  substance, 
their  lights  and  shadows,  A  painter  following 
exactly  what  he  portrays,  would  make  a  glo- 
rious gallery  of  landscapes.  He  is,  moreover, 
a  charming  poet,  an  eloquent  debater,  and  has 
written  many  able  and  important  works  on 
politics,  yet  we  never  recollect,  during  the  last 
twenty  years,  to  have  heard  hi«  name  men- 
tioned in  English  society  except  once,  when 
an  old  and  caustic,  but  most  able  judge,  now 
no  more,  said,  "  I  have  been  reading  Lamar- 
tinc's  Trnvch  in  the  East — it  seems  a  perfect 
rhapsody." 

We  must  not  suppose,  however,  from  this, 
that  the  English  nation  is  incapable  cf  appre- 
ciating the  highest  degree  of  eminence  in  the 
fine  arts,  or  that  we  are  never  destined  to  rise 
to  excellence  in  any  but  the  mechanical.  It  is 
the  multitude  of  subordinate  writers  of  mode- 
rate merit  who  obstruct  all  the  avenues  to 


THE  COPYRIGHT  QUESTION. 


17> 


great  distinction,  which  really  occasions  the 
phenomenon.  Strange  as  it  may  appear,  it  is 
a  fact  abundantly  proved  by  literary  historj', 
and  which  may  be  verified  by  ever}'  day's  ex- 
perience, that  men  are  in  general  insensible  to 
the  highest  class  of  intellectual  merit  when  it 
first  appears,  and  that  it  is  by  slow  degrees 
and  the  opinion  oft  repeated,  of  the  really  su- 
perior in  successive  generations,  that  it  is  at 
length  raised  to  its  deserved  and  lasting  pedes- 
tal. There  are  instances  to  the  contrary,  such 
as  Scott  and  Byron :  but  they  are  the  excep- 
tion, not  the  rule.     We  seldom  do  justice  but 


to  the  dead.  Contemporary  jealousy,  liternry 
envy,  general  timidity,  the  dread  of  ridicuN-,  th« 
confusion  of  rival  works,  form  so  many  obsta- 
cles to  the  speedy  acquisition  of  a  great  living 
reputation.  To  the  illustrious  of  past  ages, 
however,  we  pay  a  universal  and  willing 
homage.  Contemporary  genius  appears  M-ilh 
a  twinkling  and  uncertain  glow,  like  the  shift- 
ing and  confused  lights  of  a  great  city  seen  at 
night  from  a  distance :  while  the  spirits  of  the 
dead  shine  with  an  imperishable  lustre,  far  re- 
moved in  the  upper  firmament  from  the  dis- 
tractions of  the  rivalry  of  a  lower  world. 


THE   COPYRIGIIT   UUESTION/ 


Whot-vkti  has  contemplated  of  late  years  the 
state  of  British  literature,  and  compared  it  with 
the  works  of  other  countries  who  have  preceded 
England  in  the  career  of  arts  or  of  arms,  must 
have  become  sensible  that  some  very  power- 
ful cause  has,  for  a  long  period,  been  at  work- 
in  producing  the  ephemeral  character  by  which 
It  is  at  present  distinguished.  It  is  a  matter 
of  common  complaint,  that  everything  is  now 
sacrificed  to  the  desires  or  the  gratification  of 
the  moment ;  that  philosophy,  descending  from 
its  hisrh  station  as  the  instructor  of  men,  has 
degenerated  into  the  mere  handmaid  of  art; 
that  literature  is  devoted  rather  to  afford  amuse- 
ment for  a  passing  hour,  than  furnish  improve- 
ment to  a  long  life  ;  and  that  poetry  itself  has 
become  rather  the  reflection  of  the  fleeting 
fervour  of  the  public  mind,  than  the  well  from 
which  noble  and  elevated  sentiments  are  to  be 
derived.  We  have  only  to  take  up  the  columns 
of  a  newspaper,  to  see  how  varied  and  endless 
are  the  efforts  made  to  amuse  the  public,  and 
how  few  the  attempts  to  instruct  or  improve 
them;  and  if  we  examine  the  book's  which  lie 
tiprm  every  drawing-room  table,  or  the  cata- 
logues which  show  the  purchases  that  have 
'  been  made  by  any  of  the  numerous  book-clubs 
or  circulating  libraries  which  have  sprung  up 
!  in  the  country,  we  shall  feel  no  surprise  at  the 
I  ephemeral  nature  of  the  literature  which 
abounds,  from  the  evidence  there  afforded  of 
the  transitory  character  of  the  public  wishes 
which  require  to  be  gratified. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  however,  from  this 
circumstance,  which  is  so  well  known  as  to 
have  attracted  universal  observation,  that  the 
taste  for  standard  or  more  solid  literature  has 
either  materially  declined,  or  is  in  any  danger 
of  becoming  extinct.  Decisive  evidence  to  tlie 
contrary  is  to  be  found  in  the  fart,  that  a 
greater  number  of  reprints  of  standard  work's, 
both  on  theology,  history,  and  philosophy,  have 
issued  from  the  press  within  the  last  ten  years, 
than  in  any  former  corresponding  period  of 
British  history.  And  what  is  still  more  re- 
markable, and  not  a  little  gratifying,  it  is  cvi- 

•  ninrkwooH's  Mngnr.lne.  Jnniinry,  1848.— Written 
when  I.orrI  Malinn'*  r'npyri({ht  Bill,  since  pa*acd  Into  a 
Uw,  was  before  rarllnmcnt. 


dent,  from  the  very  different  character  and 
price  of  the  editions  of  the  older  works  which 
have  been  published  of  late  years,  that  the  de- 
sire to  possess  these  standard  works,  and  this 
thirst  for  solid  information,  is  not  confined  to 
any  one  class  of  society ;  but  that  it  embraces 
all  ranks,  and  promises,  before  a  long  period 
has  elapsed,  to  extend  through  the  middle  and 
even  the  working  classes  in  the  state  a  mass 
of  useful  and  valuable  information  to  which 
they  have  hitherto,  in  great  part  at  least,  been 
strangers.  Not  to  mention  tiie  great  extent  to 
which  extracts  from  these  more  valuable  works 
have  appeared  in  Chambers'  Journal,  the  Penny 
Magazines,  and  other  similar  publications  of 
the  day,  it  is  sufficient  to  mention  two  facts, 
which  show  at  once  what  a  thirst  for  valuable 
information  exists  among  the  middle  classes 
of  society.  Regularly  every  two  years,  there 
issues  from  the  press  a  new  edition  of  (Uhlmn's 
Rome;  and  Burke's  Works  are  now  published, 
one  year,  in  sixteen  handsome  volumes  octavo, 
for  the  peer  and  the  legislator,  and  next  year 
in  two  volumes  royal  octavo,  in  double  ct>- 
lumns,  for  the  tradesman  and  the  shopkeeper. 
As  little  is  the  false  and  vitiated  taste  of  our 
general  literature  the  result  of  any  want  of 
ability  which  is  now  directed  to  its  prosecution. 
We  have  only  to  examine  the  periodical  litera- 
ture, or  criticism  of  the  day,  to  be  convinced 
that  the  talent  which  is  now  devoted  to  litera- 
ture is  incomparably  greater  than  it  ever  was 
in  any  former  period  of  our  histon';  and  that 
ample  genius  exists  in  Great  Britain,  to  render 
this  age  as  distinguished  in  philosophy  and  the 
higher  branches  of  knowledge,  as  the  hi^t  was 
in  military  prowess  and  martial  renown.  If 
anyone  doubts  this, let  him  compare  the  milk- 
.and-watcr  pages  of  the  Monlhlij  Hrvlnr  forty 
years  ago,  with  the  brilliant  critici-^ms  of 
Lockhart  and  Macaulay  in  the  QuiirUrltj  or  Kii- 
inlmriih  Review  at  this  time ;  or  the  periodical 
literature  at  the  close  of  the  war.  with  thai 
which  is  now  to  be  seen  in  the  standard  ma- 
gazines of  the  present  day.  To  a  person 
habituated  to  the  dazzling  conceptions  of  the 
periodical  writers  in  these  times,  the  rorre 
sponding  literature  in  the  eighteenth  century 
appears  insupportably  pedantic  and  tediou.s 


174 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


Nobody  now  reads  the  Rambkr  or  the  Itllir: 
and  the  colossal  reputation  of  Johnson  rests 
almost  entirely  upon  his  profound  and  caustic 
sayings  recorded  in  Boswell.  Even  the  !^pir- 
tator  itself,  though  universally  praised,  is  by 
no  means  now  generally  read;  and  nothing 
but  the  exquisite  beauty  of  some  of  Addison's 
papers,  prevents  the  Delias  and  Lucindas,  who 
figure  in  its  pages,  from  sinking  them  into 
irrecoverable  obscurity. 

Here  then  is  the  marvel  of  the  present  time. 
We  have  a  population,  in  which,  from  the 
rapid  extent  of  knowledge  among  all  classes,  a 
more  extended  class  of  readers  desiring  in- 
formation is  daily  arising;  in  which  the  great 
and  standard  works  of  literature  in  theolog}', 
philosophy,  and  history,  are  constantly  issuing 
in  every  varied  form  from  the  press  ;  in  which 
unparaileled  talent  of  every  description  is  con- 
stantly devoted  to  the  prosecution  of  literature  ; 
but  in  which  the  new  zvorks  given  forth  from 
the  press  are,  with  very  few  exceptions,  fri- 
volous or  ephemeral,  and  the  greater  part  of 
the  serious  talents  of  the  nation  is  turned  into 
the  perishable  channels  of  the  daily,  weekly, 
monthly,  or  the  quarterly  press.  That  such  a 
state  of  things  is  anomalous  and  extraordinary, 
few  probably  will  doubt ;  but  that  it  is  alarm- 
ing and  prejudicial  in  a  national  point  of  view, 
and  ma)',  if  it  continues  unabated,  produce  both 
a  degradation  of  the  national  character,  and,  in 
the  end,  danger  or  ruin  to  the  national  fortunes, 
though  not  so  generallj'  admitted,  is  not  the 
less  true,  nor  the  less  capable  of  demonstra- 
tion. 

In  the  first  place,  this  state  of  things,  when 
the  whole  talent  of  the  nation  is  directed  to 
t)eriodical  literature,  or  works  of  evanescent 
interest,  has  a  tendency  to  degrade  the  national 
character,  because  it  taints  the  fountains  from 
which  the  national  thought  is  derived.  We 
possess,  indeed,  in  the  standard  literature  of 
Great  Britain,  a  mass  of  thoughts  and  ideas 
which  may  well  make  the  nation  immortal, 
and  which,  to  the  end  of  time,  will  constitute 
the  fountains  from  which  grand  and  generous 
thoughts  will  be  drawn  by  all  future  races  of 
men.  But  the  existence  of  these  standard  works 
is  not  enough ;  still  less  is  it  enough  in  an  age 
of  rapid  progress  and  evident  transition,  such 
as  the  present,  when  new  interests  are  every- 
where arising,  new  social  and  political  com- 
binations emerging,  new  national  dangers  to 
be  guarded  against,  new  national  virtues  to  be 
required.  For  a  nation  in  such  a  state  of 
society  to  remain  satisfied  with  its  old  standard 
literature,  and  not  to  aspire  to  produce  any 
thing  which  is  at  once  durable  and  new,  is  the 
same  solecism  as  it  would  be  for  a  man  to  re- 
main content  with  a  wardrobe  of  fifty  years' 
standing,  and  resolutely  to  resist  the  introduc- 
tion of  any  of  the  fashions  or  improvements 
of  later  times.  A  nation  which  aspires  to 
retain  its  eminence  either  in  arts  or  in  arms, 
must  keep  abreast  of  its  neighbours;  if  it  does 
not  advance,  it  will  speedily  fall  behind,  be 
•Jirown  into  the  shailc,  and  decline.  It  is  not 
sufficient  for  England  to  refer  to  the  works  of 
Milton,  Shakspeare,  Johnson,  or  Scott  ;  she 
must  prolong  the  race  of  these  great  men,  or 
Ik'i  iiiielleclual  career  will  speedily  come  to  a 


close.  Short  and  fleeting  indeed  is  the  period 
of  transcendant  greatness  allotted  to  any  na- 
tion in  any  branch  of  thought.  The  moment  i 
it  stops,  it  begins  to  recede ;  and  to  every  em 
pire  which  has  made  intellectual  triumphs,  is 
prescribed  the  same  law  which  was  felt  by 
Napoleon  in  Europe  and  the  British  in  India, 
that  conquest  is  essential  to  existence. 

But  if  the  danger  to  our  national  literature 
is  great,  if  the  intellect  and  genius  of  Britain 
do  not  keep  pace  with  the  high  destinies  to 
Avhich  she  is  called,  and'  the  unbounded  men- 
tal activity  with  which  she  is  surrounded, 
much  more  serious  is  the  peril  thence  inevit- 
ably accruing  to  the  national  character  and  i 
the  public  fortunes.  Whence  is  it  that  the  I 
noble  and  generous  feelings  are  derived,  which 
in  time  past  have  animated  the  breasts  of  our 
patriots,  our  heroes,  and  our  legislators? 
Where,  but  in  the  immortal  pages  of  our 
poets,  our  orators,  and  historians?  What 
noble  sentiments  has  the  air  of  "  Rule  Britan- 
nia" awakened;  how  many  future  Nelsons 
may  the  "Mariners  of  England,"  or  Southey's 
inimitable  "  Lives  of  our  Naval  Heroes"  pro- 
duce? Sentiments  such  as  these  immortal 
works  imbody,  "thoughts  that  breathe,  and 
words  that  burn,"  are  the  true  national  inhe- 
ritance;  they  constitute  the  most  poM-erful 
elements  of  national  strength,  for  they  form  the 
character,  without  which  all  others  are  una- 
vailing; they  belong  alike  to  the  rich  and  to 
the  poor,  to  the  prince  and  to  the  peasant ; 
they  form  the  unseen  bond  which  links  to- 
gether the  high  and  the  low,  the  rich  and  the 
poor;  and  which,  penetrating  and  pervading 
every  class  of  society,  tend  both  to  perpetuate 
the  virtues  which  have  brought  us  to  our  pre- 
sent greatness,  and  arrest  the  decline,  Avhich 
the  influx  of  wealth,  and  the  prevalence  of 
commercial  ideas,  might  otherwise  have  a 
tendency  to  produce.  What  would  be  the 
efl'ect  upon  the  fortunes  of  the  nation,  if  this 
pure  and  elevated  species  of  literature  were  to 
cease  amongst  us ;  if  every  thing  were  to  be 
brought  down  to  the  cheapest  market,  and 
adapted  to  the  most  ordinary  capacity  ;  if  cutr 
ting  articles  for  reviews,  or  dashing  stories 
for  magazines,  were  henceforth  to  form  our 
staple  literature  ;  and  the  race  of  the  Milions, 
the  Shakspeares,  the  Grays,  and  the  Camp- 
bells, was  to  perish  under  the  cravings  of  an 
utilitarian  age?  We  may  safely  say  that  the 
national  character  would  decline,  the  national 
spirit  become  enfeebled ;  that  generous  senti- 
ments would  be  dried  up  under  the  influence 
of  transient  excitement,  and  permanent  resolve 
be  extinguished  by  the  necessity  of  present 
gain  ;  and  that  the  days  of  Clive  and  Wellesley 
in  India,  and  of  Nelson  and  Wellington  in 
Europe,  would  be  numbered  among  the  things 
that  have  been. 

But  if  such  dangers  await  us  iTont  the 
gradual  extinction  of  the  higher  and  nobler 
branches  of  our  literature,  still  more  serious 
are  the  evils  which  are  likely  to  arise  from  the 
termination  of  the  more  elevated  class  of  works 
in  history,  philosophy,  and  theology,  which  are 
calculated  and  are  fitted  to  guide  and  direct  the 
national  thought.  The  dangers  of  such  a  ca 
lamitj',  though  pot  so  apparent  at  first  sight 


THE    COPYRIGHT   QUESTION. 


175 


are.  in  reality,  still  more  serious.  For  whence 
IS  tlie  thought  deriveil  which  governs  the  world; 
the  spirit  whicli  sjuidcs  its  movements;  the 
rashness  which  mars  its  fortunes;  the  wisdom 
which  guards  against  its  dangers?  Whence 
but  from  the  great  fountains  of  original  thought, 
which  are  never  unlocked  in  any  age  but  to  the 
few  master-spirits  tiinnvn  at  distant  intervals 
by  God  among  mankind.  Tiie  press,  usually 
and  justly  deemed  so  powerful;  the  public 
voice,  whose  thunders  shake  the  land;  the  le- 
gislature, which  imbodies  and  perpetuates,  by 
legal  force,  its  cravings,  are  themselves  but  the 
reverberation  of  the  thought  of  the  great  of  the 
preceding  age.  The  tempests  sweep  round 
and  agitate  the  globe ;  but  it  is  to  the  wisdom 
of  Juno  alone  that  jEoIus  opens  the  cavern  of 
Uie  winds. 

This  truth  is  unpalatable  to  the  masses;  it 
is  distasteful  to  legislators;  it  is  irksome  to 
statesmen,  who  conceive  they  enjoy,  and  appear 
to  have,  ihc  direction  of  affairs;  but  it  is  illus- 
trated by  ever)-  page  of  history,  and  a  clear 
perception  of  its  truth  constitutes  one  of  the 
most  essential  requisites  of  wise  government. 
In  vain  docs  the  ruling  power,  whether  mo- 
narchical, aristocratic,  or  republican,  seek  to 
escape  from  the  government  of  thought:  it  is 
itself  under  the  direction  of  the  great  intellects 
of  the  preceding  age.  When  it  thinks  it  is 
original,  Avhen  it  is  most  fearlessl)'-  asserting 
its  boasted  inherent  power  of  self-government, 
it  is  itself  obeying  the  impulse  communicated 
to  the  human  mind  by  the  departed  great.  All 
the  marked  movements  of  mankind,  all  the 
evident  turns  or  wrenches  communicated  to 
the  current  of  general  opinion,  have  arisen 
from  the  efforts  of  individual  genius  The 
age  must  have  been  prepared  for  them,  or 
their  effect  would  have  been  small ;  but  the 
age  without  them  would  never  have  disco- 
vered the  light:  the  rellectod  sunbeams  must 
have  been  descending  on  the  mountains,  but 
his  earliest  rays  strike  first  on  the  summit. 

Who  turned  mankind  from  the  abuses  of  the 
Roman  Catholic  church,  and  preserved  the 
primeval  simplicity  of  Christianity  from  the 
pernicious  indulgences  of  the  Cliurrli  of  lioinc, 
and  opened  a  new  era  of  religious  light  to  both 
hemispheres!  .Martin  Luther.  Who  fearlessly 
led  his  trembling  mariners  across  the  seem- 
ingly interminable  deserts  of  the  .Atlantic  wave, 
and  disfiivercd  at  length  the  new  woriil,  whicli 
had  haunted  even  his  infant  ilrrains?  Chris- 
topher Columbus.  Who  turned  mankind  aside 
from  the  returning  circle  of  syllogistic  argu- 
ment lo  the  true  method  of  philosophic  inves- 
tigation 1  Lord  li.irim.  Who  iniroilucrd  a 
new  code  into  the  contests  of  iiatinns,  ami  sub- 
jected even  the  savage  passions  of  war  to  a 
human  ciMJc!  Grotius.  The  intlurncc  of  Mon- 
tesquieu has  been  felt  for  above  a  century  in 
every  country  of  Europe,  in  social  philosophy. 
Who  discovered  the  mechanism  of  the  uni- 
verse, and  traced  the  same  law  in  the  fall  of 
an  apple  as  the  giant  orbit  of  the  comets!  Sir 
Isaac  Newton.  Who  carried  the  torch  of 
severe  and  sagacious  inquiry  into  recesses  of 
the  human  mind,  and  weaned  men  froin  the 
endless  maze  (vf  metaphysical  ."scepticism  ! 
Dr.  Reid,     Who  produced  the  fervent  spint 


which,  veiled  in  philanthropy,  redolent  of  be- 
nevolence,  was  so  soon  lo  be  extinguished  in 
the  blood  of  the  French  Revolution!  Rms- 
seau  and  Voltaire.  Who  discovered  the  rnira* 
cle  of  steam,  and  impelled  civilization,  as  by 
the  force  of  centr.-vl  heat,  to  the  desert  places 
of  the  earth  !  .lames  Watt.  What  unheeded 
power  shook  even  the  solid  fabric  of  the 
British  constitution,  and  all  but  destroyed,  hy 
seeking  unduly  to  extend,  the  liberties  of  Eng- 
land ?  Lord  Brougham,  and  the  Edinburgh 
Reviewers.  Whose  policy  has  ruled  the  com- 
mercial system  of  England  for  twenty  years, 
and  by  the  false  applicniion  of  just  nlmlrdci  prin- 
ciples overthrew  the  Whig  ministry!  Adam 
Smith.  Whose  spirit  arrested  the  devastation 
of  the  French  Revolution,  and  checked  the 
madness  of  the  English  reformers !  Edmund 
Burke.  Who  is  the  real  parent  of  the  blind 
and  heartless  delusion  of  the  New  Poor-Law 
Bill  ?  Mallhus.  Who  have  elevated  men  from 
the  baseness  of  utilitarian  worship  to  the  gran- 
deur of  menial  elevation!  Coleridge  and 
Wordsworth.  All  these  master-spirits,  for 
good  or  for  evil,  communicated  their  own  im- 
press to  the  generation  which  succeeded  them  ; 
the  seed  sown  took  often  many  years  to  come 
to  maturity,  and  many  different  hands,  often  a 
new  generation,  were  required  to  reap  it;  but 
when  the  harvest  appeared,  it  at  once  was 
manifest  whose  hand  had  sown  the  seed. 
"  Show  me  what  one  or  two  great  men,  de- 
tached from  public  life,  but  with  minds  full, 
which  must  be  disburdened,  are  thinking  in 
their  closets  in  this  age,  and  I  will  tell  you 
what  will  be  the  theme  of  the  orator,  the  study 
of  the  philosopher,  the  staple  of  the  press,  the 
guide  of  the  statesman,  in  the  next." 

Observe,  too — and  this  is  a  most  essential 
point  in  the  present  argument — that  all  these 
great  efforts  of  thought  which  have  thus  given 
a  mighty  heave  to  human  affairs,  and,  in  the 
end,  have  .fairly  turned  aside  into  a  new 
channel  even  the  broad  and  varied  stream  of 
general  thought,  have  been  in  dircrt  rnntnulic- 
linn  to  the  spirit  of  the  age  by  which  they 
were  surrounded,  and  which  swayed  alike  the 
communities,  the  press,  and  the  government, 
under  the  inlluence  of  which  they  were  placed. 
Action  and  reaction  appear  to  be  the  great 
law,  not  less  of  the  moral  than  the  material 
world}  the  counteracting  principles,  which, 
like  the  centripetal  and  centrifugal  force  in 
physics,  maintain,  amid  its  perpetual  oscilla- 
tion, the  general  equilibrium  of  the  universe. 
But  whence  is  to  come  the  reaction,  if  the 
human  mind,  influenced  by  the  press,  is  itself 
retained  in  a  self-revolving  circle!  if  reviews, 
magazines,  and  journ.vls,  all  yielding  to,  or 
falling  in  with,  the  taste  of  the  majority,  tlirect 
and  form  public  opinion:  if  individual  ih.  ii','ht 
is  nothing  hut  the  perpetual  rc-<!cho  of  wliai  il 
hears  around  il !  It  is  in  the  solitarv  ihouifhl 
of  inilividual  greatness  that  tb  '■     U 

is  there  that  the  fountains  arc  i.  lurl. 

let  in  a  new  stream  on  human  aii.urs — which 
communicate  a  fresh  and  a  purer  elemrjit  !•• 
the  (lood  charged  with  the  selfishness  and  vici« 
of  the  world;  it  is  there  iha'    '  ■•  '^'irtinR 

force  is  found,  which,  spi  small 

beginnings,  at  length  converts  a  world  in  error 


176 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


Archimedes  was  physically  wrong,  but  he  was 
morally  ritrht,  when  he  said,  "Give  me  a  ful- 
crum, and  I  will  move  the  whole  earth."  Give 
me  the  fulcrum  of  a  great  mind,  and  I  will  turn 
aside  the  world. 

It  is  always  in  resisting,  never  by  yielding 
lo  public  opinion,  that  these  great  master- 
spirits exert  their  power.  The  conqueror,  in- 
deed, who  is  to  act  by  the  present  arms  of 
men;  the  statesman  who  is  to  sway  by  present 
measures  the  agitated  masses  of  societ}',  have 
need  of  general  support.  Napoleon  said  truly 
that  he  was  so  long  successful,  because  he 
always  marched  with  the  opinions  of  five  mil- 
lions of  men.  But  the  great  intellects  which 
are  destined  to  give  a  permanent  change  to 
thought — which  are  destined  to  act  generally, 
not  upon  the  present  but  the  next  generation — 
are  almost  invariabl}'  in  direct  opposition  to 
general  opinion.  In  truth,  it  is  the  resistance 
of  a  powerful  mind  to  the  flood  of  error  by 
which  it  is  surrounded,  which,  like  the  com- 
pression that  elicits  the  power  of  steam,  creates 
the  moving  power  which  alters  the  moral  des- 
tiny of  mankind. 

Was  it  by  yielding  to  public  opinion  that 
Bacon  emancipated  mankind  from  the  fetters 
of  the  Aristotelian  philosophy  1  Was  it  by 
5'ielding  to  the  Ptolemaic  cycles  that  Coperni- 
cus unfolded  the  true  mechanism  of  the  hea- 
vens? Was  it  by  yielding  to  the  dogmas  of 
the  church  that  Galileo  established  the  earth's 
motions'!  Was  it  by  yielding  to  the  Romish 
corruptions  that  Luther  established  the  Re- 
formation 1  Was  it  by  concession  that  Lati- 
mer and  Ridley  "  lighted  a  flame  wjiich,  by 
the  grace  of  God,  shall  never  be  extinguished  V 
Was  it  by  conceding  to  the  long-established 
S}'stem  of  commercial  restriction,  that  Smith 
unfolded  the  truths  of  the  wealth  of  nations  1 
— or  by  chiming  in  with  the  deluge  of  infideli- 
ty and  democracy,  with  which  he  was  sur- 
rounded, that  Burke  arrested  the  devastation 
of  |he  French  Revolution  1  What  were  the 
eloquence  of  Pitt,  the  arms  of  Nelson  and 
Wellington,  but  the  ministers  of  those  princi- 
ples which,  in  opposition  to  general  opinion, 
he  struck  out  at  once,  and  with  a  giant's  arm? 
"Genius  creates  by  a  single  conception;  in  a 
single  principle,  opening,  as  it  were,  on  a 
sudden  to  genius,  a  great  and  new  system  of 
things  is  discovered.  The  statuary  conceives 
a  statue  at  once,  which  is  afterwards  slowly 
executed  by  the  hands  of  many."* 

If  such  be  the  vast  and  unbounded  influence 
of  original  thought  on  human  aff'airs,  national 
character,  public  policy,  and  national  fortunes, 
what  must  be  the  efl'ect  of  that  state  of  things 
whicli  goes  to  check  such  original  concep- 
tion!— to  vulgarize  and  debase  genius,  and 
turn  aside  the  streams  of  first  conception  into 
the  old  and  polluted  channels?  If  the  reac- 
tion of  originality  against  common-place — of 
freedom  against  servility — of  truth  against 
falsehood — of  experience  against  speculation 
• — is  the  great  steadying  power  in  human  af- 
fairs, and  the  only  safe  regulator  of  the  oscil- 
ations  of  public  thought,  what  are  we  to  say 
to  that  direction  of  literary  eflbrt,  and   that 

^D'lirueli's  Essay  on  Lit.  Char. 


tendency  in  the  public  mind,  which  evidently 
tend  to  express,  and  may,  ere  long,  altogether 
extinguish  these  great  and  creative  concep.  • 
lions?  Yet,  that  such  is  the  evident  tendency 
of  society  and  public  opinion  around  us,  is  ol> 
vious,  and  universally  observed.  "  The  tim« 
has  come,"  says  Sir  Edward  Bulwer,*  one  o,f 
the  brightest  ornaments  of  the  liberal  scho*,,: 
"when  nobody  will  fit  out  a  ship  for  the  intAi 
lectual  Columbus  to  discover  new  worlds,  bjs 
when  everybody  will  subscribe  for  his  setting 
up  a  steamboat  between  Dover  and  Calais. 
The  immense  superficies  of  the  public,  as  it 
has  now  become,  operates  two  ways  in  de- 
tracting from  the  profundity  of  writers — it 
renders  it  no  longer  necessary  for  an  author 
to  make  himself  profound  before  he  writes ; 
and  it  encourages  those  M-rilers  who  are  pro- 
found, by  every  inducement,  not  of  lucre  mere- 
ly, but  of  fame,  to  exchange  deep  writing  for 
agreeable  writing.  The  voice  which  animktes 
the  man  ambitious  of  wide  fame,  does  not,  ac- 
cording to  the  beautiful  line  in  Rogers,  whis- 
per to  him,  'Aspire,  but  descend.'  He  must 
'stoop  to  conquer.'  Thus,  if  we  look  abroad 
in  France,  where  the  reading  public  is  much 
less  numerous  than  in  England,  a  more  subtle 
and  refined  tone  is  prevalent  in  literature; 
while  in  America,  where  it  is  infinitel)'  larger, 
the  literature  is  incomparably  more  superfi- 
cial. Some  high-souled  literary  men,  indeed, 
desirous  rather  of  truth  than  of  fame,  are  ac- 
tuated unconsciously  by  the  spirit  of  the  times ; 
but  actuated  they  necessarily  are,  just  as  the 
wisest  orator  who  uttered  only  philosophy  to 
a  thin  audience  of  Sages,  and  mechanically 
abandons  his  refinements  and  his  reasonings, 
and  expands  into  a  louder  tone  and  more  fami- 
liar manner  as  the  assembly  increases,  and 
the  temper  of  the  popular  mind  is  insensibly 
communicated  to  the  mind  that  addresses  it." 
"  There  is  in  great  crowds,"  says  Cousin,  "  an 
ascendant  which  is  almost  magical,  which 
subdues  at  once  the  strongest  minds;  and  the 
same  man  who  had  been  a  serious  and  in- 
structive professor  to  a  hundred  thoughtful 
students,  soon  becomes  light  and  superficial 
where  he  is  called  to  address  a  more  extended 
and  superficial  audience." 

There  can  be  no  doubt  of  the  justice  of 
the  principles  advanced  by  these  profound 
writers :  in  truth,  they  are  not  new ;  they 
have  been  known  and  acted  upon  in  every 
age  of  mankind. — "You  are  wrong  to  pride 
yourself,"  said  the  Grecian  sage  to  an  Athe- 
nian orator,  who  first  delivered  a  speech 
amidst  the  thundering  acclamations  of  his 
audience ;  "  if  you  had  spoken  truly,  these 
men  would  have  given  no  signs  of  approba 
tion."  It  is  in  the  extension  of  the  power  of 
judging  of  literary  compositions — of  confer- 
ring wealth  and  bestowing  fame  on  their  au- 
thors— to  the  vast  and  excitable,  but  superficial 
mass  of  mankind,  that  the  true  cause  of  the 
ephemeral  and  yet  entrancing  and  exciting 
cliaracter  of  the  literature  of  the  present  age 
is  to  be  found.  Some  superficial  observers 
imagine  that  the  taste  for  novels  and  romances 
will  wear  itself  out,  and  an  appreciation  of  a 


•  England  and  English,  p.  440. 


THE  COPYRIGHT  QUESTION. 


177 


hiffher  class  of  literature  sproad  frrnmlly 
am<in!7  the  middle  classes.  They  mii^hl  as 
well  suppose  that  all  men  are  to  become  Ho- 
mers, and  all  women  8apphos. 

It  is  in  this  fact,  the  immense  number  of 
mankind  in  ever}'  a^c  who  are  influenced  by 
their  passions  or  their  feelinG;s,  compared  with 
the  small  portion  who  are  under  the  influence 
of  their  reason,  that  the  true  cause  and  extra- 
ordinary multitude  of  a  certain  class  of  novels 
m  the  present  daj'  is  to  be  found.  Without  de- 
preciating? the  talent  of  many  of  these  writers 
— without  undervaluino;  the  touching  scenes 
of  pathos,  anjl  admirable  pictures  of  humour 
which  they  present — it  may  safely  be  aflirmed, 
that  ihcy  exhibit  a  melancholy  proof  of  the 
tendency  of  our  lighter  literature;  and  that  if 
such  works  were  to  become  as  general  in 
every  succeeding  age  as  they  have  been  in 
the  present,  a  ruinous  degradation  both  to  our 
literary  and  national  character  would  ensue. 
TTie  cause  which  has  led  to  their  rapid  rise 
and  unprecedented  success,  is  obvious.  It  is, 
that  the  middle  classes  have  become  the  most 
numerous  body  of  readers;  and  therefore,  the 
humour,  the  incidents,  the  pathos,  which  are 
familiar  to  them,  or  excite  either  amusement 
or  sympathy  in  their  breasts,  constitute  the 
surest  passports  to  popularit}-.  It  was  the 
same  cause  which  produced  the  boors  of 
Ostade,  or  the  village  wakes  of  Teniers  in 
republican  Holland,  and  the  stately  declama- 
tions of  Racine  and  Corneille  in  monarchical 
France. 

It  is  nevertheless  perfectly  true,  as  has  been 
well  remarked  hy  Lord  Brougham,  that  there 
never  was  such  a  mistake  as  to  imagine  that 
mob  orator)'  consists  only  in  low  bulToonery, 
quick  repartee,  or  happy  personal  hits.  On 
some  occasions,  and  certainly  on  the  hustings, 
it  generally  does.  But  there  are  other  occa- 
sions on  which  the  middle  and  even  the  work- 
ing classes  are  accessible  to  the  most  noble 
and  elevated  sentiments;  and  exhibit  an  apti- 
tude both  for  the  quick  apprehension  of  jyi 
argtiment.  and  the  due  appreciation  of  a  gene- 
rou-!  ',  which  could  not  be  surpassed 

in  an  .  ly  in  the  kingdom.     The  higher 

class  of  operatives,  moreover,  especially  in 
the  manufacturing  districts,  are  so  constantly 
in  contact  with  each  other,  and  are  so  much 
h.-"  !  to  the   periodical  press,  that   they 

n  ired  an  extraordinary  quickness  of 

p'-  I  in  matters  which  fall  within  their 

tl> .[»;  while  the  numerous  vicissitU''-- 

o  which  they  arc  exposed  by  commercial  •'■ 
iTPss,  '  1   many  places,  given  a  serii'u 

and  r  turn  to  their  minds,  which  will 

rarely  be  met  with  amidst  the  frivolitii-s  nf  ihi- 
hiRher,  or  the  selfish  pursuits  of  the  m  Ill- 
ranks.    In  assemblies  of  the  working  < 

brought  tc^i'thrr  by  thf  call  for  s u, 

and  not  p.ihiH-.il   ..l.-ci,  as  ihr>  pi  .if 

rr- 
•  r. 

have  adli  -111  them  without  obser^'ing  that 
he  cannot  state  his  argument  loo  closely,  en- 
force it  with  facts  too  forcibly,  or  attrnd  to 
the  graces  of  composition  with  too  sedulous 
ear«. 

But  all  this  notwithstanding,  it  is  in  v«  n  to 
12 


expect  that  the  patronage  or  support  of  the 
middle  or  working  classes  is  ever  to  aflurd  a 
suflicient  inducement  to  secure  works  cither 
of  profound  or  elevated  thought,  or  of  the 
highest  excellence  in  any  branch  either  of 
poetry,  philosophy,  history,  or  economics. 
The  reason  is,  that  it  is  only  bv  appealing  to 
principles  or  ideas  alrcmhj  m  nc  fami- 

liar to  the  p,rcat  body  of  the  ]» <  ,  ,  ■  ynu  can 
ever  succeed  in  making  any  impression  upon 
them.  Truth,  if  altogether  new,  is,  in  the  first 
instance  at  least,  thrown  away  upon  them  ; 
it  is  of  exceeding  slow  descent,  even  thmugh 
the  most  elevated  intellects  of  the  middle 
classes;  upon  the  working  it  produces  at  first 
no  eliect  whatever.  The  reason  is,  that  the 
great  majority  of  them  have  not  intellects  suf- 
ficiently strong  to  make  at  once  the  transition 
from  long  cherished  error  to  truth,  unless  the 
evils  of  their  former  opinions  have  been  long 
and  forcibly  brought  before  their  senses.  If 
that  be  the  case,  indeed,  the  humblest  classes 
are  the  very  first  to  see  the  light.  Witness 
the  Reformation  in  Germany,  or  the  Revolu- 
tion in  France.  They  are  so,  because  they 
arc  less  interested  than  their  superiors  in  the 
maintenance  of  error.  But  if  the  new  disco- 
veries of  thought  relate  not  to  present  but  re- 
mote evils,  and  do  Qot  appeal  to  what  is 
universally  known  to  the  senses,  but  only  to 
what  may  with  difficulty  be  gathered  from 
study  or  reflection,  nothing  is  more  certain 
than  that  the  progress  even  of  truth  is  exceed- 
ingly slow — that  the  human  mind  is  to  the 
last  degree  reluctant  to  admit  any  great  change 
of  opinion ;  and  that,  in  general,  at  least  one 
generation  must  descend  to  their  graves  before 
truths,  ultimately  deemed  the  most  obvious, 
are  gradually'  forced  upon  the  reluctant  con- 
sent of  mankind.  Mr.  I3urke's  speeches  never 
were  popular  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and 
his  rising  up  acted  like  a  dinner-bell  in  thin- 
ning the  benches.  Aow  his  words  are  dwelt 
on  by  the  wise,  quoted  by  the  eiofpient,  dif- 
fused among  the  many.  Oratory,  to  be  popu- 
lar, must  be  in  advance  of  the  audience,  and 
hut  a  little  in  advance;  profound  thi>ii„'ht  may 
rule  mankitid  in  future,  but  unless  stimulated 
by  causes  obvious  to  all,  will  do  lilile  for  pre- 
sent reputation.  Hence  it  was  that  Bacon 
bequeanicd  his  reputation  to  the  generation 
afii-r  the  next. 

.\s  little  is  there  any  reason  to  hope  that  the 
obvious  and  gratifying  return  to  serious  and 
•  iiulard  publications,  evinced  by  the  numcr- 
I  eprinis  of  our  classical  writers  that  issue 
11. in  the  press,  can  be  taken  as  any  suHir 
indication  that  there  exists  in  the  jiublic  i 
an  adequate  antidote  to  these  evils.     Thi'  i 
of  these  reprints  of  standard  works  issu  :  ^ 
iVoin  the   press,  certainly  proves  sufficiently 

that  there  is  a  class,  and  a  numrr "  t  o, 

of  persftns  who,  howcvt^r  much  i 
il  literature  as  an  ainii-^ 
I   look   to  our  standanl  \i 
volumes  which  are  to  fill  their  librar.'"'.     Hut 
that  by  no  means  nfl"ords  a  suflicic  '   -i  ■,  ,i.i.-e 
that  the  public  will  give  any  ei.  ■    t 

toll  .1 


woi . 


temper  ol  the  national  mind.    Tiicrc  o  a  must 


178 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


material  difTorcnce  between  the  reprint  of  a 
standard  Imok,  which  has  already  acijiiircd  a 
fixed  rei)ulation,  and  the  composition  of  a  new 
work  of  a  serious  and  conlemphitive  caht,  es- 
pecially by  an  unknown  author,  and  more 
particularly  if  it  is  in  opposition  to  the  i?eneral 
current  of  public  opinion.  It  may  safely  be 
predicted  of  such  a  work,  that  if  it  really  con- 
tains new  and  important  truths,  it  Avill  be  dis- 
tasteful to  the  majority  of  readers  in  all  classes; 
and  that  whatever  fame  may  in  future  be  be- 
stowed on  its  author,  or  however  widely  it  may 
hereafter  be  read  by  the  public,  or  command 
the  assent  of  mankind,  he  will  be  in  his  grave 
before  either  eflect  takes  place.  Adam  Smith, 
if  we  mistake  not,  had  died  before  the  Wealth 
of  Ndtidiis  had  got  past  even  a  second  edition, 
certainly  before  its  principles  had  made  any 
material  progress  in  the  general  mind.  Seve- 
ral years  had  elapsed  before  a  hundred  copies 
of  Mr.  Hume's  History  were  sold ;  and  he  him- 
self has  told  us,  that  nothing  but  the  earnest 
entreaties  of  his  friends  induced  him,  in  the 
face  of  such  a  cold  and  chilling  reception,  to 
continue  his  historical  labours.  Although, 
therefore,  there  exists  a  steady  demand  for 
standard  classical  works,  it  is  by  no  means 
equally  apparent  that  any  thing  like  an  ade- 
quate encouragement  in  the  general  case  for 
the  composition  of  nciv  standard  works,  is  to 
be  found  in  the  present  state  of  society.  Few 
men  have  the  self-denial,  like  Bacon,  to  be- 
queath their  reputation  to  the  generation  after 
the  next,  and  to  labour  for  nothing  during  the 
whole  of  their  own  lifetime;  and  the  chance 
of  finding  persons  who  will  do  so,  is  much 
diminished,  when  society  has  reached  that 
period  in  which,  by  simply  lowering  his  mode 
of  composition,  and  descending  from  being  the 
instructor  to  be  the  amuser  of  men,  the  author 
can  obtain  both  profit  and  celebrity  from  a 
numerous  and  flattering  class  of  readers. 

Nor  is  there  the  slightest  ground  for  the 
hope,  that  the  strong  diversion  of  philosophi- 
cal and  literary  talent  into  the  periodical  litera- 
ture of  the  day,  has  only  turned  it  into  a  new 
channel,  and  not  diminished  its  amount  or  im- 
paired its  usefulness.  If  we  contemplate, 
indeed,  the  periodical  literature  of  the  day, 
every  one  must  be  struck  with  astonishment 
at  the  prodigious  amount  and  versatility  of 
talent  which  it  displays.  But  how  much  of 
that  has  realized  itself  in  works  of  a  perma- 
nent or  durable  character,  calculated  to  instruct 
or  delight  future  ages i  Turn  to  the  early 
criticisms  of  the  Edinhurs^h  Hcvinv,  flowing,  as 
they  did,  from  the  able  and  varied  pens  of 
Brougham,  Jefl'rey,  and  Sydney  Smith,  and  see 
how  many  of  them  will  stand  the  test  which 
thirty  years'  subsequent  experience  has  aflbi'd- 
ed  ?  Few  persons  now  read  the  early  cri- 
tiques in  the  Qnurtnli/  Juriar,  supported  as 
Ihey  were  by  the  talent  of  Gifl'ord,  Lockhart, 
Croker,  and  Dudley,  which  aflbrds  decisive 
evidence  of  the  way  in  which  each  succeeding 
wave  of  periodical  criticism  buries  in  oblivion 
the  last.  Various  attempts  have  been  made  to 
select  from  the  immense  mass  of  these  periodi- 
cals, such  of  the  pieces  as  appeared  likely  to 
attract  permanent  interest;  but  none  of  them 
have  any  remarkable  success,  if  avc  except  the 


best  criticisms  of  Jefl!"rey  and  the  splendid  essays 
of  Macaulay,  which  have  formed  a  valuable 
addition  to  our  standard  literature. 

The  reason  why  periodical  essays,  how  able 
soever,  seldom  succeed  in  acquiring  a  lasting 
reputation,  is  this.  It  is  too  deeplj'  impreg- 
nated with  the  passions,  the  interests,  and  the 
errors  of  the  moment.  This  arises  from  the 
same  cause  which  Bulwer  and  Cousin  have 
remarked  as  necessarily  changing  the  character 
of  oratory  in  proportion  to  the  size  of  the  audi- 
ence to  which  it  is  addressed.  Temporary 
literature  necessarily  shares  in  the  temporary 
nature  of  the  passions  of  which  it  is  the  mirror. 
Every  one  who  is  accustomed  to  that  species 
of  composition  knows,  that  if  he  does  not  strike 
at  the  prevailing  feeling  of  the  moment,  in  the 
great  majority  of  his  readers  he  will  produce 
no  sort  of  impression,  and  he  will  very  soon 
find  his  contributions  returned  upon  his  hand 
by  the  editor.  "  The  great  talent  of  Mirabeau," 
says  Dumont,  "consisted  in  this,  that  he  in- 
tuitively saw  to  what  point  in  the  minds  of  his 
audience  to  apply  his  strength,  and  he  sent  it 
home  there  with  the  strength  of  a  giant."  That 
is  precisely  the  talent  required  in  periodical 
literature  ;  and  accordingly,  every  one  engaged 
in  it,  is  aware  that  he  writes  an  article  for  a 
magazine  or  review  in  a  verj'  difierent  style 
from  what  he  does  in  any  composition  intended 
for  durable  existence.  If  we  turn  to  the  politi- 
cal articles  in  any  periodical  ten  or  fifteen 
years  old,  what  a  multitude  of  facts  do  we  find 
distorted,  of  theories  disproved  by  the  result, 
of  anticipations  which  have  proved  fallacious, 
of  hopes  which  have  terminated  only  in  disap- 
pointment 1  This  is  no  reproach  to  the  writers. 
It  is  the  necessary  result  of  literary  and  philo- 
sophical talent  keenly  and  energetically  applied 
to  the  interests  of  the  hour.  It  is  in  the  cool 
shade  of  retirement,  and  by  men  detached  from 
the  contests  of  the  world,  that  truth  in  social 
and  moral  affairs  is  really  to  be  discovered; 
but  how  are  we  to  look  for  that  quality  amidst 
the  necessary  cravings  of  an  excited  age,  seek- 
ing after  something  new  in  fiction,  or  the 
passions  of  a  divided  community  finding  vent 
on  politics  in  the  periodical  press  1 

The  great  profits  which  now  accrue  to 
authors  who  are  lucky  enough  to  hit  upon  a 
popular  view  with  the  public,  is  another  cir- 
cumstance which  tends  most  powerfully  to 
stamp  this  fleeting  and  impassioned  character, 
both  upon  our  creations  of  imagination  and 
periodical  eff^usions  of  political  argument. 
The  days  are  gone  past  when  Johnson  wrote 
in  a  garret  in  Fleet  Street  the  sonorous  periods 
which  a  subsequent  century  have  admired, 
under  the  name  of  Chatham.  The  vast  in- 
crease of  readers,  particularly  in  the  middle 
and  lower  ranks,  has  opened  sources  of  literary 
profit,  and  avenues  to  literary  distinction,  un- 
known in  any  former  age.  A  successful  article 
in  a  magazine  or  review  brings  a  man  into 
notice  in  the  literary  world,  just  as  cfl!ectually 
as  a  triumphant  dcLi't  makes  the  fortune  of  an 
actress  or  singer.  But  how  is  this  success  to 
be  kept  up?  or  how  is  this  profit  to  be  con- 
tinued T  Not  certainly  by  turning  aside  from 
periodical  literature  to  the  cool  shades  of  medi* 
tation  or  retirement,  but  by  engaging  still  more 


THE  COPYRIGHT  QUESTIOX. 


i79 


|ee<7  in  the  stirring  bustle  of  the  times;  hy 
catering  to  the  craving  for  continueil  excite- 
ment, or  plunging  into  the  stream  of  turbulent 
politics.  If,  instead  of  doing  so,  he  sits  "on  a 
hill  retired,"  and  labours  for  the  benefit  of 
mankind,  and  the  instruction  of  posterity  in  a 
future  age,  he  will  soon  find  the  cold  shoulder 
of  the  public  turned  towards  him.  He  may 
acquire  immortal  fame  by  his  labours,  but  he 
will  soon  find  that,  unless  he  has  a  profession 
or  independent  fortune,  he  is  gradually  verging 
towards  a  neglected  home — the  garret.  Where- 
as, if  he  engages  in  the  pursuit  of  fiction,  or 
plunges  into  the  stream  ot  politics,  he  will  ere- 
long be  gratified  by  finding,  if  he  has  talents 
adequate  to  the  "undertaking,  that  fame  and 
fortune  pour  in  upon  him,  that  his  society  is 
courted,  and  his  name  celebrated,  and  not  un- 
frequently  political  patronage  rewards  passing 
talent  or  service  with  durable  honours  or 
rewards. 

Nothing,  indeed,  is  more  certain  than  that 

nothing  great,  either  in  philosophy,  literature, 

or  art,  was  ever  purchased  by  gold ;  that  genius 

unfolds  her  treasures  to  disinterested  votaries 

only;  and  that  but  one  reason  can  be  assigned 

why  such  clusters  of  great  men  occasionally 

appear  in  the  world,  that  "God  Almight}',"  in 

Hallam's  words,  "has  chosen  at  those  times  to 

create  them."     But  admitting  that  neither  gold 

nor  honours  can  purchase  genius,  or  unlock 

truth,  the  question  is,  to  what  extent  they  may 

Hraw  aside  talent,  even  of  the  highest  class,  from 

the  cold  and  shivering  pinnacles  of  meditation 

and  thought,  into  the  rich  and  flowery  vales  of 

politics,   amusement,    or    imagination.     The 

point  is  not  what  they  can  do,  but  what  they 

can  cause  to  be  left  unrhnc.     Doubtless  there 

are  occasionally  to  be  found  men  of  the  very 

'highest  character  of  intellect  and   principle, 

who,  born  to  direct  mankind,  feel  their  destiny, 

and,  in  defiance  of  all  the  seductions  of  fame  or 

interest,  pursue  it  with  invincible  perseverance 

.0  the  end.     But  such  men  are  rare;  they  sel- 

lom  appear  more  than  once  in  a  generation. 

\bovc  all,  they  arc  least  likely  to  arise,  and 

nost   likely  to  be  diverted  from  their  proper 

lestiny  in  an  age  of  commercial  opulence  and 

jrealness,  or  of  strong  political  or  social  ex- 

titement.     The  universal   thirst  for  gold,  the 

general  experience  of  its  necessity  to  confer 

lot  merely  comfort  but  respectability — the  faci- 

ity  with  which  genius  may  acquire  it,  if  it  will 

■ondcscend  to  fall  in  with  the  temper  of  the 

imes — the  utter  barrenness  of  its  cflorls,  if  it 

ndiilges  merely  in  the  abstract  pursuit  of  truth, 

low  clearly  soever  destined  fnr  imrnnrtality  in 

.  future  age — the  distinction  to  be  immediately 

cquircd  by  lending  its  aid  to  thq  slrifcof  parlies, 

I r  condescending  to  amuse  an  insatiable  pub- 

c — the  .ong-continued  neglect  which  is  certain 

)  ensue,  if  works  likely  to  procure  durable 

elcbrily  are  attempted — are  so  many  templa- 

ons  which  assail  the  literary  adventurer  on 

is  path,  and  which,  if  not  resisted  by  the  he- 

)ic  sense  of  duty  of  aThalaba,  will  infallibly 

ivrrt  him  from  his  appointed  mission  of  picrc- 

ig  the  Idol  of  Error  to  the  heart. 

These  causes  of  danger  to  our  standard  lite- 

iturc  become  more  pressing,  when  it  is  rccol- 

rcted  that,  by  the  fixed  practice  and  apparently 


constitutional  usage  of  this  mixed  aristocratic 
and  commercial  realm,  no  distinctions  of  rank 
are  ever  conferred  upon  literary  ability,  how 
distinguished  soever.  Sir  Walter  Scott,  indeed^ 
and  Sir  Edward  Bulwer  have  been  made  baro- 
nets; but.  in  the  first  instance,  it  was  on  the 
personal  friend  of  George  IV.  that  this  honour 
was  conferred,  not  tlie  great  novelist;  in  the 
second,  to  the  literary  parliamentary  support- 
er, not  the  author  of  England  and  the  English, 
that  the  reward  was  given.  Both  indeed  were 
entirely  worthy  of  the  honour;  but  the  honour 
would  never  have  been  bestowed  on  the  Scotch 
novelist,  if  he  had  been  unknown  in  the  aris- 
tocratic circles  of  London,  and  never  dined 
at  Carlton  House;  or  on  the  English,  if  he  had 
been  a  stranger  to  the  Whig  coteries  of  the 
metropolis.  The  proof  of  this  is  decisive. 
Look  at  what  we  have  done  for  our  greatest 
men,  who  had  not  these  adventitious  aids  to 
court  favour.  We  made  Burns  an  excise  of- 
ficer and  Adam  Smith  a  commissioner  of  cus- 
toms. 

The  influence  of  this  circumstance  is  very 
great;  and  the  want  of  any  such  national  ho- 
nours is  an  additional  cause  of  the  fleeting  and 
ephemeral  character  of  our  general  literature. 
The  soldier  and  the  sailor  are  certain,  if  they 
distinguish  themselves,  of  obtaining  such  re- 
wards. Look  at  the  long  list  of  knights  com- 
manders of  the  Bath,  in  both  services,  who  were 
promoted  by  the  last  brevet.  Nothing  can  be 
more  just  than  conferring  such  distinctions  on 
these  gallant  men ;  they  compensate  to  them  the 
inequalityof  their  fortunes,  and  stimulate  them 
to  heroic  and  daring  exploits.  The  successful 
lawyer  often  comes  in  the  end  to  take  prece- 
dence of  every  peer  in  the  realm,  and  becomes 
the  founder  of  a  family  which  transmits  his 
wealth  and  his  honours  to  remote  generations. 
The  honoured  names  of  Hardwicke,  Loughbo- 
rough, Mansfield,  and  Eldon,  have  been  trans- 
mitted with  princely  fortunes  to  an  ennobled 
posterity.  But  to  literary  abilities  none  of  these 
higher  and  elevating  objects  of  ambition  are 
open.  The  great  author  can  neither  found  a 
family  nor  acquire  a  title;  and  if  he  does  not 
choos'e  to  degrade  himself  by  falling  in  with 
the  passions  or  frivolities  of  the  age,  it  is  more 
than  probable  that,  like  the  Israelites  of  old, 
his  life  will  be  spent  in  wandering  in  the  de- 
sert, and  he  will  see  only,  in  his  last  hour,  and 
that  from  afar,  the  pnunised  land.  -Xnd  yet 
what  is  the  influence  of  the  soldier,  the  lawyer, 
or  the  statesman,  compared  to  that  which  a 
great  and  profound  writer  exercises  1  and  what 
do  the  monarchs,  the  cabinets,  and  the  generals 
of  one  age  do,  but  carry  into  elVect  the  princi- 
ples enforced  by  the  master-spirits  of  the  pre- 
ceding? 

It  is  cvi<leiif,  therefore,  that  there  are  a  vari- 
ety of  causes,  some  of  a  positive,  some  o(  a 
negative  kind,  which  are  operating  tou-eihor  to 
depress  the  character  of  our  liieraiiire;  to  chil. 
the  aspirations  of  genius,  or  the  soarings  of 
intellect ;  to  enlist  fancy  on  the  side  of  fashion, 
and  genius  in  the  pursuit  of  fiction;  to  bind 
down  lasting  inlelleet  to  passing  inieresis.nnd 
compel  it  to  surrender  to  parly  what  nl 

for  mankind.     This  is  not  a  class  ;  il 

is  an  universal  concern.     I'   nvolvep  nothing 


leo 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


ess  than  the  dearest  interests  and  future  fate 
of  the  nation;  for  what  sort  of  people  will  we 
soon  become,  if  temporary  passions,  interests, 
or  frivolities,  alone  engross  the  talent  of  the 
empire;  and  the  great  lights  of  genius  and  in- 
tellect, which  might  enable  us  to  keep  abreast 
of  our  fortunes,  become  extinct  among  us  1 
What  are  we  to  say  are  likely  to  be  the  prin- 
ciples of  our  statesmen,  our  legislators,  or  our 
rulers,  if  the  elevating  and  ennobling  principles 
of  former  times  are  gradually  forgotten,  and 
no  successors  to  the  race  of  giants  arise  to  di- 
rect, purify,  and  elevate  the  public  mind,  amidst 
the  rapidly  increasing  dangers  which  assail  it, 
in  the  later  and  more  opulent  stages  of  socict}^  1 
What  are  we  to  expect  but  that  we  are  to  fall 
into  the  listless  cravings  of  the  Athenians,  who 
were  constantly  employed  in  seeing  and  hear- 
ing something  new ;  or  to  the  deplorable  destiny 
of  the  Byzantine  empire,  which,  amidst  inces- 
sant literary  exertion  and  amusement,  did  not 
produce  a  single  work  of  genius  for  a  thousand 
years]  And  if  such  mingled  talent  and  frivo- 
lity should  permanently  lay  hold  of  the  British 
mind,  what  can  we  expect  but  that  our  latter 
end  shall  be  like  theirs,  and  that  centuries  of 
progressive  degradation  and  ultimate  national 
extinction  Avill  terminate  the  melancholy  era 
of  social  regeneration  on  which  we  have  just 
entered. 

It  is  perhaps  of  still  more  importance  to  ob- 
serve, what,  though  equally  true,  is  not  so  gene- 
rally admitted,  that  these  causes  of  degradation, 
so  far  from  being  likely  to  be  alleviated  or  ar- 
rested by  the  progressive  extension  of  the  taste 
for  reading  among  the  middle  and  lower  classes 
of  society,  are,  unhappily,  too  likely  to  be  daily 
increased  by  that  very  circumstance.     As  it  is 
the  extension  of  the  power  of  reading  to  the  mid- 
dle and  working  classes,  thai  has,  in  a  great  part, 
produced  the  present  ephemeral  character  of  our 
literature,  and  the  incessant  demand  for  works 
of  excitement;  so  nothing  appears  more  cer- 
tain, than  that  this  tendency  is  likely  to  aug- 
ment with  the  extension  of  that  class  of  readers. 
The  middle  and  lower  orders,  indeed,  who  are 
so  closely  brought  into  contact  with  the  real 
difficulties  and  stern  realities  of  life,  will  al- 
ways, in  every  popular  community,  cause   a 
large  part  of  the  talent  and  intellect  of  the  nation 
to  be  directed,  not  merely  to  works  of  amuse- 
ment, but  works  of  utility,  and  having  an  im- 
mediate bearing  on  the  improvement  of  art,  the 
extension  of  commerce,  or  the  amelioration  of 
the  material  interests  of  society.     But  these 
labours,  however  useful  and  important,  belong 
to  a  secondary  class  of  thought,  and  encourage 
only   a   second    class    of   literary   labourers. 
They  are  the  instruments  of  genius,  not  genius 
itself;  they  are  the  generals  and  colonels  in  the 
great  army  nf  thought,  but  not  the  commander- 
in-chief.     "  In  the  infancy  of  a  nation,"  says 
Bacon,  "arms  do  prevail;    in   its   manhood, 
arms  and  learning  for  a  .^Iwrt  seaaon;  in  its  de- 
cline, commerce    and    the   mechanical    arts." 
The  application  of  energy,  talent,  and  industry, 
10  material  purposes,  however  useful  or  neces- 
sary those  purposes  may  be,  savours   of  the 
physiciil  necessities,  not  the  spiritual  dignity  of 
man  ;  and  the  general  turning  of  public  effort 
m  that  direction  is  a  symptom  of  the  decline 


of  nations.  Let  us  not  therefore  lay  the  flat- 
tering unction  to  our  souls,  that  the  craving 
for  the  excitement  of  fiction,  or  the  realities  ' 
of  mechanical  improvement,  which  have  ex- 
tended so  immensely  among  us,  with  the  spread 
of  knowledge  among  the  middle  and  working 
classes,  are  to  prove  an)'  antidote  to  the  decline 
of  the  highest  class  of  literature  amongst  us. 
On  the  contrary,  they  are  among  the  most 
powerful  causes  which  produce  it. 

Real  genius  and  intellect  of  the  highest  cha- 
racter, it  can  never  be  too  of^en  repeated,  works 
only  for  the  future  ;  it  rarely  produces  any  im- 
pression, or  brings  in  any  reward  whatever,  at 
the  present.  Works  of  fiction  or  imagination, 
indeed,  such  as  Sir  Walter  Scott's  or  Bulwer's 
novels,  or  Lqrd  Byron's  poetical  romances, 
may  produce  an  immediate  impression,  and 
yet  be  destined  for  durable  existence ;  but  such 
a  combination  is  extremely  rare,  and  is  in 
general  confined  entirely  to  works  that  please. 
Those  that  instruct  or  improve,  destined  to  a 
}'et  longer  existence,  have  a  much  slower 
growth,  and  often  do  not  come  to  maturity  till 
after  the  death  of  the  author. 

"  The  solitary  man  of  genius,"  says  D'Israeli, 
"is  arranging  the  materials  of  instruction  and 
curiosity  from  every  country  and  every  age; 
he  is  striking  out,  in  the  concussion  of  new 
light,  a  new  order  of  ideas  for  his  own  times; 
he  possesses  secrets  which  men  hide  from 
their  contemporaries,  truths  they  dared  not 
utter,  facts  they  dared  not  discover.  View  him 
in  the  stillness  of  meditation,  his  eager  spirit 
busied  over  a  copious  page,  and  his  eye  spark- 
ling with  gladness.  He  has  concluded  what 
his  countrymen  will  hereafter  cherish  as  the 
legacy  of  genius.  You  see  him  now  changed; 
and  the  restlessness  of  his  soul  is  thrown  into 
his  very  gestures !  Could  3-ou  listen  to  the 
vaticinator !  But  the  next  age  only  will  quote 
his  predictions.  If  he  be  the  truly  great  au- 
thor, he  will  be  best  comprehended  by  posterity; 
for  the  result  of  ten  years  of  solitary  medita- 
tion has  often  required  a  Avhole  century  to  be 
understood  and  to  be  adopted." 

We  are  no  enemies  to  the  conferring  the 
honours  of  the  crown  upon  the  most  distin- 
guished of  our  literary  men.  To  many,  such 
elevation  would  form  a  most  appropriate  re- 
ward ;  to  all,  a  legitimate  object  of  ambition. 
But  we  are  exceedingly  jealous  of  the  influence 
of  all  such  court  fovours  upon  the  assertors 
of  political,  social,  or  historical  truth.  We 
look  to  other  countries,  and  we  behold  the 
withering  effect  of  such  distinctions  upon  the 
masculine  independence  of  thought.  We  re- 
collect the  titled  and  well-paid  literature  of 
France,  under  the  Emperor  Napoleon,  and  we 
ask,  what  has  come  of  all  that  high-sounding 
panegyric  1  We  read  the  annals  of  the  digni- 
fied historians  of  Austria,  Prussia,  and  Russia, 
and  we  sicken  for  the  breath  of  a  freeman. 
We  remember  it  was  only  under  a  Trajan  that 
a  Tacitus  could  pour  forth  the  indignation  of 
expiring  virtue  at  surrounding  baseness,  and 
we  shudder  to  think  how  few  Trajans  are  to 
be  found  in  the  decline  of  nations. 

The  only  legitimate  and  safe  reward  of  the 
highest  class  of  literary  merit,  next  to  the  con* 
sciousness  of  discharging  its  mission,  is  to  be 


THE  COPYRIGHT  QUESTION. 


181 


found  L'l  the  prolongation  of  the  period  during 
which  its  profits  are  to  accrue  to  the  family  of 
the  author.  We  at  once  concede  that  even 
this  motive,  higher  and  more  honourable  than 
that  uf  present  or  selfish  gain,  will  never  be 
sufficient  to  induce  the  loftiest  class  of  genius 
or  intellect  to  produce  an)-  great  work.  It  is 
an  overpowering  sense  of  public  duty — an 
ardent  inspiration  after  deserved  immortality — 
the  }-carnings  of  a  full  mind,  which  must  be 
delivered — that  are  the  real  causes  of  such 
elevated  efforts.  They  are  given  only  to  a 
fe\(^,  because  to  a  few  only  has  God  assigned 
the  power  of  directing  mankind.  But,  admit- 
ting that  the  divine  inspiration  is  the  fountain 
of  truth — the  "pure  well  of  genius  undefiled" 
— the  point  to  be  considered  is,  how  is  the 
stream  which  it  pours  forth  to  be  kept  in  its 
proper  channel? — how  is  it  to  be  prevented 
from  becoming  rapidly  merged  in  the  agitated 
waves  of  human  passion,  or  sunk  in  the  bot- 
tomless morasses  of  interest  or  selfishness  T 
By  giving  something  like  perpetuity  to  the 
rights  of  authorship,  this  can  be  best  effected; 
because  it  is  by  so  doing  that  we  will  most 
effectually  ally  it  to  the  purest  and  most  ele- 
vated motives  which,  in  sublunary  matters, 
can  influence  mankind. 

Look  at  the  merchant,  the  lawyer,  the  manu- 
facturer, at  all  who  amass  fortunes,  and  leave 
the  colossal  estates  which  gradually  elevate 
their  possessors  to  the  ranks  of  the  aristocracy, 
and  fill  up  in  that  class  the  chasms  which  for- 
tune, extravagance,  or  the  extinction  of  fami- 
lies, so  often  produce.  What  are  the  motives 
which  animate  the  founders  of  such  families 
to  a  life  of  exertion,  and  produce  the  astonish- 
ing effects  in  the  accumulation  of  wealth  which 
we  daily  see  around  us  1  It  is  not  the  desire 
of  individual  enjoyment;  for,  whatever  his  son 
may  have,  the  father  seldom  knows  any  thing 
of  wealth  but  of  the  labour  by  which  it  is 
created.  It  is  not  even  for  the  distinction 
which  he  is  to  acquire  during  his  own  lifetime, 
that  the  successful  professional  man  or  mer- 
chant labours ;  for,  if  that  were  his  object,  it 
would  be  far  more  effectually  and  more  plea- 
santly gained,  by  simply  spending  his  wealth 
as  fast  as  he  made  it.  What,  then,  is  the 
motive  which  animatf^s  him  to  a  life  of  labour, 
and  stimulates  him  through  half  a  century  lo 
such  incessant  exertions]  It  is  the  hope  of 
transmitting  his  fortune  to  his  children— of 
securing  the  independence  of  those  most  dear 
to  him  ;  it  is  the  desire  of  founding  a  family — 
of  leaving  his  d'-scendants  in  a  very  difl'ercrit 
rank  of  life  from  that  in  which  he  himself 
moved,  or  his  fathers  before  him.  They  know 
'  '-^  of  the  human  mind  who  are  not  aware 
'  this  desire,  when  it  once  tak(!s  hold  of  the 
'.,  supplies  the  want  of  all  other  enjoy- 
its.  and  that  it  is  the  secret,  unobserved 
cause  of  the  greatest  individual  and  national 
efforts  that  have  ever  been  achieved  among 
mankind. 

To  the  due  action  of  this  important  prinriple, 
however,  a  certain  degree  of  prrmnncnrr  in  lh<' 
enjoyment  of  the  fortune  acquired  is  indispen- 
sable. Men  will  never  make  such  long-con- 
tinued or  sustained  elTorts  for  a  temporary  or 
Passing  interest.     Does  any  man  suppose  that 


a  merchant  or  lawyer  would  toil  for  fifty  years, 
if  he  knew  that  he  could  only  expect  an  eight' 
and-twenty  years'  lease  of  his  fortune  1  "  Give 
a  man,"  says  Arthur  Young,  "  a  seven  years 
lease  of  a  garden,  and  he  will  soon  convert  it 
into  a  wilderness :  give  him  a  freehold  in  an 
arid  desert,  and  he  will  not  be  long  of  convert- 
ing it  into  a  garden."  Is  it  probable  that  the 
industry  of  Great  Britain  would  continue,  if 
the  old  Jewish  system  of  making  all  estates 
revert  to  the  nation  at  the  end  of  every  fifty 
years  were  to  be  introduced,  or  Bronierre 
O'Brien's  more  summary  mode  of  dividing 
every  fortune  at  the  death  of  the  owner  were 
put  in  practice  1  Trul}',  we  should  soon  be- 
come an  ephemeral  and  fleeting  generation  in 
wealth,  as  well  as  literature,  if  such  maxims 
were  acted  upon ;  and  "  to-day  let  us  eat  and 
drink,  for  to-morrow  we  die,"  would  at  once 
become  the  order  of  the  day. 

If  the  combined  force  of  all  these  circum- 
stances be  taken  into  consideration,  it  must  be 
evident  to  every  impartial  mind,  not  only  that 
it  is  not  surprising  that  new  standard  literature 
has  of  late  years  so  much  declined  amongst 
us,  but  that  the  only  wonderful  thing  is,  that  it 
has  not  sunk  much  more  than  it  has.     The 
causes   which   produce   great   and   sustained 
efforts  in  every  other  department  of  human  ac- 
tivity, are  not  only  withheld  from  the  highest 
class  of  literary  or  philosophical  exertion,  but 
the  persons  engaged  in  them  are  perpetually 
exposed  to  the  disturbing  and  detracting  in- 
fluence of  the  prospect  of  fame  and  fortune 
being  attained  by  condescending  to  cater  for 
the  passions  or  wants  of  the  moment.     To  the 
continued  energy  and  activitj'  of  the  merchant 
or  manufacturer,  we  offer  the  possession  of 
unbounded  wealth,  and  the  prospect  of  trans- 
mitting an  elevated,  perhaps  an  ennobled  race 
to  future  times.     To  the  soldier  or  the  sailor 
we  hold  out  a  vast  succession  of  titled  rewards, 
and,  to  the  highest  among  such  race  of  heroes, 
hereditarj'  peerages — the  deserved  reward  of 
their  valour.     To    the  indefatigable    indu?;try 
and  persevering  energy  of  the  lawyer,  we  offer 
a  seat  on  the  Woolsack,  precedence  of  every 
temporal  peer  in  the  realm,  the  highest  tempo- 
ral dignities  and  h<'reditary  honours  wliich  the 
state  can  aff'ord.     What,  then,  do  wc  oiler  to 
the  philosopher,  the  poet,  or  the  historian,  to 
the  leaders  of  thought  and  the  rulers  of  nations, 
to  counteract  the  attractions  of  immediate  or 
temporary  ambition,  and  lead  them  abreast  of 
their  brethren  at  the  bar,  iu  the  fifld,  rr  the 
senate,  to  great  and  glorious  eflorts,  to  durable 
and  beneficent  achievement!     Why,  we  pre- 
sent them  with  petty  traders  anxiously  watch- 
ing the  expiratiim  of  eight-and-twenty  years 
of  copyright,  or  hoping  for  the  death  o(  the 
auihor,  if  he  has  survived  it;  and  ready,  with 
tipliftcd  hands,  to  pounce  upon  the    glorious 
inheritance   of  his   children,  and  realize  for 
their  own  business-like  skill  and  nuTcanlile 
capital   the  vast  profits  which   had  been    be- 
queathed by  genius  to  the  age  which  follow- 
ed it. 

It  is  a  total  mistake,  lo  imagine  ihat  the 
profits  of  works  of  imagination,  unless  they 
are  of  the  very  highest  class,  ever  equal  those 
which  in  the  end  accrue  lo  the  publishers  o' 


182 


ALISON'S   MISCELLANEOUS   ESSAYS. 


standard  works  of  historj'  or  philosophy.  The 
booksellers,  since  Gibhon's  death,  arc  said  to 
have  made  200,000/.  of  his  Decline  and  Full  of 
the  Roman  Empire ;  and  hardly  a  year  passes, 
that  a  new  edition  of  his  immortal  work,  or 
of  Hume's  History  of  England,  does  not  issue 
from  the  press.  The  sums  realized  by  the 
bookselling  trade  from  the  different  editions  of 
the  Wealth  of  Nations,  VkOwM  have  constituted  a 
large  inheritance  to  the  heirs  of  Adam  Smith. 
What  a  princely  fortune  would  Milton  or 
Shakspeare  have  left  to  their  descendants,  if 
any  there  be,  if  they  could  have  bequeathed  to 
them  the  exclusive  right  of  publishing  their 
own  works,  even  for  half  a  century  after  their 
own  death.  Look  at  the  classics.  What  count- 
less sums  have  been  realized  by  the  booksellers 
and  publishers  from  the  successive  reprints,  in 
every  country  of  Europe,  of  the  works  of  Livy, 
Cicero,  and  Tacitus,  since  the  revival  of  letters 
three  hundred  years  ago  1  Why,  the  profits 
made  by  the  publication  of  any  one  of  these 
works  would  have  made  a  princely  fortune, 
and  founded  a  ducal  family.  So  true  is  it  that 
literary  or  philosophical  talent  of  the  highest 
description,  so  far  from  being  unproductive  of 
■wealth  to  its  possessors,  is  in  the  end  produc- 
tive of  a  far  greater  and  more  lasting  source 
of  income  than  the  eflorts  either  of  the  lawyer, 
the  merchant,  or  the  statesman.  It  has  this 
invaluable  quality:  it  is  permanent;  it  creates 
an  estate  which  produces  fruits  after  the  author 
is  no  more.  The  only  reason  why  great  for- 
tunes are  not  made  in  the  one  way  as  well  as 
in  the  other,  is  because  the  labour  employed 
on  that,  the  highest  species  of  human  adven- 
ture, is  almost  always  unproductive  in  the  out- 
set, and  lucrative  only  in  the  end  ;  and  that  the 
injustice  of  human  laws  confiscates  the  pro- 
perty al  the  very  viomcnt  ichcn  titc  crop  is  bcginitiiig 
to  come  to  malurity.  They  know  little  of  human 
nature  who  imagine  that  such  prospect  of 
remote  advantage  would  have  little  influence 
on  literary  exertion.  Look  at  life  insurances. 
How  large  a  proportion  of  the  most  active  and 
useful  members  of  society,  especially  among 
the  middle  and  higher  classes,  are  connected 
with  these  admirable  institutions.  How  many 
virtuous  and  industrious  men  deny  themselves, 
during  a  long  life,  many  luxuries,  and  even 
comfiirts,  in  order  that,  after  their  death,  they 
may  bequeath  an  independence  to  their  chil- 
dren. Eighty  thousand  persons  are  now  con- 
nected with  these  institutions  in  Great  Britain, 
and  that  number  is  hourly  on  the  increase. 
Here,  then,  is  decisive  evidence  of  the  ex- 
tent to  which  the  desire  of  transmitting  in- 
dependence to  our  children  acts  upon  man- 
kind, even  where  it  is  to  be  won  only  by  a  life 
of  continued  toil  and  self-denial.  Can  there 
be  the  slightest  doubt  that  the  same  motive, 
combining  with  the  desire  to  benefit  mankind, 
or  acquire  durable  fame,  would  soon  come  to 
operate  powerfully  upon  the  highest  class  of 
intellectual  efibrt,  and  that  an  adequate  coun- 
teraction would  thus  be  provided  to  the  nume- 
ron"  attractions  which  now  impel  it  into  tem- 
porary exertion?  And  observe,  the  mot  ins 
which  lead  to  present  self-denial  in  order  to 
transmit  an  independence  to  posterity,  by  the 
cffecung  life  assurances,  are  nearly  allied  to 


those  which  prompt  great  minds  to  magnani* 
mous  and  durable  efforts  fur  the  good  of  their 
species;  for  both  rest  upon  the  foundation  of 
all  that  is  noble  or  elevated  in  human  aflairs-« 
a  denial  of  self,  a  regard  to  futurity,  and  a  love 
for  others. 

The  tenacity  with  which  any  extension  even 
of  the  term  of  copyright  enjoyed  by  authors, 
or  their  assignees,  is  resisted  by  a  certain  por- 
tion of  the  London  booksellers,  and  those  who 
deal  in  the  same  line,  affords  the  most  decisive 
proof  of  the  magnitude  of  the  profits  which 
are  to  be  obtained  by  the  republication,  the 
moment  the  copyright  has  expired,  of  works 
that  have  acquired  a  standard  reputation,  and 
of  the  vast  amount  of  literary  property,  the 
inheritance  of  the  great  of  the  past  age,  which 
is  annually  confiscated  for  the  benefit  of  the 
booksellers  in  the  present.  These  men  look 
to  the  matter  as  a  mere  piece  of  mercantile 
speculation;  their  resistance  is  wholly  founded 
upon  the  dread  of  a  diminution  of  their  profits, 
wrung  from  the  souls  of  former  authors;  they 
would  never  have  put  forward,  with  so  much 
anxiety  as  they  have  done,  Mr.  Warburton  and 
Mr.  Wakley  to  fight  their  battles,  if  they  had 
not  had  very  extensive  profits  to  defend  in  the 
contest.  The  vehemence  of  their  opposition 
aflxjrds  a  measure  of  the  magnitude  of  the  in- 
justice which  is  done  to  authors  by  the  present 
state  of  the  law,  and  of  the  amount  of  en- 
couragement to  great  and  glorious  effort,  which 
is  annually  withheld  b}'  the  legislature.  The 
struggle,  in  M'hich  they  have  hitherto  proved 
successful,  is  not  a  contest  between  authors 
and  a  particular  section  of  the  booksellers;  it 
is,  in  reality,  a  contest  between  the  nation  and 
a  limited  section  of  the  bookselling  trade.  It 
is,  in  the  most  emphatic  sense,  a  class  against 
a  national  interest.  For  on  the  one  side  are  a 
few  London  booksellers  who  make  colossal 
fortunes,  by  realizing,  shortly  after  their  de- 
cease, the  profits  of  departed  greatness;  and 
on  the  other,  the  whole  bodj'  of  the  people  of 
England,  whose  opinions  and  character  are 
necessarily  formed  by  the  highest  class  of  its 
writers,  and  whose  national  destiny  and  future 
fate  is  mainly  dependent  upon  the  spirited  and 
exalted  direction  of  their  genius. 

The  only  argument  founded  upon  public 
considerations  which  is  ever  adduced  against 
these  views,  is  founded  upon  the  assertion, 
that,  under  the  monopoly  produced  by  the  copy- 
right to  the  author,  while  it  lasts,  the  price  of 
works  is  seriously  enhanced  to  the  public,  and 
they  are  confined  to  editions  of  a  more  costly 
description,  and  that  thus  the  benefit  of  the 
spreacl  of  knowledge  among  the  middle  and 
humbler  classes  is  diminished.  If  this  argu- 
ment were  well  founded,  it  may  be  admitted, 
that  it  would  afford,  to  a  certain  degree,  a  coun- 
terbalancing consideration  to  those  which  have 
been  mentioned,  although  no  temporary  or 
passing  advantages  could  ever  adequately 
compensate  the  evils  consequent  upon  drying 
up  the  fountains  of  real  intellectual  greatness 
amongst  us.  But  it  is  evident  that  these  ap- 
prehensituis  are  altogether  chimerical,  and  that 
the  clamour  devised  about  the  middle  classes 
being  deprived  of  the  benefit  of  getting  cheap 
editions  of  works  that  have  become  rtandardi 


THE  COPYRIGHT  QUESTION. 


183 


•ow  altogether  unfounded.     It  may  be  con- 
ceded that  in  the  former  age,  when  the  rich 
and  the  allluent  alone  were  the  purchasers  of 
books,  and  education  had  not  opened  the  trea- 
sures of  knowledge  to  a  larger  circle,  the  price 
of  books  during  the  copj-right  were,  in  general, 
high,  and  that  the  prices  were  too  often  suited 
only  to  the  higher  class  of  readers.     Nay,  it 
may  also  be  admitted,  that  some  publishers 
have  often,  by  the  reprint  of  works  of  a  stand- 
ard nature,  at  a  cheaper  rate,  the  moment  the 
copyright  expired,  of  late  )-ears  materially  ex- 
tended the  circle  of  their  readers,  and  thereby 
conferred  an  important  benefit  on  society.   But 
nothing  can  be  plainer  than  that  this  circum- 
stance has  taken  place  solelj'  from  the  reroit 
introduction  of  the   middle   classes  into  the 
reading  and  book-purchasing  public;  and  be- 
cause experience  had  not  yet  taught  authors 
or  publishers  the  immense  profits  to  be  some- 
times  realized    by   adapting,  during  the  con- 
tinuance of  the  copyright,  the  A'aried  classes  of 
editions   of  popular   works,   to   the   diflerent 
classes  of  readers  who  have  now  risen  into 
activity.      But   their    attention  is   now  fully 
awakened   to  this  subject.     Every  one  now 
sees  that  the  greatest  profit  is  to  be  realized 
during  the  copyright,  for  works  of  durable  in- 
terest, by  publishing  editions  adapted  for  all, 
even  the  very  humblest  classes.     The  proof  of  this 
is  decisive.     Does  not  Mr.  Campbell  publish 
anntially  a  new  edition  of  the  Pleasures  of  Hope, 
in  every  possible  form,  from  the  two  guinea 
edition  for  the  duchess  or  countess,  down  to 
the  shilling  copy  for  the  mechanic  and  the 
artisan  ?     Have  not  Sir  Walter  Scott's  Novels 
been  brought  down,  during  the  subsistence  of 
the  copyright,  to   an  issue  of  the  Waverley 
Novels,  at  four  shillings  each  novel,  and  lat- 
terly to  an  issue  at  twopence  a  week,  avowedly 
for  the  working-classes  1     Moore's,  t^oulhey's, 
and  Wordsworth's  Poems,  have  all  been  pub; 
lishcd  by  the  authors  or  their  assignees,  in  a 
duodecimo  form,  originally  at  five,  but  which 
can  now  be  had  at  four,  or  three  shillings  and 
sixpence  a  volume.    James's  Naval  History  has 
already  issued  from  the  press  in  monthly  num- 
bers, at  five  shillings;  and  the  eighth  edition 
of  Hallam's  Mi'ldlc  jJgcs  is  before  the  public  in 
two  volumes,  at  a  price  so  moderate,  that  it 
I   never  can  be  made  lower  to  those  who  do  not 
wish  to  put  out  their  eyes  by  reading  closely 
printed  double  columns  by  candle-light.     In 
short,  atiihors  and  liooksf  Hers  now  perfectly 
understand  that,  as  a  reading  and  book-buying 
I   p'^blic  has  sprung  up  in  all  classes,  it  has 
I   become  not  only  necessary,  but  in  the  highest 
[   degree   profitable,  to  issue  different  editions 
sver.   "imnltaneously   from    th''    pr<"i'«,  if  the 
i     epatatjun  of  a  work  has  become  fully  csla- 


blished.at  diflerent  prices,  adapted  to  the  rates 
at  which  purchasers  may  be  inclined  to  buy; 
just  as  the  manager  of  a  theatre  understands 
that  it  is  expedient  not  only  to  have  the  dress- 
circle  for  the  nobility  and  gentry,  hut  the  pit 
for  the  people  of  business,  and  the  galleries  for 
the  humbler  classes.    No  doubt  can  be  enter- 
tained that  as  the  craving  for  intellectual  en- 
joyment, to  those  who  feel  it  the  more  insatia- 
ble of  any,  spreads  more  generally  through  tlie 
middle  classes,  this  efliect  will  more  extensively 
take  place.   No  one  imagines  that,  because  the 
seats  in  the  dress-circle  are  seven  shillings,  he 
will  close  the  pit,  which  is  three  and  sixpence, 
or  the  gallery,  which  is  one  shilling.     In  this 
age  of  growing  wealth  and  intelligence  in  the 
middle  and  humbler  classes,  there  is  no  danger 
of  their  being  forgotten,  if  they  do  not  forget 
themselves.    There  is  more  to  be  got  out  of 
the  pit  and  the  galleries  than  the  dress-circle. 
Thus  we  have  argued  this  great  question  of 
copyright  upon  its  true  ground — the  national 
character,  the  national  interests,  the  elevation 
and  improvement  of  all  classes.     We  disdain 
to  argue  it  upon  the  footing  of  the  interests  of 
authors;  we  despise  appeals  to  the  humanity, 
even  to  the  justice  of  the  legislature.     We 
have  not  even  mentioned  the  names  of  Mr.  Ser- 
geant Talfourd  or  Lord  Mahon,  who  have  so 
strenuously  and  eloquently  advocated  the  in- 
terest of  authors  in  the  point  at  issue.     We 
have  done  so  because  we  look  to  higher  objects 
in  connection  with  the  question  than  any  per- 
sonal or  class  advantage.     We  tell  our  legis- 
lators, that   those  who  wield  the  powers   of 
thought  are  fully  aware  of  the  strength  of  the 
lever  which   they  hold   in   their   hand;   they 
know  that  it  governs  the  rulers  of  men;  that 
it  brought  on  the  Revolution  of  France,  and 
stopped  the  Revolution  of  England.    The  only 
class  of  writers  to  whom  the  extension  of  the 
present  copyright  would  be  of  any  value,  are 
actuated  by  higher  motives  to  their  exertions 
than  any  worldly  considerations  of  honour  or 
profit ;  those  who  aspire  to  direct  or  bless  man- 
kind, are  neither  to  be  seduced  by  courts,  nor 
to  be  won  by  gold.     It  is  the  national  cha- 
racter which  is  really  atlected  by  the  present 
downward    tendency  of  our    literature;    it  is 
the  national  interests  which  are  really  at  stake; 
it  is  the  final  fate  of  the  empire  which  is  at 
issue  in  the  character  of  our  literature.   True, 
an  extension  of  the  copyright  will  not  affect 
the  intfrests  of  a  thousandili  part  of  tin-  writers, 
or  a  hundredth  part  of  the  readers  in  the  pre- 
sent or  any  future  age;  but  what  then — it  is 
they  who  are  to  form  the  general  opmion  of 
mankind  in  the  next;   it  is  upon   that  thou- 
sandth and  that  hundredth  that  the  file  of  ihe 
world  ilepends. 


IM 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


MICIIELErS  PTwVNCE.* 


It  is  a  common  and  very'  just  observation, 
that  modern  historical  works  are  not  so  inte- 
resting as  those  which  have  been  bequeathed 
to  us  by  antiquity.  Even  at  this  distance  of 
time,  after  two  thousand  years  have  elapsed 
since  llie}'  were  written,  llie  great  histories  of 
Greece  and  Rome  still  form  the  most  attractive 
subject  of  study  to  all  ages.  The  young  find 
in  their  heart-stirring  legends  and  romantic 
incidents,  keen  and  intense  delight;  the  mid- 
dle-aged discover  in  their  reflections  and  max- 
ims the  best  guide  in  the  ever-changing,  but 
yet  ever  the  same,  course  of  human  events  : 
the  aged  recur  to  them  with  still  greater  plea- 
sure, as  imbodying  at  once  the  visions  of  tiieir 
youth  and  the  experienceof  their maturer  years. 
It  is  not  going  too  far  to  assert,  that  in  their 
own  style  they  are  altogether  inimitable,  and 
that,  like  the  Greek  statues,  future  ages,  ever 
imitating,  will  never  be  able  to  rival  them. 

This  remarkable  and  generally  admitted 
perfection  is  not  to  be  ascribed,  however,  to  any 
superior  genius  in  the  ancient  to  the  modern 
writers.  History  was  a  different  art  in  Greece 
and  Rome  from  what  it  now  is.  Antiquity 
had  no  romances — their  histories,  based  in 
early  times  on  their  ballads  and  traditions, 
supplied  their  place.  Narrative  with  them 
was  simple  in  event,  and  single  in  interest — 
it  related  in  general  the  progress  of  a  single 
city  or  comnKmwealth  ;  upon  that  the  whole 
light  of  the  artist  required  to  be  thrown :  the 
remainder  naturally  was  placed  in  shade,  or 
slightly  illuminated  only  where  it  came  in  con- 
tact with  the  favoured  object.  With  the  ex- 
ception of  Herodotus,  who,  though  the  oldest 
historian  in  existence,  was  led  by  the  vigour 
of  his  mind,  his  discursive  habits,  and  exten- 
sive travelling,  to  give,  as  it  were,  a  picture 
of  the  whole  world  then  known — these  ancient 
histories  are  all  the  annals  of  individual  towns 
or  little  republics.  Xenophon,  Thucydides, 
Sallust,  Livy,  Diodorus  Siculus,  Dionysius 
Halicarnassensis,  are  all  more  or  less  of  this 
character.  The  mighty  genius  of  Tacitus 
alone  seems  to  have  embraced  the  design  of 
giving  a  picture  of  the  vast  empire  of  Rome ; 
and  even  in  his  hands  history  was  still  dis- 
tinguished by  its  old  character — the  Forum 
was  still  the  object  of  reverential  interest — the 
Palatine  Mount  embraced  the  theatre  of  almost 
all  the  revolutions  which  he  has  so  admirably 
portrayed;  ar.d  his  immortal  work  is  less  a 
picture  of  the  Roman  world  under  the  Caesars, 
than  a  delineation  of  the  revolutions  of  the 
palace  which  shook  their  empire,  and  the  con- 
vulsive throes  by  which  they  were  attended 
throughout  its  various  provinces. 

In  modern  times,  a  far  more  dithcult  task 
awaits  the  historian,  and  wholly  different  quali- 
ties are  required  in  him  who  undertakes  to 
perform  it.    The  superior  age  of  the  world — 

•  Ilistoiro  (le  France.  I'ar  M.  Micliolet.  6  vols.  Paris, 
1832-3.    Foreign  and  Colonial  Review,  April,  1844. 


the  eighteen  hundred  years  which  have  elapsed 
since  the  Augustan  age  of  Roman  literature— 
the  discovery  of  new  nations,  quarters  of  the 
globe,  and  hemispheres,  since  Livy  concluded, 
in  one  hundred  and  fort}-  books,  the  majestic 
annals  of  Roman  victories — the  close  connec- 
tion of  nations  among  each  other,  which  have 
interlaced  their  story  like  the  limbs  of  ancient 
wrestlers — the  new  sciences  which  have  grown 
up  and  come  to  bear  upon  human  events,  with 
the  growth  of  mankind  and  the  expansion  of 
knowledge — and  the  prodigious  perplexity  of 
transactions,   military,   political,   and    moral, 
which  require  to  be  unravelled  and  brought  in 
a  clear  form  before  the  mind  of  the  reader, — 
have  rendered  the  task  of  the  historian  now  as 
laborious,  complicated,  and  confused,  as   in 
former  times  it  was  simple,  clear,  and  imdi- 
vided.     Unity  of  effect — that  precious  and  im- 
portant object  in  all  the  Fine  Arts — has  been 
rendered  always  difncult,  sometime's  impossi- 
ble.    The  story  is  so  complicated,  the  trans- 
actions so  various,  the  interests  so  diverse,  that 
nothing  but  the  most  consummate  skill,  and  in- 
cessant attention  on  the  part  of  the  historian 
to   the  leading  objects  of  his  narrative,  can 
prevent  the  mind  of  the  reader  from  being  lost 
in  a  boundless  sea  of  detached  occurrences. 
It  is  not  the  "  tale  of  Troy  divine,"  nor  the 
narrative  of  Roman  heroism;  nor  the  conquest 
of  Jerusalem,  which  requires  to  be  recorded; 
but  the  transactions  of  many  different  nations, 
as  various  and  detached  from  each  other  as 
the  adventures  of  the  knights  eiTant  in  Ariosto. 
For  these  reasons  history  cannot  be  written 
now  on  the  plan  of  the  ancients, — and  if  at- 
tempted, it  would  fail  of  success.     The  family 
of  nations  has  become  too  large  to  admit  of 
interest  being  centred  onty  on  one  member  of 
it.     It  is  in  vain  now  to  draw  the  picture  of  the 
groups  of  time,  by  throwing  the  whole  light  on 
one  figure,  and  all  the  rest  in  shade.    Equally 
impossible  is  it  to  give  a  mere  narrative  of 
interesting  events,  and  cast  all  the  rest  over- 
board.   All  the  world  would  revolt  at  such  an 
attempt,  if  made.     The  transactions  of  the  one 
selected  would  be  unintelligible,  if  those  of  the 
adjoining  states  were  not  given.     One  set  of 
readers  would  say,  "  Where  are  your  statis- 
tics V     Another,  "  There  is  no  military  discus- 
sion— the  author  is  evidently  no  soldier."    A 
third  would   condemn  the   book   as  wanting 
di|)lomatic  transactions;  a  fourth,  as  destitute 
of  philosophic  reflection.  The  statesman  would 
throw  it  aside  as  not  containing  the  informa- 
tion he  desired ;  the  scholar,  as  affording  no 
clue  to  contemporary  and  original  authority; 
the  man  of  the  world,  as  a  narrative  not  to  be 
lelied  on,  and  to  which  it  was  hazardous  to 
trust  without  farther  investigation.     Women 
would  reject  it  as  less  interesting  than  novels; 
men,  as  not  more  authentic  than  a  romance. 

Notwithstanding,  however,   this    great  and 
increasing   difficulty   of   writing   history   in 


MICHELET'S  FRANCE. 


185 


modern  times,  from  the  vast  aiUliiion  to  the 
subjects  -n-hich  it  embraces  and  must  embrace, 
the  fundamental  principles  of  the  art  are  still 
the  same  as  they  were  in  the  daj's  of  Thucydi- 
dcs  or  Sallust.  The  figures  in  the  picture  are 
greatly  multiplied  ;  many  cross  lights  disturb 
5ie  unity  of  its  effect;  infinitely  more  learning 
is  required  in  the  drapery  and  still  life ;  but 
the  object  of  the  painter  has  undergone  no 
change.  Unity  of  etfect,  singleness  of  emotion, 
should  still  be  his  great  aim :  the  multiplication 
of  objects  from  which  it  is  to  be  produced,  has 
increased  the  difficulty,  but  not  altered  the 
principles  of  the  art.  And  that  this  difficulty 
is  not  insuperable,  but  may  be  overcome  by 
the  light  of  genius  directing  the  hand  of  in- 
dustry, is  decisivelj'  proved  by  the  example  of 
Gibbon's  Rome,  which,  embracing  the  events 
of  fifteen  centuries,  and  successive  descriptions 
of  all  the  nations  which,  during  that  long  period, 
took  a  prominent  part  in  the  transactions  of 
the  world,  yet  conveys  a  clear  and  distinct  im- 
pression in  every  part  to  the  mindof  the  reader; 
and  presents  a  series  of  pictures  so  vivid,  and 
drawn  with  such  force,  that  the  work,  more 
permanenth'  than  any  romance,  fascinates 
every  successive  generation. 

It  is  commonly  said  that  accuracy  and  im- 
partiality are  the  chief  requisites  in  an  histo- 
rian. That  they  are  indispensable  to  his  utility 
or  success,  is  indeed  certain  ;  for  if  the  im- 
pression once  be  lost,  that  the  author  is  to  be 
relied  on,  the  value  of  his  production,  as  a 
record  of  past  events,  is  at  an  end.  No  bril- 
liancy of  description,  no  magic  of  eloquence, 
no  power  of  narrative,  can  supply  the  want  of 
the  one  thing  needful — trustworthiness.  But 
fully  admitting  that  truth  and  justice  are  the 
bases  of  histor)',  there  never  was  a  greater  mis- 
take than  to  imagine  that  of  themselves  they 
will  constitute  an  historian.  They  may  make 
a  valuable  annalist — a  good  compiler  of  ma- 
terials;  but  very  different  qualities  are  re- 
quired in  the  artist  who  is  to  construct  the 
edifice.  In  him  we  expect  the  power  of  com- 
bination, the  inspiration  of  genius,  the  bril- 
liancy of  conception,  the  generalization  ofcffect. 
The  workman  who  cuts  the  stones  out  of  the 
quarry,  or  fashions  and  dresses  them  into  en- 
tablatures and  columns,  is  a  very  different  man 
from  him  who  combines  them  into  the  temple, 
th.c  palace,  or  the  cathedral.  The  one  is  a 
nadesman,  the  other  an  artist — the  fir>t  a 
(jUarrior,  tiic  last  a  Michaol  Angelo. 

Mr.  Vox  arranged  the  arts  of  composition 
»nus : — 1.  Poetry ;  2.  History;  3.  Oratory.    That 
very  order  indicated  that  the  great  orator  had 
a  just  conception  of  the  nature  of  history,  and 
possessed  m.iny  of  the  (pialilifs   n-quisiie  lo 
excel  in  it,  as  he  did  in  th<'  flights  of  chifiuencc 
It  is,  IP.  truth,  in  its  higher  departments,  one 
of  the   line  arts ;  and   it  is  the  extraordinary 
difficulty  of  finding  a  person  who  combines  the 
imagination    and    fervour   rrquisite    fur    emi- 
nence in  llieir  aerial  visions,  with  the  industry 
I  and  research  which  arc  indispensable  for  the 
I  correct    narrative   of   earthly   events,   which 
j  renders  great  historians  so  very  rare,  even  in 
i  'he  most  brilliant  periods  of  human  existence. 
I  -Vntiquity  only  produced    six;    modern  times 
I  can  hardly  boast  of  eight.     It  is  much  easier 


to  find  a  great  epic  than  a  great  history ;  thero 
were  many  poets  in  antiquity,  but  only  one 
Tacitus.  Homer  himself  is  rather  an  annalist 
than  a  poet:  it  is  his  inimitable  traits  of  na- 
ture which  constitute  his  principal  charm  :  the 
Iliad  is  a  history  in  verse.  Modern  Italy  can 
boast  of  a  cluster  of  immortal  poets  and  paint- 
ers ;  but  the  country  of  Raphael  and  Tasso  has 
not  produced  one  really  great  history.  The 
laboured  annals  of  Guicciardini  or  Davila  can- 
not bear  the  name;  a  work,  the  perusal  of 
which  was  deemed  worse  than  the  fate  of  a 
galley-slave,  cannot  be  admitted  to  take  its 
place  W'ith  the  master-pieces  of  Italian  art.* 
Three  historians  only  in  Great  Britain  have 
by  common  consent  taken  their  station  in  the 
highest  rank  of  historic  excellence.  Sismondi 
alone,  in  France,  has  been  assigned  a  place 
by  the  side  of  Gibbon,  Hume,  and  Robertson. 
This  extraordinary  rarity  of  the  highest  excel- 
lence demonstrates  the  extraordinary  difficulty 
of  the  art,  and  justifies  Mr.  Fox's  assertion, 
that  it  ranks  next  to  poetry  in  the  fine  arts; 
but  it  becomes  the  more  extraordinary,  when 
the  immense  number  of  works  written  on  his- 
torical subjects  is  taken  into  consideration, 
and  the  prodigious  piles  of  books  of  history 
which  are  to  be  met  with  in  every  public 
library. 

The  greatest  cause  of  this  general  failure 
of  historical  works  to  excite  general  attention, 
or  acquire  lasting  fame,  is  the  want  of  power 
of  generalization  and  classification  in  the 
writers.  Immersed  in  a  boundless  sea  of  de- 
tails, of  the  relative  importance  of  which  they 
were  unable  to  form  any  just  estimate,  the  au- 
thors of  the  vast  majority  of  these  works  have 
faithfully  chronicled  the  events  which  fell  un- 
der their  notice,  but  in  so  dry  and  uninterest- 
ing a  manner  that  they  produced  no  sort  of 
impression  on  mankind.  Except  as  books  of 
antiquity  or  reference,  they  have  long  since 
been  consigned  to  the  vault  of  all  the  Ca- 
pulets.  They  were  crushed  under  Ihcir  own 
weight — they  were  drowned  in  the  Hood  of 
their  own  facts.  While  they  were  straining 
every  nerve  not  to  deceive  their  readers,  the 
whole  class  of  those  readers  quietly  slipped 
over  to  the  other  side.  They,  their  merits  and 
their  faults,  were  alike  forgi/ttcn.  It  may  safely 
be  affirmed,  that  ninety-nine  out  of  a  hundred 
historical  works  are  consigned  lo  oblivion 
from  this  cause. 

The  quality,  on  the  other  hand,  which  dis- 
tinguishes all  the  histories  wliich  have  aciiuired 
a  great  and  lasting  reputation  among  men,  has 
been  the  very  reverse  of  this.  It  consists  in 
the  power  of  throwing  into  the  shade  the  sub- 
ordinate and  comparatively  immaterial  farts, 
and  bringing  into  a  prcuninent  light  those  only 
on  which  subsequent  ages  love  to  dwell,  from 
the  heroism  of  the  actions  recotinted,  the  tragic 
interest  of  the  catastrophes  jiortrayed,  or  the 
important  consequences  with  which  tlirv  liave 
been  attended  on  the  futtiio  generations  of 
men.    It  was  thus  that  Herodotus  painted  wilh 

♦  It  in  rcporlpd  in  Iliity,  that  n  Ballnv-»Invn  wn«  olIfc»- 
pft  n  rnmniiilalinn  nf  lili  mTilfiKr,  if  hn  wniitd  r»(ld 
lliniiich  (JiiirriiiriliniN  War  "f  riormrf  «  llli  IM«a.  After 
laliiiiiriiie  al  it  for  nonic  litiip.  tin  pflltionnl  lo  bo  leal 
back  to  the  oar — Si  non  i  rcro  t  btni  trdeato. 


i86 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS 


fo  mucn  force  the  memorable  events  of  the 
Persian  invasion  of  Greece;  and  Thucydides, 
the  contest  of  aristocracy  and  democracy  in 
the  Greek  commonwealths;  and  Liv}',  the  im- 
mortal strife  of  Hannibal  andScipio  in  Roman 
story.  No  historian  ever  equalled  Gibbon  in 
this  power  of  classification,  and  giving  breadth 
of  effect;  for  none  ever  had  so  vast  and  com- 
plicated a  series  of  events  to  recount,  and  none 
ever  portrayed  them  with  so  graphic  and  lu- 
minous a  pen.  Observe  his  great  pictures  : — 
the  condition  of  the  Roman  empire  in  the  time 
of  Augustus — the  capture  of  Constantinople  by 
the  Latin  crusaders — the  rise  of  Mohammed — 
the  habiis  and  manners  of  the  pastoral  nations 
— the  disasters  of  Julian — and  the  final  decay 
and  ruin  of  the  Eternal  City.  They  stand  out 
from  the  canvas  with  all  the  freshness  and 
animation  of  real  life  ;  and  seizing  powerfully 
on  the  imagination  of  the  reader,  they  make  an 
indelible  impression,  and  compensate  or  cause 
to  be  forgotten  all  the  insignificant  details  of 
revolutions  in  the  palace  of  Constanlinople,  or 
in  the  decline  of  the  Roman  empire,  which 
necessarily  required  to  be  introduced. 

Struck  with  the  fate  of  so  prodigious  a  host 
of  historical  writers,  who  had  sunk  into  obli- 
vion from  this  cause,  Voltaire,  with  his  usual 
vigour  and  originality,  struck  out  a  new  style 
in  this  department  of  literature.  Discarding 
at  once  the  whole  meager  details,  the  long  de- 
scriptions of  dress  and  ceremony,  which  filled 
the  pages  of  the  old  chronicles  or  monkish 
annalists,  he  strove  to  bring  history  back  to 
what  he  conceived,  and  with  reason,  Avas  its 
true  object — a  striking  delineation  of  the  prin- 
cipal events  which  had  occurred,  with  a  picture 
of  thechangcs  of  manners,  ideas,  and  principles 
with  which  they  were  accompanied.  This  was 
a  great  improvement  on  the  jejune  narratives 
of  former  times  ;  and  proportionally  great  was 
the  success  with  which,  in  the  first  instance  at 
least,  it  was  attended.  While  the  dry  details  of 
Guicciardini,  the  ponderous  tomes  of  Yillarct 
or  Mczeray,  and  the  trustworthy  quartos  of  De 
Thou,  slumbered  in  respectable  obscurity  on  the 
dusty  shelves  of  the  library,  the  "Siecle  de  Louis 
XIV'.,"  the  Life  of  Peter  the  Great  and  Charles 
XII.,  were  on  every  table,  and  almost  in  every 
boudoir;  and  their  popular  author  was  elevated 
to  the  pinnacle  of  worldly  fame,  while  his  more 
laborious  and  industrious  predecessors  v/ere 
nigh  forgotten  by  a  frivolous  age.  A  host  of 
imitators,  as  usual  with  ever}^  original  writer, 
followed  in  this  brilliant  and  lucrative  path  ;  of 
whom,  Raynal  in  France,  Schiller  in  Germany, 
and  Watson  in  England,  were  the  most  suc- 
cessful. 

But  it  was  ere  long  discovered  that  this  bril- 
liant and  fkclchy  style  of  history  was  neither 
satisfactory  tti  the  scholar  nor  permanently 
popular  with  the  public.  It  was  amusing  ra- 
ther than  interesting,  brilliant  than  profound. 
Its  ingenious  authors  sprung  too  suddenly  tf) 
conclusicms — they  laid  down  positions  which 
the  experieiiCe  of  the  next  age  proved  to  be  er- 
roneous. It  wanted  that  essential  requisite  in 
history,  a  knowledge  of  the  human  heart  and  a 
practical  acquaintance  with  men.  Above  all, 
•t  had  none  of  the  earnestness  of  thought,  the 
impassioned  expression,  which   springs  from 


deep  and  sincere  conviction,  and  which  is  ever 
found  to  be  the  only  lasting  passport  to  the  hu- 
man heart.  After  thii  first  burst  of  popularity 
was  over,  it  began  to  be  discovered  that  these 
brilliant  sketches  were  not  real  histoiy,  an^ 
could  never  supply  its  place.  They  left  an  im- 
mense deal  untold,  of  equal  or  greater  import- 
ance than  what  was  told.  They  gave  an 
amusing,  but  deceptive,  and  therefore  not  per 
manently  interesting,  account  of  the  periods  they 
embraced.  Men  design  something  more  in 
r-eading  the  narrative  of  great  and  important 
events  in  past  times,  than  an  able  sketch  of 
their  leading  features  and  brilliant  characters, 
accompanied  by  perpetual  sneers  at  priests, 
eulogies  on  kings,  or  sarcasms  on  mankind. 
This  was  more  particularly  the  case  when  the 
political  contests  of  the  18th  century  increased 
in  vehemence,  and  men,  warmed  with  the  pas- 
sions of  real  life,  turned  back  to  the  indifferenl 
coolness,  the  philosophic  disdain,  the  to,i  deri- 
soirc,  with  M'hich  the  most  momentous  or  tragic 
events  had  been  treated  in  these  gifted  but  su- 
perficial writers.  Madame  de  Stael  has  said, 
that  when  derision  has  become  the  prevailing 
characteristic  of  the  public  mind,  it  is  all  over 
with  the  generous  aifections  or  elevated  senti- 
ments. She  was  right,  but  not  for  ever — only 
till  men  are  made  to  feel  in  their  own,  persons 
the  sulTerings  they  laugh  at  in  others.  It  is 
astonishing  how  soon  that  turns  derision  into 
sympathy.  The  "  aristorrals  densvircs"  emerged 
from  the  prisons  of  Paris,  on  the  fall  of  Robes- 
pierre, deeply  affected  with  sympathy  for  hu- 
man wo. 

The  profound  emotions,  the  dreadful  suffer- 
ings, the  heart-stirring  interest  of  that  eventful 
era,  speedily  communicated  themselves  to  the 
style  of  historical  writers;  it  at  once  sent  the 
whole  tribe  of  philosophic  and  derisory  histo- 
rians overboard.  The  sketchy  style,  the  philo- 
sophic contempt,  the  calm  indifference,  the 
skeptical  sneers  of  Voltaire  and  his  followers, 
were  felt  as  insupportable  by  those  who  had 
known  what  real  suffering  was.  There  early 
appeared  in  the  narratives  of  the  French  Revo- 
lution, accordingly,  in  the  works  of  Toulon- 
geon,  Eerlrand  de  Molleville,  the  Deux  Amis 
de  la  Liberte,  and  Lacretellc,  a  force  of  paint- 
ing, a  pathos  of  narrative,  a  vehemence  of  lan- 
guage, which  for  centuries  had  been  unknown 
in  modern  Europe.  This  style  speedily  became 
general,  and  communicated  itself  to  history  in 
all  its  branches.  The  passions  on  all  sides  were 
too  strongly  roused  to  permit  of  the  calm  nar- 
ratives of  former  philosophic  -vn-iters  being 
tolerated;  men  had  suffered  too  much  to  allow 
them  to  speak  or  think  with  indifference  of  the 
sufferings  of  others.  In  painting  with  force 
and  energy,  it  was  soon  found  that  recourse 
must  be  had  to  the  original  authorities,  and,  if 
possible,  the  ej'e-witnesses  of  the  events;  all 
subsequent  or  imaginary  narrative  appeared 
insipid  and  lifeless  in  comparison  ;  it  was  like 
studying  the  mannerist  trees  of  Perelle  or 
Vi\'ares  after  the  vigorous  sketches  from  na- 
ture of  Salvator  or  Claude.  Thence  has 
arisen  the  great  school  of  modern  French  his- 
tory, of  which  Sismondi  was  the  founder;  and 
which  has  since  been  enriched  by  the  works 
of  Guizot,  Thierry,  Barante,  Thiers,  Mignet 


MICHELE'fS    FRA^•CE. 


187 


Michani,  and  Michelet:  a  cluster  of  writers, 
which,  if  none  of  them  singly  equal  the  nia>.tcr- 
picces  of  English  history,  present,  taken  as  a 
■\rhoIe,  a  greater  mass  of  talent  in  that  depart- 
ment than  any  other  country  can  boast. 

The  poetical  mind  and  pictorial  eye  of  Gib- 
bon had  made  him  anticipate,  in  the  very  raidst 
of  the  philosophic  school  of  Voltaire,  Hume, 
and  Robertson,  this  great  change  which  mis- 
fortune and  suflering  impressed  generally  upon 
the  next  generation.  Thence  his  extraordinary 
excellence  and  acknowledged  superiority  as  a 
delineator  of  events  to  any  writer  who  has  pre- 
ceded or  followed  him.  He  united  the  philo- 
sophy and  general  views  of  one  age  to  the 
brilliant  pictures  and  impassioned  story  of 
another.  He  warmed  with  the  narratives  of 
the  crusaders  or  the  Saracens — he  wandered 
with  the  Scythians — he  wept  with  the  Greeks 
— he  delineated  with  a  painter's  hand,  and  a 
poet's  fire,  the  manners  of  the  nations,  the  fea- 
tures of  the  countries,  the  most  striking  events 
of  the  periods  which  were  passed  under  review ; 
but  at  the  same  time  he  preserved  inviolate 
the  unity  and  general  effect  of  his  picture, — 
his  lights  and  shadows  maintained  their  just 
proportions,  and  were  respectively  cast  on  the 
proper  objects.  Philosophy  threw  a  radiance 
over  the  mighty  maze ;  and  the  mind  of  the 
reader,  after  concluding  his  prodigious  series 
of  details,  dwelt  with  complacency  on  its  most 
striking  periods,  skilfully  brought  out  by  the 
consummate  skill  of  the  artist,as  the  recollection 
of  a  spectator  does  on  any  of  the  magic  scenes 
in  Switzerland,  in  which,  amidst  an  infinity  of 
beautit'ul  objects,  the  eye  is  fascinated  by  the 
calm  tranquillity  of  the  lake,  or  the  rosy  hues  of 
the  evening  glow  on  the  glacier.-  We  speak  of 
Gibbon  as  a  delineator  of  events ;  none  can 
feel  more  strongh'  or  deplore  more  deeply  the 
fatal  blindness — the  curse  of  his  age — which 
rendered  him  so  perverted  on  the  subject  of 
religion,  and  left  so  wide  a  chasm  in  his  im- 
mortal work,  which  the  profounder  thought 
and  wider  experience  of  Guizot  has  done  so 
much  to  fill. 

Considered  as  calm  and  philosophic  narra- 
tives, the  histories  of  Hume  artd  Robertson 
will  remain  as  standard  models  for  every  fu- 
ture age.  The  just  and  profound  reflections 
of  the  former,  the  inimitable  clearness  and  im- 
partiality with  which  he  has  summoned  up 
the  arguments  on  both  sides,  on  the  most  mo- 
mentous questifins  which  have  nt'italfd  Eng- 
land, as  well  as  the  general  simplicity,  uniform 
clearness  and  occasional  pathos  of  his  .slorj', 
mnst  for  ever  command  thr*  admiration  of 
mankind.  In  vain  we  are  told  that  he  is  often 
inarrnra'i',  •"ni''times  partial  ;  in  vain  arc 
snrc'-^^iv  aiiailis  pul)li"-h''d  on  ddachiMl  parts 
of  his  narrative,  by  party  zpnl  or  nntiqunrinn 
research;  his  reputation  in  undiminished; 
successive  editions  issuing  from  the  press 
attest  the  conlinn  '  "  "f  his  work;  and  it 
Continues  its  ma/  irsc  through  the  sea 

of  time,  like  a  mighty  thref-d»"rk'-r,  which 
never  even  condescends  lo  notice  the  javelins 
dart'Ml  at  its  sides  from  the  hostile  cnnors 
which  from  time  to  time  seek  to  impede  its 
proRrcss. 

Bolicrtson's  merits  arc  of  a  diflcrent,  and 


upon  the  whole,  cf  an  inferior  kind.  Gifto<? 
with  a  philosophic  spirit,  a  just  and  equa 
mind,  an  eloquent  and  impressive  expression, 
he  had  not  the  profound  sagacity,  the  penetrat- 
ing intellect,  which  have  rendered  the  obser- 
vation of  Bacon,  Hume,  and  Johnson  as  endur- 
ing as  the  English  lanijuage.  He  had  not 
enjoyed  the  practical  aecjuaintance  with  man, 
which  Hume  acquired  by  mingling  in  diplo- 
macy; and  without  a  practical  acquaintance 
with  man,  no  writer,  whatever  his  abilities 
may  be,  can  rightly  appreciate  the  motives,  or 
probable  result  of  human  actions.  It  was  this 
practical  collision  with  public  afiairs  which 
has  rendered  the  histories  of  Thucydides,  Sal- 
lust,  and  Tacitus  so  profoundly  descriptive  of 
the  human  heart.  Living  alternately  in  the 
seclusion  of  a  Scotch  manse,  or  at  the  head  of 
a  Scotch  university,  surrounded  by  books,  re- 
spect, and  ease,  the  reverend  Principal  took  an 
agreeable  and  attractive,  but  often  incorrect 
view  of  human  affairs.  In  surveying  the  ge- 
neral stream  of  human  events,  and  drawing 
just  conclusions  regarding  the  changes  of 
centuries,  he  was  truly  admirable;  and  in 
those  respects  his  first  volume  of  "  Charles  V." 
may,  if  Ave  except  Guizot's  "Civilisation  Eu- 
ropeen,"  be  pronounced  without  a  parallel  in 
the  whole  annals  of  literature.  The  brilliant 
picture,  too,  which  he  has  left  of  the  discovery 
of  America,  and  the  manner  of  the  savage 
tribes  which  then  inhabited  that  continent, 
proves  that  he  was  not  less  capable  of  wield 
ing  the  fascination  of  description  and  romance. 
But  in  narrating  political  events,  and  diving 
into  the  mysteries  of  human  motives,  his  want 
of  practical  acquaintance  with  man  is  at  once 
apparent.  He  described  the  human  heart  from 
hearsay, not  experience; — he  was  an  historian 
by  reading,  not  observation.  We  look  in  vain 
in  his  pages  foragallery  of  historical  portraits, 
to  be  placed  beside  the  noble  one  which  is  to 
be  found  in  Clarendon.  As  little  can  we  find 
in  them  any  profound  remarks,  like  those  of 
Bacon,  Hume,  or  Tacitus,  the  justice  of  which 
is  perpetually  brought  home  by  experience  to 
every  successive  generation  of  men.  His  re- 
putation, accordingly,  is  sensibly  declining;  and 
though  it  will  never  become  extinct,  it  is  easy 
to  foresee  that  it  is  not  destined  to  maintain, 
in  future  times,  the  colossal  proportions  which 
it  at  first  acquired. 

Doth  H;iino  and  Robertson,  however,  left 
untoiKhod  one  fertile  field  of  historic  interest 
which  Herodotus  and  (Jibbon  had  cultivalctl 
with  such  success.  This  is  the  gruiirniihirai 
field,  the  description  of  cmintrirf,af>  well  as  men 
and  mamiTS.  It  is  surprising  wha  \  .iriet) 
aiicl  interest  this  gives  to  hislorii-  Mive; 

how  strontrly  it  fixes  places  and  p  n  the 

memory  of  the  reader;  and  how  much  it  aug- 
ments the  interest  of  the  storj-,  by  filling  up 
and  clothing  in  the  mind's  eye  the  scenes  in 
in  which  it  occurred.  I)oul>il<vss  tins  must  not 
be  carried  loo  far;  ifti(iucslion,iM'.  ''•••  ti.irra- 
live  of  human  transactions  is  lb'  '  ' 

of  history;  and  the  one  thing  nee  :  "'• 

tion,  is  to  paint  the  human  heart ;  but  still  there, 
as  elsewhere  in  the  Fine  Arts,  variriy  and  con* 
trast  contribute  powerfully  to  ctTccI;  and  amidst 
,  the  incessant  maze  of  viliany  and  sufferujK 


I 


188 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


which  constitutes  human  transactions,  it  is 
sometimes  refreshing  to  contemplate  for  a  while 
the  calm  serenity  and  indestructible  features 
of  Nature. 

The  modern  French  historians,  forcibly 
struck  with  the  insipidity  and  lameness  of  the 
philosophical  histories,  and  fraught  with  the 
heart-rending  recollections  and  fervent  pas- 
sions of  the  Revolution,  have  sought  to  give 
life  and  animation,  as  well  as  fidelity  and  ac- 
curacy, to  their  works,  by  a  sedulous  recur- 
rence to  contemporary  annals  and  authority, 
and  an  introduction  of  not  only  the  facts  and 
statements,  but  the  ideas  and  words  to  be  found 
in  the  ancient  chronicles.  Hence  the  habitual 
recurrence  to  original  authority,  not  only  by 
reference  at  the  foot  of  the  page,  but  by  quota- 
tion in  the  words  of  the  old  authors,  of  the 
actual  expressions  made  use  of  on  the  more 
important  occasions.  There  can  be  no  doubt 
that  this  is  in  some  respects  an  improvement, 
both  with  a  view  to  the  fidelity  and  accuracy 
of  history ;  for  it  at  once  affords  a  guarantee 
for  the  actual  examination  of  original  authority 
by  the  writer,  provides  a  ready  and  immediate 
check  on  inaccuracy  or  misrepresentation, 
and  renders  his  work  a  "  Catalogue  Raisonne," 
where  those  who  desire  to  study  the  subject 
thoroughl}',  may  discover  at  once  where  their 
materials  are  to  be  found.  The  works  of  both 
the  Thierrys,*  of  Barante,  Sismondi,  and  Miche- 
let,  are,  throughout,  constructed  on  this  prin- 
ciple; and  thence,  in  a  great  measure,  the 
fidelity,  spirit,  and  value  of  their  productions. 

But  fully  admitting,  as  we  do,  the  importance 
of  this  great  improvement  in  the  art  of  histori- 
cal composition,  it  has  its  limits ;  and  writers 
who  adopt  it  will  do  well  to  reflect  on  what 
those  limits  are.  Though  founded  on  fact, 
though  based  on  reality,  though  dependent  for 
its  existence  on  truth.  History  is  still  one  of 
the  Fine  JlrtK.  We  must  ever  recollect  that 
Mr.  Fox  assigned  it  a  place  next  to  Poetry,  and 
before  Oratory.  All  these  improvements  in 
the  collection  and  preparationof  materials  add 
to  the  solidity  and  value  of  the  structure,  but 
they  make  no  alteration  in  the  principles  of  its 
composition.  However  the  stones  may  be  cut 
out  of  the  quarry,  however  fashioned  or  carved 
by  the  skill  of  the  workman,  their  united  effect 
will  be  entirely  lost  if  they  are  not  put  together 
ty  the  conception  of  a  Michael  Angelo,  a  Pal- 
ladio,  or  a  Wren.  Genius  is  still  the  soul  of 
history;  its  highest  inspirations  must  be  de- 
rived from  the  Muses.  The  most  valuable 
historical  works,  if  not  sustained  by  this  divine 
quality,  will  speedily  sink  into  useful  quarries 
or  serviceable  books  of  reference.  In  vain 
does  a  Utilitarian  age  seek  to  discard  the  in- 
fluence of  im.'igination,  and  subject  thought  to 
the  deductions  of  fact  and  reason,  and  the 
motives  of  temporal  comfort.  The  value  of 
fancy  and  ardour  of  mind,  is  more  strongly 
felt  in  the  narration  of  real,  than  even  the  con- 
ception of  fictitious  e\'ents:  fur  this  reason, 
that  it  is  more  easy  to  discard  uninteresting 
facts  from  a  romance  than  render  them  inte- 


♦  III  the  "  [lifloiri!  do  In  f'oiiqufle  di?  I'Antrlclrrrc  par 
.OS  Normnnd",  par  Aiieiisfo  Thierry."  and  thi;  "  llistoirc 
Jps  fJaiiUiis,"  and  "  IlinKdre  di-s  Ilois  Murovingicns,  par 
Amedcu  Thierry"  (hnjlhcr  of  AugUHle). 


resting  in  a  history.  The}'  may  be  rejected 
altogether  in  the  former;  in  the  latter  they 
must  be  retained.  It  is  easier  to  throw  aside 
a  burden  than  contrive  how  to  bear  it.  Indue- 
tion  may  enable  the  author  to  sustain  the 
weight,  but  it  will  never  make  his  reader  do  so, 
Imagination  alone  can  lighten  the  burden.  It 
is  the  wings  of  Genius  which  must  support 
Truth  itself  through  the  sea  of  Time.  "  Ces 
ouvrages  ne  sont  pas  que  de  I'imagination." 
"  De  I'imagination  !"  replied  Napoleon, — "  Ho 
bien,  c'est  I'imagination  qui  domine  le  monde." 
This  eternal  and  indestructible  superiority 
of  genius  to  all  the  efforts  of  industry  and  in- 
telligence, when  unenlightened  by  its  divine 
light,  is  not  only  noways  inconsistent  M'ith  the 
most  minute  acquaintance  with  facts  and  sedu- 
lous attention  to  historic  accuracy,  but  it  can 
attain  its  highest  flights  only  by  being  founded 
on  that  basis.  Mere  imagination  and  fancy 
will  never  supply  the  want  of  a  faithful  deline- 
ation of  nature.  The  most  inexperienced 
observer  has  no  difliculty  in  distinguishing  the 
one  from  the  other.  No  great  and  uriTversal 
reputation  was  ever  gained,  either  in  fiction, 
history,  or  the  arts  of  imitation,  but  by  a  close 
and  correct  representation  of  reality.  Romance 
rises  to  its  highest  flights  when  it  transports 
into  the  pages  of  the  novelist  the  incidents, 
thoughts,  and  characters  of  real  life.  History 
assumes  its  most  attractive  garb  when  it  clothes 
reality  with  the  true  but  brilliant  colours  of 
romance.  Look  at  the  other  arts.  How  dio 
Homer  and  Shakspeare  compose  their  immor- 
tal works  1  Not  by  conceiving  ideal  events 
and  characters,  the  creation  only  of  their  own 
prolific  imaginations,  but  by  closely  observing 
and  describing  nature,  and  by  giving  to  their 
characters  (albeit  cast  in  the  mould  of  fancy) 
those  traits  of  reality,  which,  being  founded  on 
the  general  and  universal  feelings  of  the  hu- 
man breast,  have  spoken  with  undiminished 
force  to  every  succeeding  age.  How  did 
Raphael  and  Claude  elevate  Painting  to  its 
highest  and  most  divine  conceptions,  as  well 
as  its  most  exquisite  and  chastened  finishing  1 
By  assiduously  copying  nature, — by  drawing 
every  limb,  every  feature,  every  branch,  every 
sunset,  from  real  scenes,  and  peopling  the 
world  of  their  brilliant  imaginations,  not  with 
new  creations,  but  those  objects  and  those 
images  with  which  in  reality  all  men  were 
familiar.  True,  they  moulded  them  into  new 
combinations  ;  true,  they  gave  them  an  ex- 
pression, or  threw  over  them  a  light  more 
perfect  than  any  human  eye  had  yet  witnessed: 
but  that  is  precisely  the  task  of  genius;  and 
it  is  in  performing  it  that  its  highest  excellence 
is  attained.  It  is  by  7>toiil(li)if;  rcalily  into  the 
cxprcffion  of  im(i!:;inatwn,  that  the  greatest  tri- 
umphs of  art  are  attained;  and  he  whc  sepa- 
rates the  one  from  the  other  will  never  rise  to 
durable  greatness  in  either. 

We  are  the  more  inclined  to  insist  on  this 
eternal  truth,  as  we  perceive  in  tlie  present  style 
of  historical  composition,  both  in  this  country 
and  on  the  continent,  unequivocal  indications 
of  a  tendency  to  lose  sight  of  the  great  end  and 
aim  of  history,  in  the  anxiety  of  attaining  accu- 
raey  in  its  materials.  Again  and  again  we  a* 
scri,  that  such  accuracy  is  the  indispensable 


MICHELET'S  FRANCE. 


189 


basis  of  history  ;  it  7nnst  form  its  elements  antl 
characterize  all  its  parts.  But  it  will  not  of 
itself  form  an  historian;  it  is  to  histor)-,  what 
the  sketches  from  nature  in  the  Liber  I'crilalis 
are  to  the  inimitable  Claudes  of  the  Doria  Pa- 
lace at  Rome,  or  the  National  Gallery  in  Lon- 
don. AVriters  in  this  age  have  been  so  forcibly 
struck  with  the  necessit)'  of  accuracy  in  their 
facts,  and  original  drawing  in  their  pictures, 
that  they  have  gone  into  the  opposite  extreme ; 
and  the  danger  now  is,  not  so  much  that  they 
will  substitute  imagination  for  reality,  or 
neglect  original  drawing  in  their  pictures,  as 
that,  in  their  anxiety  to  preserve  the  fidelity  of 
the  sketches  from  which  their  pictures  are 
taken,  they  will  neglect  the  principles  of  their 
composition,  and  the  great  ends,  moral,  poli- 
tical, and  religious,  of  their  art. 

This  tendency  is  more  particularly  conspi- 
cuous in  the  continental  authors;  but  it  is  also 
very  visible  in  several  justly  esteemed  histo- 
rical writers  of  our  own  country.  If  you  take 
up  any  of  the  volumes  of  Thierry,  Barante, 
Michaux,  Sismondi,  or  Michelet,  you  will  find 
the  greater  part  of  their  pages  filled  with  quo- 
tations from  the  old  chronicles  and  contempo- 
rary annalists.  In  their  anxiety  to  preserve 
accuracy  of  statement  and  fidelity  in  narrative, 
they  have  deemed  it  indispensable  to  give,  on 
almost  all  occasions,  the  very  words  of  their 
original  authorities.  This  is  a  very  great  mis- 
take,— and  indeed  so  great  a  one,  that  if  perse- 
vered in,  it  will  speedily  terminate  that  school  of 
historical  composition.  It  is  impossible  to  make 
an  harmonious  whole,  by  a  selection  of  passages 
out  of  a  vast  mass  of  original  writers  of  vari- 
ous styles  and  degrees  of  merit,  and  running 
perhaps  over  a  course  of  centuries.  It  would 
be  just  as  likelj'  that  you  could  make  a  perfect 
picture,  by  dovetailing  together  bits  of  mosaic, 
dug  up  from  the  ruins  of  ancient  Rome;  or  an 
impressive  temple,  by  piling  on  the  top  of  each 
other,  the  columns,  entablatures,  and  archi- 
traves of  successive  structures,  raised  during 
a  course  of  many  centuries.  Every  composi- 
tion in  the  fine  arts,  to  produce  a  powerful  im- 
pression, and  attain  a  lasting  success,  must 
have  that  unity  of  cTprcssion,  which,  ecjually  as 
in  poetrj'  and  the  drama,  is  indispensable  to 
the  production  of  emotion  or  delight  in  the 
mind  of  the  person  to  whom  it  is  addressed ; 
anci  unity  of  expression  is  to  be  attaim-d  equal- 
ly in  ten  thousand  pages  and  by  recording  ten 
thousand  facts,  as  in  an  epic  of  Milton,  a  pic- 
ture of  Claude's,  or  a  drama  of  Sophocles. 

Sharon  Turner,  Lingard,  Tytler,  an<l  Hal- 
lam,  are  most  able  writers,  indil  in 
the  collection  of  facts,  acute  in  th''  of 
authorities,  luminous  in  the  deductions  ihry 
have  drawn  from  them.  Immense  is  the  addi- 
tion which  their  laliours  have  made  to  the  real 
and  correct  annals  of  th<'  British  empirf.  But 
though  many  of  their  episodes  an-  most  capti- 
vating, and  parts  of  their  works  must  entrance 
every  reader,  there  is  no  concealing  the  fact, 
Uiat  their  pages  are  often  deficient  in  interest, 
and  are  far  from  p^  ■  the  attraction 
which  might  have  bei  ;,  d  from  sulijfcts 
of  such  varied  and  li'iri-slirring  incident, 
treated  by  writers  uf  such  power  of  composi- 
tion and  learned  acquirements.    The  reason  is, 


that  they  have  not  regarded  histor>'  as  one  of 
the  fine  arts;  they  have  not  studied  unity  of 
elTect,  or  harmony  of  composition ;  they  have 
forgot  the  place  assigned  it  by  Fox,-  next  to 
poetry  in  the  arts  of  composition.  In  the 
search  of  accuracy,  they  have  sometimes  in 
jured  effect;  in  the  desire  to  give  original  words, 
they  have  often  lost  originality  of  thought'. 
Their  pages  are  invaluable  to  the  annalist — 
and  as  books  of  reference  or  of  value  to  scho- 
lars they  will  always  maintain  a  high  place  in 
our  literature;  but  they  will  not  render  hope- 
less, like  Liv)-,  Tacitus,  or  Gibbon,  future  his- 
tories on  the  subjects  they  have  treated.  From 
the  facts  they  have  brought  to  light,  a  future 
historian  will  be  able  to  give  a  correct  detail 
of  British  story,  which,  if  clothed  in  the  garb 
of  imagination,  may  attain  durable  celebrity, 
and  may  possibly  come  in  the  end  to  rival  the 
simpler  but  less  truthful  narrative  of  Hume, 
in  popularity  and  interest. 

Colonel  Napier's  descriptions  of  battles  and 
the  heart-stirring  events  of  military  warfare 
are  superior  to  any  thing  in  the  same  style,  not 
only  in  modern  but  almost  in  ancient  history. 
His  account  of  the  battles  of  Albuera  and  Sala- 
manca, of  the  sieges  of  Badajos  and  St.  Sebas 
tian,  of  the  actions  in  the  Pyrenees,  and  the 
struggle  of  Toulouse,  possess  a  heart-stirring 
interest,  a  force  and  energy  of  drawing,  which 
could  have  been  attained  only  by  the  eye  of 
genius  animated  by  the  reminiscences  of  reali- 
ty. But  the  great  defect  of  his  brilliant  work 
is  the  want  of  calmness  in  the  judgment  of 
political  events,  and  undue  crowding  in  the  de- 
tails of  his  work.  He  is  far  too  minute  in  the 
account  of  inconsiderable  transactions.  He 
throws  the  light  too  equally  upon  all  the  figures 
in  his  canvas;  the  same  fault  which  charac- 
terizes the  home  scenes  of  Wilkie,  and  will 
render  them,  with  equal,  perhaps  superior,  ge- 
nius, inferior  in  lasting  effect  to  the  paintings 
of  Teniers  or  Gerard  Dow.  So  prodigious  is 
the  accumulation  of  detached  facts  which  he 
describes,  that  the  most  enthusiastic  admirer 
of  military  narrative  is  speedily  satiated,  and 
ordinary  readers  find  their  minds  so  confused 
by  the  events  passed  under  review,  that,  with 
the  exception  of  a  few  brilliant  actions  and 
sieges,  they  often  close  the  work  without  any 
distinct  idea  of  the  events  which  it  has  so  ad 
mirably  recorded. 

This  defect  is  equally  conspicuous  in  the- 
pages  of  M.  Michelet.  That  he  is  a  mnn  not 
merely  of  extensive  and  varied  reading,  but 
fine  genius  and  original  thought,  is  at  once  ap- 
parent. He  stales  in  his  preface,  and  the  pe- 
rusal of  his  work  amply  justilics  the  asser- 
tion, "that  the  most  rigid  criticism  must  con- 
cede to  him  the  merit  of  having  drawn  his 
narrative  entirely  from  original  sources."  Hut 
it  were  to  be  wished,  that  amidst  iliis  .iniious 
care  for  the  collection  of  niai<ii,iK,  nnd  the 
impress  of  a  faithful  and  origin.il  rbaracicr 
upon  his  work,  he  had  been  equally  aiii-niivo 
to  the  great  art  of  history,  viz.  the  inassinR 
objects  properly  togelher,  "  '  ihrin  in  the 

due  subordination  and  pi  which  their 

relative  importance  deniainN,  .iiid  ci>nveying 
a  distinct  impression  to  the  reader's  mind 
of  the  great  .-eras  and  changes  which  the  va 


190 


ALISOiN'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


ned  story  of  his  subject  presents.  Want  of 
attention  to  this  has  well  nij^h  rendered  all  the 
rest  of  no  avail.  To  the  learned  reader,  who  is 
previously  familiar  with  the  principal  events  he 
describes,  his  narrative  may  convey  something 
like  a  definite  idea  of  the  thread  of  events : 
but  hov/  many  are  they  compared  to  the  great 
mass  of  readers  1  Perhaps  one  in  a  hundred 
in  France — one  in  five  hundred  in  all  oihcr 
countries.  The  great  bulk  of  readers  may 
shut  his  last  volume  after  the  most  careful 
perusal,  without  retaining  any  distinct  recol- 
lection of  the  course  of  French  History,  or 
any  remembrance  at  all  of  any  thing  but  a 
few  highly  wrought  up  and  interesting  pas- 
sages. This  is  the  great  defect  of  the  work, 
arising  from  want  of  attention  to  the  due  pro- 
portion of  objects,  and  not  throwing  subordi- 
nate objects  sufficiently  into  the  shade.  The 
same  grievous  mistake  is  conspicuous  in 
Mackintosh,  Lingard,  and  Turner's  Histories  of 
England.  It  is  the  great  danger  of  the  new  or 
graphic  school  of  history;  and  unless  care  be 
taken  to  guard  against  it,  the  whole  produc- 
tions of  that  school  will  be  consigned  by  future 
ages  to  oblivion. 

We  cannot  admit  that  the  magnitude  or  in- 
tricacy of  a  subject  affords  any  excuse  what- 
ever for  this  defect.  Livy  did  not  fall  into  it 
in  recording  seven  centuries  of  Roman  vic- 
tories ;  Gibbon  did  not  fall  into  it  in  spanning 
the  dark  gulf  which  separates  ancient  from 
modern  times.  Claude  produced  one  uniform 
impression,  out  of  an  infinity  of  details, — in 
some  of  his  pieces,  solitary  and  rural — in 
others  crowded  with  harbours,  shipping,  and 
figures.  Caspar  Poussin  finished  with  scru- 
pulous accuracy  every  leaf  in  his  forest 
scenes;  but  he  managed  the  light  and  the 
shade  with  such  exquisite  skill,  that  the  charm 
of  general  effect  is  produced  on  the  spectator's 
mind.  Virgil  produces  one  uniform  impres- 
sion from  the  homely  details  of  his  Georgics 
equally  as  the  complicated  events  of  the 
jEneid.  Amidst  an  infinitj--  of  details  and 
episodes,  Tasso  has  with  consummate  skill 
preserved  unity  of  emotion  in  his  Jerusalem 
Delivered :  Milton  has  not  lost  it  even  in  re- 
cording the  events  of  heaven  and  earth.  Look 
at  Nature : — every  leaf,  every  pebble,  every 
cliff,  every  blade  of  grass,  in  the  most  exten- 
sive scene,  is  finished  with  that  perfection  that 
characterizes  all  her  works:  yet  what  majesty 
and  generality  of  effect  in  the  mighty  whole! 
That  is  the  model  of  historical  composition : 
every  object  should  be  worked  out;  nothing 
omitted ;  nothing  carelessly  touched :  but  a 
bright  light  should  be  thrown  only  on  the  bril- 
liant events,  the  momentous  changes  ;  whole 
generations  and  centuries  of  monotonous 
even's  cast  into  the  shade,  that  is,  slightly  and 
rapidly  passed  over;  and  the  most  sedulous 
care  taken  to  classify  events  into  periods,  in 
such  a  way  as  to  fiirin  so  many  cells  as  it 
were  in  the  memory  of  the  reader,  wherein  to 
deposit  the  store  of  information  aflbrded  in 
regard  to  each. 

There  is,  in  truth,  only  one  really  great  style 
in  history,  as  there  is  in  poetry,  painting,  or 
music.  Superficial  observers  speak  of  a  new 
school  of  history,  or  a  new  mode  of  treating 


human  affairs,  as  they  would  of  a  new  plan 
or  a  new  opera:  they  might  as  well  speak  of 
a  new  style  in  sculjiture  or  painting,  in  mathe« 
matics  or  astronomy,  in  epic  or  dramatic 
poetr}'.  We  should  like  to  see  any  one  who 
would  improve  on  the  style  of  Phidias  and 
Raphael,  of  Homer  and  Virgil,  of  Tasso  and 
Milton,  of  Sophocles  or  Racine.  In  inferior 
styles,  indeed,  there  is  a  veiy  great  variety  in 
this,  as  there  is  in  all  the  other  Fine  Arts ;  but 
in  the  highest  walks  there  is  but  one.  The 
principles  of  the  whole  are  the  same ;  and 
those  principles  are  to  produce  goieraliiy  of 
effect  out  of  specially  of  objects ;  to  unite  fidelity 
of  drawing  with  brilliancy  of  imagination. 
Observe  with  what  exquisite  skill  Tasso  works 
this  uniform  impression  out  of  the  varied 
events  of  his  "Jerusalem  Delivered;"  therein 
lies  his  vast  superiority  to  the  endless  adven- 
tures of  the  more  brilliant  and  imaginative 
Ariosto.  The  principles  which  regulated  the 
compositions  of  the  "  Prometheus  Vinctus"  of 
^schylus  and  the  "  Hamlet"  of  Shakspeare 
are  the  same:  the  Odes  of  Pindar  are  the 
counterparts  of  those  of  Gray:  the  sculpture 
of  Phidias  and  the  painting  of  Raphael  are 
nothing  but  the  same  mind  working  with  dif- 
ferent materials.  The  composition  of  Gibbon 
is  directed  by  exactly  the  same  principles  as 
the  sunsets  of  Claude:  the  battle-pieces  of 
Napier  and  the  banditti  of  Salvator  are  fac- 
similes of  each  other:  the  episodes  of  Livy 
and  the  "Good  Shepherds"  of  Murillo  produce 
the  same  emotions  in  the  breast.  Superficial 
readers  M'ill  deride  these  observations,  and  ask 
what  has  painting  external  objects  to  do  with 
the  narration  of  human  events?  We  would 
recommend  them  to  spend  twenty  years  in  the 
study  of  either,  and  they  will  be  at  no  loss  to 
discover  in  what  their  analogy  consists. 

On  this  account  we  cannot  admit  that  history 
is  necessaril}^  drier  or  less  interesting  than 
poetry  or  romance.  True,  it  must  give  a  faith- 
ful record  of  events:  true,  unless  it  does  so  it 
loses  its  peculiar  and  highest  usefulness ;  but' 
are  we  to  be  told  that  reality  is  less  attractive 
than  fiction  ]  Arc  feigned  distresses  less  poig- 
nant than  real  ones — imaginary  virtues  less 
ennobling  than  actual  ?  The  advantage  of  fic- 
tion consists  in  the  narrower  compass  which  it  em- 
lirarci^,  and  consequently  the  superior  interest 
which  it  can  communicate  by  working  up  the 
characters,  events,  and  scenes.  That,  doubt- 
less, is  a  great  advantage  ;  but  is  it  beyond  the 
reach  of  history  ?  May  not  the  leading  cha- 
racters and  events  there  be  delineated  with  the 
same  force,  brilliancy,  and  fidelity  to  nature? 
Has  it  not  the  additional  source  of  interest 
arising  from  the  events  being  real? — an  inte- 
rest which  all  who  tell  stories  to  children  will 
see  exemplified  in  their  constant  question,  "Is 
it  true'f"  None  can  see  more  sj'ongly  than 
we  do,  that  the  highest  aim  and  first  duty  of 
history  is  not  to  amuse,  but  to  instruct  the 
world :  and  that  mere  amusement  or  interest 
are  of  very  secondary  importance.  But  is 
amusement  irreconcilable  with  instiiiction— 
interest  with  elevation  ?  Is  not  truth  best  con- 
veyed when  it  is  clothed  in  an  attractive  garb? 
Is  not  the  greatest  danger  which  it  runs  that  of 
being  superseded  by  attractive  fiction  ?     HoW 


MICHELETS  FKA.XCE. 


mi 


many  readers  are  familiar  with  Enijlish  historj' 
llirou;ili  yhalcspeare  aiul  Scott,  rather  ihaii 
Hume  and  Linfjardl  That  illustrates  the  risk 
ol"  leaving  Iriilh  to  its  unadorned  resources. 
Was  it  not  in  parables  that  Supreme  Wis- 
dom communicated  itself  to  mankind  ?  The 
wise  man  will  never  disdain  the  aid  even  of 
imagination  and  fancy,  in  communicating  in- 
struction. Recollect  the  words  of  Napoleon 
— ••  Ost  rimagination  qui  domine  Ic  monde." 
We  have  been  insensibly  led  into  these  ob- 
sen'alions  by  observing  in  what  manner  Sis- 
mondi,  Thierry,  Barantc,  Michelet,  and  indeed 
all  the  writers  of  the  antiquarian  and  graphic 
school,  have  treated  the  history  of  France. 
They  are  all  men  of  powerful  talent,  brilliant 
imagination,  unbounded  research,  and  philo- 
sophic minds :  their  histories  arc  so  superior 
to  any  which  preceded  them,  that,  in  reading 
them,  we  appear  to  be  entering  upon  a  new 
and  hitherto  unknown  world.  But  it  is  in  the 
very  richness  of  their  materials — the  extent  of 
their  learning — the  vast  stores  of  original  ideas 
and  authorit}-  they  have  brought  to  bear  on  the 
annals  of  the  monarchy  of  Clovis — that  we 
discern  the  principal  defect  of  their  compo- 
sitions. They  have  been  well  nigh  over- 
whelmed by  the  treasures  which  themselves 
have  dug  up.  So  vast  is  the  mass  of  original 
documents  which  they  have  consulted — of  de- 
iails  and  facts  which  they  have  brought  to 
light — that  they  have  too  often  lost  sight  of  the 
first  rule  in  the  art  of  history — unity  of  com- 
position. They  have  forgotten  the  necessity 
of  a  distinct  separation  of  events  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  impress  the  general  course  of 
lime  upon  the  mind  of  their  readers.  They 
are  accurate,  graphic,  minute  in  details  ;  but 
the  "  tout  ensemble"  is  too  often  forgotten,  and 
the  Temple  of  History  made  up  rather  of  a 
chaos  of  old  marbles  dug  up  from  the  earth, 
and  piled  on  each  other  without  either  order  or 
symmetry,  than  of  the  majestic  proportions 
and  colossal  masses  of  the  Pantheon  or  St. 
Peter's. 

The  annals  of  no  country  are  more  distinctly 
separated  into  periods  than  those  of  France; 
in  none  has  the  course  of  events  more  clearly 
pointed  out  certain  resting  phices,  at  which 
the  historian  may  pause  to  show  the  progress 
of  civilization  and  the  growth  of  the  nation. 
The  first  origin  of  the  Gauls,  and  their  social 
organization,  before  the  con(}uest  of  the  Ko- 
mans — their  institutions  under  those  mighty 
conquerors,  and  the  vast  impress  which  their 
[wisdom  and  experience,  not  less  than  their 
!  oppression  and  dcsprttism,  r.ommuniraterj  to 
I  their  character  and  habits — the  causes  which 
Ittl  to  the  decay  of  the  empire  of  the  C:esars, 
[and  let  in  the  barbarians  as  deliverers  rather 
than  enemies  into  its  vast  provinces — the  es- 
tablishment of  the  monarchy  of  Clovis  by  these 
ruile  conquerors,  and  its  gradual  extension 
from  the  Rhine  to  the  Pyrenees — the  decay  of 
the  Merovingian  dynasty,  and  the  prostration 
of  government  under  the  "  Jloit  Fnintitni" — the 
rise  of  the  "Maires  de  Palais."  and  their  final 
establishment  on  the  throne  by  the  eenitis  of 
Charlemagne — the  rapid  fall  of  lii 
and  \\m  origin  of  the  Ilourbon  •  .- 

i  temporary  with  the  Plantagcncts  of  England — 


the  crusades,  with  their  vast  efTecls,  moral 
social,  and  political,  on  the  people  and  instl 
tutions  of  the  country,  and  the  balance  of 
power  among  the  dillerent  classes  of  society — 
the  expulsion  of  the  English  by  the  ability  of 
Philip  Augustus,  and  the  restoration  of  on* 
monarchy  over  the  whole  of  JVance — the 
frightful  atrocities  of  the  religious  war  against 
the  Albigeois — the  dreadful  wars  with  England, 
which  lasted  one  hundred  and  twenty  years, 
from  Edward  HI.  to  Henry  V.,  with  their  im- 
mediate effect,  analogous  to  that  of  the  Wars 
of  the  Roses  on  this  side  of  the  Channel,  ia 
destroying  the  feudal  powers  of  the  nobility — 
the  consequent  augmentation  of  the  power  of 
the  crown  by  the  standing  anny  of  Charles 
Vn. — the  indefatigable  activity  and  slate 
policy  of  Louis  XI. — the  brilliant  but  ephe- 
meral conquests  of  Italy  by  the  rise  and  pro- 
gress of  Charles  IX. — the  rivalry  of  Francis  I. 
and  Charles  V. — the  religious  wars,  with  their 
desolating  present  effects,  and  lasting  ultimate 
consequences — the  deep  and  Machiavelian 
policy  of  Cardinal  Richelieu,  and  its  entire  suc- 
cess in  concentrating  the  whole  influence  and 
power  of  government  in  Paris — the  brilliant  aera 
of  Louis  XIV.,  with  its  Augustan  halo,  early 
conquests,  and  ultimate  disasters — the  corrup- 
tions of  the  Regent  Orleans  and  Louis  XV. — 
the  virtues,  difficulties,  and  martyrdom  of  Louis 
XVI. — the  commencement  of  the  ocra  of  Revo- 
lutions, ending  in  the  fanaticism  of  Robes- 
pierre and  the  carnage  of  the  Empire — form 
a  series  of  events  and  periods,  spanning  over 
the  long  course  of  eighteen  centuries,  and 
bringing  down  the  annals  of  mankind  from  the 
Druids  of  Gaul  and  woods  of  Germany,  to  the 
intellect  of  La  Place  and  the  glories  of  Na 
poleon. 

To  exhibit  such  a  picture  to  the  mind's  eye 
in  its  just  colours,  due  proportions,  and  real 
light — to  trace  so  long  a  history  fraught  with 
such  changes,  glories,  and  disasters — to  unfold, 
through  so  vast  a  progress,  the  unceasing  de- 
velopment of  the  human  mind,  and  simulta- 
neously with  it  the  constant  punishment  <if  hu- 
man iniquity, — is  indeed  a  task  worthy  of  the 
greatest  intellect  which  the  Almighty  has  ever 
vouchsafed  to  guide  and  enlighten  mankind. 
It  will  never  be  adequately  performed  but  by 
one  mind :  there  is  a  luiity  which  must  pervade 
every  great  work  of  history,  as  of  all  the  other 
Fine  Arts;  a  succession  of  dilleient  hands 
breaks  the  thread  of  thought  and  mars  the 
uniformity  of  effect  a.s  much  in  recording  the 
annals  of  centuries,  as  in  painting  the  passions 
of  the  heart,  or  the  beauties  of  a  single  scene 
iti  nature.  That  it  is  not  hopeless  to  look  for 
such  a  mind  is  evident  to  all  who  recollect 
how  Gibbon  has  painted  the  still  wider  ex- 
panse, and  traced  the  loncer  story,  of  "  The 
Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire:"  but 
how  often  in  a  century  does  a  Gibbon  appear 
ill  the  woild  ! 

In  the  outset  of  this  noble  task,  Michclcl 
has  displayed  very  great  ability ;  and  the 
defects,  as  it  appears  to  us,  of  his  work,  ,13 
it  proceeds,  strikingly  illusirnie  the  cianirrni 
to  which  the  modern  ind  .•■  ■  f  his 

tory    is    exposed.     He    is  •  'pially 

with  Sismondi,  Thicrr)-,  and  Giizot,  in  the  de- 


192 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


scription  of  the  condition  of  Gaul  under  the 
Romans,  and  tlie  causes  which  paralysed  tlic 
strength,  and  at  length  overthrew  the  i)o\ver, 
of  the  empire  of  the  Caesars.  With  a  discri- 
minating eye,  and  a  master's  hand,  he  has 
drawn  the  difierent  character  of  the  Celtic  and 
German  races  of  mankind,  and  the  indelible 
impress  which  they  have  severally  communi- 
cated to  their  descendants.  The  early  settle- 
ment of  the  German  tribes  in  Gaul,  and  the 
amalgamation  of  the  victorious  sayage  with 
the  vanquished  civilized  race,  is  drawn  in  the 
spirit  of  a  philosopher,  and  with  a  graphic 
power.  If  he  had  continued  the  work  as  it 
was  thus  begun,  it  would  have  left  nothing  to 
be  desired. 

But  when  he  comes  down  to  later  times,  and 
above  all  when  he  becomes  involved  in  the 
endless  maze  and  minute  details  of  the  Chroni- 
cles and  early  French  Memoirs,  the  work  as- 
sumes a  dillerent  character.  Though  you  still, 
in  occasional  expressions,  see  the  reflections 
of  the  philosopher — in  frequent  pictures,  the 
eye  of  the  painter — yet  the  narrative  in  gene- 
ral is  flooded  b}'^  an  ocean  of  details.  Fatigued 
with  the  endless  maze  of  intrigues,  wars, 
tumults,  tortures,  crusades,  and  crimes,  which 
succeed  one  another  in  rapid  succession,  the 
reader  in  despair  shuts  the  volume,  with  hardly 
any  recollection  of  the  thread  of  events.  He 
recollects  only  that  almost  all  the  kings  appear 
to  have  been  wicked,  almost  all  the  nobles 
ambitious,  almost  all  the  priests  cruel,  almost 
ail  the  people  ferocious.  There  is  nothing 
which  tends  so  strongly  to  make  us  satisfied 
with  our  own  lot,  and  inclined  to  return  thanks 
to  Heaven  for  having  cast  it  in  our  age,  as 
thestudy  of  the  crimes,  disasters,  andsuflerings 
sufferings  of  those  which  have  preceded  it. 

But  still  "  the  mighty  maze  is  not  without 
a  plan."  In  the  midst  of  these  hideous  crimes 
and  atrocities,  of  this  general  anguish  and 
sufliering,  fixed  laws  were  operating,  a  silent 
progress  was  going  forward,  and  Providence 
was  patiently  and  in  silence  working  out  its 
ultimate  designs  by  the  free  agency  of  an  in- 
finity of  separate  individuals.  A  great  system 
of  moral  retribution  was  unceasingly  at  work; 
and  out  of  the  mingled  virtues  and  vices,  joys 
and  sorrows,  crimes  and  punishment,  of  pre- 
vious centuries,  w'ere  slowly  forming  the  ele- 
ments of  the  great  and  glorious  French  mo- 
narchy. It  is  in  the  development  of  this 
magnificent  progress,  and  in  the  power  of 
exhibiting  it  in  lucid  colours  to  the  eye  of  the 
spectator,  that  Michelet  is  chiefly  deficient  in 
his  later  volumes.  This  seems  at  first  sight 
inexplicable,  as  in  the  earlier  ones,  relating  to 
Gaul  under  the  Romans,  the  settlement  of  the 
Franks,  and  the  early  kings  of  the  Merovingian 
race,  his  powers  of  generalization  and  philoso- 
phic observation  are  eminently  conspicuous. 
They  form,  accordingly,  by  much  the  most  inte- 
resting and  instructive  part  of  his  histor\'.  But 
a  closer  examination  will  at  once  unfold  the 
cause  of  this  difierence,  and  point  to  the  chief 
changes  of  the  graphic  and  antiquarian  school 
of  history.  He  generalized  in  the  earlier  vo- 
lumes, because  his  materials  Avere  scanty;  he 
has  not  done  so  in  the  later  ones,  because  they 
were  redundant.    In  tlie  first  instance,  he  saw 


objects  at  a  distance  in  their  just  proportions 
and,  not  being  distracted  with  details,  he  threw 
broad  lights  and  shadows  over  their  great  fea- 
tures ;  in  the  last,  the  objects  were  so  near  the 
eye,  and  the  lights  so  perplexed  and  frequent, 
that  he  has  in  some  degree  lost  sight  of  all  ge- 
neral eflJect  in  his  composition,or  at  least  failed 
in  conveying  any  lucid  impression  to  the 
reader's  mind. 

In  common  wath  all  later  writers  who  have 
observed  much  or  thought  deeply  on  human 
afl'airs,  M.  Michelet  is  a  firm  believer  in  the 
inherent  and  indelible  influence  of  race,  both 
on  the  character  and  destiny  of  nations.  His 
observations  on  this  subject,  especially  on  the 
peculiarities  of  the  Celtic  race,  and  their  vital 
difference  from  the  German,  form  one  of  the 
most  interesting  and  valuable  parts  of  his 
work.  He  traces  the  same  character  through 
the  Scotch  Highlanders,  the  mountaineers  of 
Cumberland  and  Wales,  the  native  Irish,  the 
inhabitants  of  Briltanj',  and  the  mountaineers 
of  Gascony  and  Beam.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  same  national  characteristics  may  be  ob- 
served in  the  German  race,  under  whatever 
climate  and  circumstances ;  in  Saxony  as  in 
England;  in  the  Swiss  mountains  as  in  the 
Dutch  marshes ;  in  the  crowded  marts  of  Flan- 
ders as  in  the  solitude  of  the  American  forest. 
Of  the  inherent  character  of  the  Celtic  race, 
he  gives  the  following  animated  description : — 

"  The  mixed  races  of  Celts  who  are  called 
French,  can  be  rightly  understood  only  by  a 
study  of  the  pure  Celts,  the  Bretons  and  Welsh,   ■ 
the  Scotch   Highlanders  and   Irish  peasants.   ! 
"W^hile  France,  undergoing  the  yoke  of  repeat-   ' 
ed  invasion,  is  marching  through  successive    \ 
ages  from  slavery  to  freedom,  from  disgrace   : 
to  glory,  the  old  Celtic  races,  perched  on  their   ' 
native  mountains,  or  sequestered  in  their  far   ' 
distant   isles,  have  remained  faithful-  to  the 
poetic   independence  of  their  barbarous  life, 
till  surprised  by  the  rude  hand  of  foreign  con- 
quest.   It  was  in  this  state  that  England  sur- 
prised, overwhelmed  them  ; — vainly,  however,  | 
has   the  Anglo-Saxon   pressed   upon   them — 
they  repel  his  eflxjrts  as  the  rocks  of  Brittany 
or  Cornwall  the  surges  of  the  Atlantic.    The 
sad   and  patient  Judea,  which  numbered  its 
ages  by  its  servitude,  has  not  been  more  stern- 
ly driven  from  Asia.     But  such  is  the  tenacity 
of  the  Celtic  race,  such  the  principle  of  life  in 
nations,  that  they  have  endured  every  outrage, 
and  still  preserve  inviolate  the  manners  and 
customs  of  their  forefathers.    Race  of  granite ! 
Immovable,  like   the   huge  Druidical   blocks 
which  they  still  regard  with  superstitious  vene* 
ration. 

"  One  might  have  expected  that  a  race  which 
remained  for  ever  the  same,  while  all  was 
changing  around  it,  would  succeed  in  the  end 
in  conquering  bj--  the  mere  inert  force  of  re- 
sistance, and  Avould  impress  its  character  on 
the  world.  The  very  reverse  has  happened, — 
the  more  the  race  has  been  isolated,  the  more 
it  has  fallen  into  insignificance.  To  remain 
original,  to  resist  all  foreign  intermixture,  to 
repel  all  the  ideas  or  improvements  of  the 
stranger,  is  to  remain  weak  and  isolated  in  the 
world.  There  is  the  secret  of  the  Celtic  race- 
there  is  the  key  to  their  whole  history.    It  has 


I 


MICIIELET'S  FRANCE. 


193 


never  had  but  one  idea, — it  has  communicated 
that  to  other  nations,  but  it  has  received  none 
from  tlicm.  From  a?e  to  ajje  it  has  remained 
stronfT  but  limited,  indescribable  but  humili- 
ated, the  enemy  of  the  human  race,  and  its 
eternal  stain.  VVoful  obstinacy  of  individual- 
it}-,  which  proudly  rests  on  itself  alone,  and 
repels  all  community  with  the  rest  of  the  world. 
"The  irenius  of  the  Celts,  and  above  all  of 
the  Gauls,  is  vigorous  and  fruitful,  strongly 
inclined  to  material  enjoyments,  to  pleasure 
and  sensuality.  The  pleasures  of  sex  have 
ever  exercised  a  powerful  influence  over  them. 
They  are  still  the  most  prolific  of  the  human 
race.  In  France,  the  J'crt  Gnlant  is  the  true 
national  king.  We  know  how  marvellously 
the  native  Irish  have  multiplied  and  overflow- 
ed all  the  adjoining  states.  It  was  a  common 
occurrence  in  Brittan)%  during  the  middle 
ages,  for  a  seigneur  to  have  a  dozen  wives. 
Thnj  constantly  praised  themselves,  and  sent  forth 
their  sons  fearless  to  battle.  Universall)', 
among  the  Celtic  nations,  bastards  succeeded, 
even  among  kings,  as  chief  of  the  clan.  Woman, 
the  object  of  desire,  the  mere  sport  of  volup- 
tuousness, never  attained  the  dignified  rank 
assigned  to  her  among  nations  of  the  German 
descent. 

"  No  people  recorded  in  history  have  resist- 
ed so  stubbornly  as  the  Celts.     The  Saxons 
were  conquered  by  the  Normans  in  a  single 
battle;  but  Cambria  contended   two  hundred 
years  with  the  stranger.    Their  hopes  sustain 
them  after  their  independence  is  lost:  an  un- 
conquerable will  is  the  character  of  their  race. 
Whf.e  awaiting  the  day  of  its  resurrection,  it 
alternately  sings  and  weeps:  its   chants  arc 
mingled  with  tears,  as  those  of  the  Jews,  when 
by  the  waters  of  Babylon  they  sat  down  and 
wept.    The  few  fragments   of  Ossian  which 
can  really  be   relied   on   as  ancient,  have  a 
melancholy   character.      Even    our   Bretons, 
though  they  have  less  reason  to  lament  than 
the  rest  of  the  race,  are  sad  and  mournful  in 
their  ideas;  their  .sympathy  is  with  the  Night, 
wi'.h   Sorrow,  with  Death.     'I   never  sleep,' 
a   Breton   proverb,  'but  I   die  a  bitter 
:i.'     To  him  who  walks  over  a  tomb  they 
.ay,   '  Withdraw   from    my   domain.'      They 
lave  little  reason  to  be  gay;  all  has  conspired 
igainsl  them  :  Brittany  and  Scotland  have  at- 
ached  themselves  to  the  weaker  side,  to  causes 
vhich  were  lo'if.     The  power  of  choosing  its 
•  arch N  hns  Ih-imi  ta!v'''n  from  the  Celtic  rare 
•  th"'  inyi'TMiiis  vii  me,  formerly  brought 
rom  Ireland  into  Scotland,  has  been  Iransport- 
■d  to  Westminster. 

"  Ireland  !  Poor  first-born  of  the  Celtic  race ! 
Jo   fir  fr.iri  I''  ■  "    m  it 

anii.il  -H-.-.Mr  '1       I   le  of 

(aints — the  Efni-rald  Isle — so  fruitlul  in  men, 
o  bright  in  ir<iiius! — the  country  of  Berkeley 
ndToland,  of  Moore  andO'ConncIl ! — the  land 
f  brii'ht  f!i  1  lit  and  the  rapid  swor  I,  which 
•resii\  ■  ,  ii  .,  It  the  old  age  of  this  world,  its 
■oetic  iMsjiii.iion.  Let  the  English  smile 
?hen,  in  passing  some  hovel  in  their  towns, 
icy  hear  the  Irish  widow  chant  the  coronach 
T  her  hu'«band.  Weep!  mournful  ronntr)' ; 
,nrt  let  France  too  weep,  for  degradation  whirh 
,be  cannot  prevent — calamities  which  she 
13 


cannot  avert!  In  vain  have  four  hundred 
thousand  Irishmen  perished  in  the  service  of 
France.  The  Scotch  Highlanders  will  ere 
long  disappear  from  the  face  of  the  earth;  the 
mountains  are  daily  depopulating;  the  great 
estates  have  ruined  the  land  of  the  Gaul  as 
they  did  ancient  Italy.  The  Highlander  will 
ere  long  exist  only  in  the  romances  of  Walter 
Scott.  The  tartan  and  the  claymore  excite 
surprise  in  the  streets  of  Edinburgh:  they 
disappear — they  emigrate;  their  national  airs 
will  ere  long  be  lost,  as  the  music  of  the  Eolian 
harp  when  the  winds  are  hushed. 

"Behind  the  Celtic  world,  the  old  red  gra- 
nite of  the  European  formation  has  arisen — a 
new  world,  with  different  passions,  desires, 
and  destinies.  Last  of  the  savage  races 
which  overflowed  Europe,  the  Germans  were 
the  first  to  introduce  the  spirit  of  independence; 
the  thirst  for  individunl  freedom.  That  bold  and 
youthful  spirit — that  youth  of  man,  who  feels 
himself  strong  and  free  in  a  world  which  he 
appropriates  to  himself  in  anticipation — in 
forests  of  which  he  knows  not  the  bounds — on 
a  sea  which  wafts  him  to  unknown  shores — 
that  spring  of  the  unl)roken  horse  which  bears 
him  to  the  Steppes  and  the  Pampas — all 
worked  in  Alaric,  when  he  swore  that  an  un- 
known force  impelled  him  to  the  gates  of 
Rome;  they  impelled  the  Danish  pirate  when 
he  rode  on  the  stormy  billow;  they  animated 
the  Saxon  outlaws  when  under  Robin  Hood 
they  contended  for  the  laws  of  Edward  the 
Confessor  against  the  Norman  barons.  That 
spirit  of  personal  freedom,  of  unbounded  in- 
dividual pride,  shines  in  all  their  writings — it 
is  the  invariable  characteristic  of  the  German 
theology  and  philosophy.  From  the  day,  when, 
according  to  the  beautiful  German  fable,  the 
'  TFfljgi/s'  scattered  the  dust  on  all  his  rela- 
tions, and  threw  the  grass  over  his  shoulder, 
and  resting  on  his  staff,  overleapt  the  frail  pa- 
ternal enclosure,  and  let  his  plume  float  to  the 
wind — from  that  moment  he  aspired  to  the  em- 
pire of  the  world.  He  deliberated  with  Attila 
whether  he  should  overthrow  the  empire  of  the 
east  or  west;  he  aspired  with  England  lo over- 
spread the  western  and  southern  herni'-pheres. 

"It  is  from  this  mingled  spirit  of  poetry  and 
adventure,  that  the  whole  idealism  of  the  Ger- 
mans has  taken  its  rise.  In  their  robust  race 
is  combined  the  heroic  spirit  and  the  wander- 
ing instinct — they  tinitc  alone  the  'Iliad' and 
'Odyssey'  of  modern  times — gold  ami  women 
were  the  objects  of  thr-ir  early  expeditions; 
hut  these  objects  had  nothing  sensual  or  de- 
grading in  them.  Woman  was  the  companion, 
the  support  of  man;  his  counsel  in  dilliciitty, 
his  guardian  aniji'l  jn  war.  Her  graces,  her 
charms,  consisted  in  her  courage,  her  con- 
stancy. Educated  by  a  man — by  a  warrior — 
the  virgin  was  early  accustomed  to  the  use  of 
arms — '(Joihoriim  gens  perfida,  scd  pudica; 
•■^axones  criulelitateefferi  s<'dcaslitale  miran<!i.* 
Woman  in  primitive  Germany  was  b<'nt  to  the 
earth  beneath  the  weight  of  airrieiiltmal  labour; 
but  she  became  great  in  the  dangers  ol  war- 
ihe  companion  and  partner  of  man — she  sh.arcd 
his  fate,  and  lightened  his  sorrows.  'Sic  ri 
vendum,  sic  pereuniluin.'  s.ivs  T.icilns.  8ho 
withdrew  not  from  the  field  of  battle— she  faced 


IM 


ALISON'3  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS 


its  horrors — she  turned  not  aside  from  its  blood. 
She  was  ihc  Goddess  of  War — llie  cliarniingand 
terrible  spirit  which  at  once  animated  its  sjiirit, 
and  rewarded  its  dani^crs — which  inspired  the 
fury  of  the  charge,  and  soothed  the  last  moments 
of  the  dying  warrior.  She  was  to  be  seen  on  the 
field  o.'"  blood,  as  Edith  the  swan-necked  sought 
tlie  body  of  Harold  after  the  defeat  of  Hastings, 
or  the  young  Englishv.'oman,  who,  to  find  her 
lost  husband,  turned  over  the  dead  on  the  field 
of  Waterloo."— (Vol.  L  pp.  150,  17.5.) 

"0  si  sic  omnia!"  The  mind  is  rendered 
dizzy;  it  turns  round  as  on  the  edge  of  a  pre- 
cipice by  the  reflections  arising  out  of  this  ani- 
mated picture.  In  truth  may  it  be  said,  that 
these  observations  demolish  at  one  blow  the 
whole  revolutionary  theories  of  later  times — 
they  have  turned  the  streams  of  French  philo- 
sophy by  their  source.  It  was  the  cardinal 
point,. the  leading  principle  of  the  whole  poli- 
tical speculation  of  the  last  half  of  the  eight- 
eenth century, that  inslitutious  were  everything, 
character  nothing;  that  man  was  moulded 
entirely  by  the  government  or  religion  to  which 
he  was  subjected ;  and  that  there  was  no  essen- 
tial diflerencc  in  the  disposition  of  the  different 
races  which  had  overspread  the  earth.  The 
first  half  of  the  nineteenth  century  was  spent 
in  the  practical  application  of  this  principle. 
The  French  Jacobins  conceived  themselves 
adequate  to  forge  constitutions  for  the  whole 
world,  and  sent  forth  their  armies  of  starving 
republicans  to  force  them  at  the  point  of  the 
ba)'onet  on  all  mankind.  Less  vehement  in 
their  constitutional  propagandism,  the  English 
have  been  more  persevering,  and  incomparabl}^ 
more  pernicious.  Their  example  allured,  as 
much  as  the  horrors  of  the  Rev,olution  repelled, 
mankind.  The  ardent,  the  generous,  the  philan- 
thropic, everywhere  sighed  for  the  establish- 
ment of  a  government  which  should  give  them 
at  once  the  energy  of  the  British  character,  the 
glories  of  the  British  empire.  And  what  has 
been  the  result  1 — The  desolation  of  Spain,  the 
ruin  of  Portugal,  the  depopulation  and  blasting 
of  South  America.  Vain  have  been  all  at- 
tempts to  transplant  to  nations  of  Celtic  or 
Moorish  descent,  the  institutions  which  grew 
and  flourished  among  those  of  Anglo-Saxon 
blood.  The  ruin  of  the  West  India  islands 
proves  tlieir  inapplicability  to  those  of  negro 
extraction; — the  everlasting  distraction  of  Ire- 
land, to  those  of  unmixed  Celtic  blood.  A  cen- 
tury of  bloodshed,  devastation,  and  wretched- 
ness will  be  spent  ere  mankind  generally  learn 
that  there  is  an  essential  and  indelible  distinc- 
tion between  the  character  of  the  different  races 
of  men  ;  and,  in  Montesquieu's  words,  "  that  no 
nation  ever  attained  to  durable  greatness  but 
by  institutions  in  harmony  with  its  spirit." 

Nor  is  there  any  foundation  for  the  common 
observation,  that  this  presents  a  melancholy 
view  of  human  afliiirs ;  and  that  it  is  repugnant 
to  our  ideas  of  the  beneficence  of  an  overruling 
Providence  to  suppose  that  all  nations  are  not 
adapted  for  the  same  elevating  institutions.  Are 
all  nations  blessed  with  the  same  climate,  or 
soil,  or  productions'?  Will  the  vine  and  the 
olive  flourish  on  every  slope — the  maize  or  the 
wheat  on  every  jilain?  !No.  Every  country 
has  its  own  productions,  riches,  and  advan- 


tages;  and  the  true  wisdcm  of  each  is  fcnnd 
to  consist  in  cultivating  the  fruits,  or  develop- 
ing  the  riches,  which  Nature  has  bestowed. 
It  is  the  same  in  the  moral  world.  All  nations 
were  not  framed  in  the  same  mould,  because  all 
were  not  destined  for  the  same  ends.  To  some 
was  given,  for  the  mysterious  but  beneficent 
designs  of  Providence,  excellence  in  arms,  and 
the  ensanguined  glory  of  ruthless  conquest;  to 
others  supremacy  in  commerce,  and  tlie  mis 
sion  of  planting  their  colonies  in  distant  lands; 
to  a  few,  excellence  in  literature  and  the  arts, 
and  the  more  durable  dominion  over  the 
thoughts  and  minds  of  men.  What  sort  of  a 
world  %vould  it  be  if  all  nations  were  sanguinary 
and  barbarous  like  the  Tartars — or  meek  and 
patient  like  the  Hindoos?  If  they  all  had  the 
thirst  forconquest  of  the  Grand  Army — or  the 
rage  for  transplanting  the  institutions  of  the 
English?  We  boast,  and  in  some  respects 
with  reason,  of  our  greatness,  our  power,  our 
civilization.  Is  there  any  man  amongst  us  Avho 
would  wish  to  see  that  civilization  universal, 
with  its  accompaniments  of  nearly  a  seventh* 
of  the  whole  population  of  the  empire  paupers; 
— of  Chartists,  Socialists,  Repealers,  Anti-Cora- 
Law  Leaguers,  and  landed  selfishness? 

x\s  a  specimen  of  Michclet's  powers  of  de- 
scription, we  extract  his  account  of  the  battle 
of  Azincour: — 

"  The  two  armies  presented  a  strange  con- 
trast. On  the  side  of  the  French  were  three 
enormous  squadrons,  three  forests  of  lances, 
who  formed  in  the  narrow  plain,  and  drew  up  as 
they  successively  emerged  from  the  defiles  in 
their  rear.  In  front  were  the  Constables,  the 
Princes,  the  Dukes  of  Orleans,  Bar  and  Alen- 
gon,  the  Counts  of  Nevers,  D'Eu,  Richcmont, 
and  Vendome,  amidst  a  crowd  of  barons,  daz- 
zling in  gold  and  steel,  with  their  banners  float- 
ing in  the  air,  their  horses  covered  with  scales 
of  armour.  The  French  had  archers  also,  but 
composed  of  the  commons  only;  the  haughty 
seigneurs  would  not  give  them  a  jilace  in  their 
proud  array.  Every  place  was  fixed;  no  one 
would  surrender  his  own  ;  the  plebeians  would 
have  been  a  stain  on  that  noble  assembly 
They  had  cannons  also,  but  made  no  use  ol 
them :  probably  ho  one  would  surrender  his 
place  to  them. 

"The  English  army  Avas  less  brilliant  in  ap- 
pearance. The  archers,  10,000  in  number,  haJ 
no  armour,  often  no  shoes ;  they  were  rudely 
equipped  with  boiled  skins,  tied  with  osiei 
wands,  and  strengthened  by  a  bar  of  iron  on 
their  feet.  Their  hatchets  and  axes  suspended 
from  their  girdles,  gave  them  the  appearance 
of  carpenters.  They  all  drew  the  bow  with  the 
/(//  arm — those  of  France  with  the  right.  Many 
of  these  sturdy  workmen  had  stripped  to  the 
shirt,  to  be  the  more  at  ease ;  nrst,  in  drawing 
the  bow,  and  at  last  in  wielding  the  hatchet, 
when  they  issued  from  their  hedge  of  stakes 
to  hew  away  at  those  immovable  masses  of 
horses." 

"  It  is  an  extraordinary  but  well  authenticated 
fact,  that  the  French  army  was  so  closely 
wedged  together,  and  in  great  part  so  stuck  in 

♦  Viz.— I.Jlfi.nnO  in  Encland  and  Wales ;  76.000  li 
Srnll.iml  :  iind  '2,0(10,000  in  Ireland.  In  all,  .V»-WO,0«I 
of  27,000,000.— Ccnaus  o/1841. 


MILITARY  TREASON  AND  CIVIC  SOLDIERS. 


the  mnd,  that  they  could  neither  charge  nor  re- 
treat; bill  just  stood  still  to  be  cut  to  pieces. 
.\t  the  decisive  moment,  when  the  old  Thomas 
of  Erpingham  arranged  the  English  army,  he 
threw  his  start"  in  the  air,  exclaiming, 'Now 
strike  !'  The  shout  of  ten  thousand  voices  was 
raised  at  once;  but  to  their  great  surprise,  the 
French  army  stood  still.  Men  and  horses 
seemed  alike  enchained  or  dead  in  their  ar- 
mour. In  truth,  these  weighty  war-horses,  op- 
pressed with  the  load  of  their  armour  and 
riders,  were  unable  to  move.  The  French  urrc 
(hirty-t'.co  ifrrp — the  En!;Iish  only  four.*  That 
enormous  depth  rendered  the  great  bulk  of  the 
French  army  wholly  useless.  The  front  ranks 
alone  combated,  and  they  were  all  killed.  The 
remainder,  unable  either  to  advance  or  retreat, 
served  only  as  a  vast  target  to  the  unerring  Eng- 
lish arrows,  which  never  ceased  to  rain  down 
on  the  deep  array.  On  the  other  hand,  every 
Englishman  wielded  either  his  lance,  his  bow, 
or  his  hatchet,  with  ertect.  So  thick  was  the 
storm  of  arrows  which  issued  from  the  English 
stakes,  that  the  French  horsemen  bent  their 
heads  to  their  saddle-bows,  to  avoid  being 
pierced  through  their  visors.  Twelve  hundred 
horse,  impatient  of  the  discharge,  broke  from 
the  flanks,  and  charged.  Hardly  a  tenth  part 
reached  the  slakes,  where  they  were  pierced 
through,  and  soon  fell  beneath  the  English  axes. 
Then  those  terrible  archers  issued  from  their 


palisade,  and  hewed  to  piec2S  the  cnnfused 
mass  of  woundf'd  horses,  dismounted  men,  and 
furious  steeds,  which,  galled  by  the  incessant 
discharge  of  arrows,  was  now  turmoiling  in  the 
bloody  mud  in  which  the  chivalry  of  France 
was  engulfed."— (Vol.  IV.  pp.307,  31 L) 

We  take  leave  of  M.  Michelct,  at  least. for  the 
present,  as  his  work  is  only  half  finished,  with 
admiration  for  his  genius,  respect  for  his  eru- 
dition, and  gratitude  for  the  service  he  has  ren- 
dered to  history;  but  we  cannot  place  him  in 
the  first  rank  of  historians.  He  wants  the  art 
of  massing  objects  and  the  spirit  of  general 
observation.  His  philosophy  consists  rather 
in  drawing  visions  of  the  sequence  of  events, 
or  speculations  on  an  inevitable  progress  in 
human  afiairs,  than  an  enlightened  and  manly 
recognition  of  a  supreme  superintendence.  He 
unites  two  singularly  opposite  sets  of  princi- 
ples— a  romantic  admiration  for  the  olden  time, 
though  with  a  full  and  just  appreciation  of  its 
evils,  with  a  devout  belief  in  the  advent  of  a 
perfect  state  of  society,  the  true  efflorescence  of 
the  nation,  in  the  equality  produced  by  the  Re- 
volution. Yet  is  his  work  a  great  addition  to 
European  literature;  and  the  writers  of  Eng- 
land would  do  well  to  look  to  their  laurels,  if 
they  wish,  against  the  able  phalanx  now  arising 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Channel,  to  maintain 
the  ancient  place  of  their  country  in  historic 
literature. 


^IILITAEY  TREASON  AND  CIVIC  SOLDIErxS.t 


"  I  AM  surprised,"  said  Condorcet  to  La- 
ayette,  upon  seeing  him  enter  the  room  in  the 
miform  of  a  private  of  the  National  Guards  of 
?aris,  of  which  he  had  so  recently  been  the 
:ommandcr, — "I  am  surprised  at  seeing  you, 
fcn^ral,  in  that  dress.'' — "Not  at  all,"  replied 
jafayette,  "  /  ira$  lirrd  of  oliojim:,  and  vishcrl  to 
omtwmtl,  and  therefore  I  laid  down  my  general's 
ommission,  and  took  a  musket  on  my  shoul- 
ler." — "Gnarus,"  says  Tacitus,  •' bellis  civili- 
•ns,  plus  militibus  quam  dticibus  iicere,"  It 
«  rurions  to  observe  how,  in  the  most  remote 
pnpniar  license  produces  eflects  so  pt"^- 
y  similar. 
'  Of  the  numerous  delusions  which  have  over- 
Iprcad  the  worlil  in  such  profusion  during  the 
[ist  nine  months,  there  is  none  socxiraordinnry 
nd  so  d;in^'''rous  as  the  opinion  'itly 

'iculratcfj  liy  {\\i:  revoliitinnnrv  p  iho 

[oblesi  virtue  in  regular  '•*  to  prove 


lemsclves  traitors  to  ih' 


and  that  a 


niional  i^iinrtl  is  the  only  safe  and  constitutional 
to  whom  arms  can  be  intrn*>tpd.  The 
^  of  the  line,  wh'<vi»  revolt  dTid<d  the' 


•Thi«  T'lrnMii"!!  v  '  •.  uhi'n 

ipo|i.on'«  tiii|><'rnl  '  'i  (.imriU 

"•■    ■      ■    ,,  _  Srr  til  •r. 

:.<  r  ilir  Ucv    .  .  .  tt  fnrma 

"'  IV.  on  tho  French  Kcvoltitinn  In  that  nil«<ellany. 


three  days  in  Jul)'  in  favour  of  the  revolution- 
ary party,  have  been  the  subject  of  the  most 
extravagant  eulogium  from  the  liberal  press 
throughout  Europe;  and  even  in  this  country, 
the  government  journals  have  not  hesitatnd  io 
condemn,  in  no  measured  terms,  the  Royal 
Guard,  merely  because  they  adhered,  amidst  a 
nation's  treason,  to  their  honour  anrl  their 
oaths. 

Hitherto  it  has  been  held  the  first  duty  of 
soldii-rs  to  adhere  with  implicit  devotion  to 
that  ftilrlihj  which  is  the  foundation  of  military 
duties.  Treason  tn  his  colours  has  been  eon- 
•sidf'red  as  fnul  a  blot  on  the  soldier's  scutcheon 
as  cowardice  in  the  field.  .Even  in  the  most 
republican  stales,  this  principle  of  military 
subordination  has  been  fell  to  be  the  vital 
principle  of  national  strength.  It  was  during 
the  rigorous  days  of  Iloiiian  disriplinr,  that 
their  legions  conquered  the  world;  and  the 
decline  of  the  empire  began  at  llir  time  that 
the  Prxlorian  Guards  veered  with  ihr  muiahlc 
populace,  and  sold  ilic  empire  for  a  trrniuiiy  to 
ihriiiM'lves.  Alb<'it  ))larrd  II)  power  bv  ih«» 
insurrection  of  the  peopb',  no  num  knew  I  ■;  r 
than  the  French  republican  leailcrs  that  tlinr 
salvation  depended  on  crushing  the  military 
insubnrdination  to  which  th'  '  '  "•''  ■h'*if 
elevation.     When  the  Parisi  n  ir 

evince  a  mutinous  spirit  in  ihe  c.unp  al  Hi 


196 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


Menehoulil,  in  Champagne,  which  they  had 
imbibed  during  the  license  of  the  capital,  Du- 
mourior  drew  them  up  in  the  centre  of  his  in- 
trenchmcnts,  and  showing  them  a  powerful 
line  of  cavahy  in  front,  with  their  sabres 
drawn,  readj'  to  charge,  and  a  stern  array  of 
artillecy  and  cannoneers  in  rear,  with  their 
matches  in  their  hands,  soon  convinced  the 
most  licentious  that  the  boasted  independence 
of  the  soldier  must  yield  to  the  dangers  of 
actual  warfare.*  "The  armed  force,"  said 
Carnot,  "is  essentially  obedient;  it  acts  but 
should  never  deliberate,"  and  in  all  his  com- 
mands, that  great  man  incessantly  inculcated 
upon  his  soldiers  the  absolute  necessity  of  im- 
plicit submission  to  the  power  which  employed 
them.f  When  the  recreant  Constable  de  Bour- 
bon, at  the  head  of  a  victorious  squadron  of 
Spanish  cavalry,  approached  the  spot  where 
the  rear-guard,  under  the  Chevalier  Bayard, 
was  covering  the  retreat  of  the  French  army 
in  the  Valley  of  Aosta,  he  found  him  seated, 
mortally  wounded,  under  a  tree,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  cross  M'hich  formed  the  hilt  of  his 
sword.  Bourbon  began  to  express  pity  for  his 
fate.  "Pity  not  me,"  said  the  high-minded 
Chevalier;  "pity  those  who  iight  against  their 
king,  their  country,  and  their  oath." 

These  generous  feelings,  common  alike  to 
republican  antiquity  and  modern  chivalry, 
have  disappeared  during  the  fumes  of  the 
French  Revolution.  The  soldier  who  is  now 
honoured,  is  not  he  who  keeps,  but  he  who 
violates  his  oath  ;  the  rewards  of  valour  shower- 
ed, not  upon  those  who  defend,  but  those  who 
overturn  the  government;  the  incense  of  po- 
pular applause  offered,  not  at  the  altar  of 
fidelity,  but  at  that  of  treason.  Honours,  re- 
Avards,  promotion,  and  adulation,  have  been 
lavished  on  the  troops  of  the  line,  who  over- 
threw the  government  of  Charles  X.  in  July 
last,  while  the  Ro3'al  Guard,  who  adhered  to 
the  fortune  of  the  falling  monarch  with  ex- 
emplary fidelity,  have  been  reduced  to  hcg  their 
bread  from  the  bounty  of  strangers  in  a  foreign 
land.  A  subscription  has  recently  l)een  opened 
in  London  for  the  most  destitute  of  those  de- 
fenders of  royalty ;  but  the  government  jour- 
nals have  stigmatized,  as  "highly  dangerous," 
any  indication  of  sympathy  with  their  fidelity 
or  their  misfortunes,  t 

If  these  ancient  ideas  of  honour,  however, 
are  to  be  exploded,  they  have  at  least  gone  out 
of  fashion  in  good  company.  The  National 
Guard,  who  took  up  arms  to  overthrow  the 
throne,  have  not  been  long  in  destroying  the 
altar.  During  the  revolt  of  February,  1831, 
the  Cross,  the  emblem  of  salvation,  was  talcen 
down  from  all  the  steeples  in  Paris  by  the 
citizen  soldiers,  and  the  image  of  our  Saviour 
effaced,  by  their  orders,  from  every  church 
within  its  bounds  !  The  two  principles  stand 
and  fall  together.  The  Chevalier,  without  fear 
and  without  reproach,  died  in  obedience  to  his 
oath,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  Cross;  (he 
National  Guard  lived  in  triumph,  while  their 
comrades  bore  down  the  venerated  emblem 
from  the  towers  of  Noire  Dame. 


•Mem.  de  Diimoiirler,  iii.  172. 

1  Carnot'g  Memoirs,  73.  X  Courier. 


"  I  can  discover  no  other  reason  for  the 
uniform  progress  of  the  republic,"  says  Cicero> 
"but  the  constant  sense  of  religion  which  has 
actuated  its  members.  In  numbers  the  Spa- 
niards excel  us — in  military  ardour,  the  Gauls 
— in  hardihood  and  obstinacy,  the  Germans 
but  in  veneration  to  the  gods,  and  fidelity  to 
their  oaths,  the  Roman  people  excee'^.  any 
nation  that  ever  existed."  We  shall  see 
whether  the  present  times  are  destined  to  form 
an  exception  from  these  principles ;  whether 
treason  and  infidelity  are  to  rear  the  fabric  in 
modern,  which  fidelity  and  religion  construct- 
ed in  ancient  times. 

The  extreme  peril  of  such  principles  renders 
the  inquiry  interesting. — What  have  been  the 
effects  of  military  treachery  in  times  past? 
Has  it  aided  the  cause  of  virtue,  strengthened 
the  principles  of  freedom,  contributed  to  the 
prosperity  of  mankind]  Or  has  it  unhinged 
the  fabric  of  society,  blasted  the  cause  of 
libert}'^,  blighted  the  happiness  of  the  people? 

The  first  great  instance  of  military  treachery 
in  recent  times,  occurred  in  the  revolt  of  the 
French  Guards,  in  June,  1789.  That  un- 
paralleled event  immediatel}^  brought  on  the 
Revolution.  The  fatal  example  rapidly  spread 
to  the  other  troops  brought  up  to  overawe  the 
capital,  and  the  king,  deprived  of  the  support 
of  his  own  troops,  was  soon  compelled  to  sub- 
mit to  the  insurgents.  It  was  these  soldiers, 
not  the  mob  of  Paris,  who  stormed  the  Bastile; 
all  the  efforts  of  the  populace  were  unavailing 
till  those  regular  troops  occupied  the  adjoining 
houses,  and  supported  tumultuary  enthusiasm 
by  military  skill. 

Extravagant  were  the  eulogiums,  boundless 
the  gratitude,  great  the  rewards,  which  were 
shoM'ered  down  on  the  Gardes  Frangaiscs  for 
this  shameful  act  of  treachery.  Never  were  ■ 
men  the  subjects  of  such  extraordinar)'^  adu- 
lation. Wine  and  women,  gambling  and  in- 
toxication, flattery  and  bribes,  v.-ere  furnished 
in  abundance.  And  what  was  the  conse- 
quence ?  The  ancient  honour  of  the  Guards 
of  France,  of  those  guards  who  saved  the 
Body  Guards  at  Fontenoy,  and  inherited  a  line 
of  centuries  of  splendour,  perished  without 
redemption  on  that  fatal  occasion.  Tarnished 
in  reputation,  disunited  in  opinion,  humbled  in 
character,  the  regiment  fell  to  pieces  from  a 
sense  of  its  own  shame;  the  early  leader  of 
the  Revolution,  its  exploits  never  wers  heard 
of  through  all  the  career  of  glory  which  fol- 
lowed ;  and  the  first  act  of  revolt  against  their 
sovereign  was  the  last  act  of  their  long  and 
renowned  existence. 

Nor  were  the  conseq\iences  of  this  unexam- 
pled defection  less  dangerous  to  France  than  to 
the  soldiers  who  were  guilty  of  it.  The  insu- 
bordination, license,  and  extravagance  of  revolt 
were  fatal  to  military  discipline,  and  brought 
France  to  the  brink  of  ruin.  The  disaflTccted 
soldiers,  as  has  been  observed  in  all  ages, 
were  intrepid  only  against  their  own  sove- 
reign. When  they  were  brought  to  meet  the 
armies  of  Prussia  and  Austria,  they  all  took 
to  flight;  and  on  one  occasion,  by  the  admis* 
sion  of  Dumourier  himself,  ten  thousand  regu- 
lar soldiers  fled  from  one  thousand  five  hun- 
dred Prussian  hussars.    A  little  more  energy 


MILITARY  TREASON  AND   CIVIC   SOLDIERS. 


107 


and  ability  in  the  allied  commanders  would 
have  then  destroyed  the  revolutionary  govern- 
ment. 

Notwithstanding  all  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
people,  the  weakness  of  insubordination  con- 
tinued to  paralyze  all  the  efforts  of  the  re- 
publican armies.  France  was  again  invaded, 
and  brought  to  the  brink  of  rain  in  179.3,  and 
the  tide  was  then,  for  the  first  time,  turned, 
when  the  iron  rule  of  the  mob  began,  and  the 
terrific  grasp  of  Carnot  and  Robespierre  ex- 
tinguished all  those  principles  of  military 
license  which  had  so  much  been  the  subject 
of  eulogium  at  the  commencement  of  the 
Revolution. 

Did  this  abandonment  of  military  duty  serve 
Ihe  cause  of  freedom,  or  increase  the  prosperi- 
ty of  France  1  Did  it  establish  liberty  on  a 
secure  basis,  or  call  down  the  blessings  of 
posterity?  It  led  immediately  to  all  the  an- 
guish and  suffering  of  the  Revolution — the 
murder  of  the  king — the  anarchy  of  the  king- 
dom— the  reign  of  terror — the  despotism  of 
Napoleon.  They  forgot  their  loyalty  amidst 
the  glitter  of  prostitution  and  the  fumes  of  in- 
toxication ;  their  successors  were  brought  back 
to  it  by  the  iron  rule  of  the  Committee  of  Pub- 
lic Safety:  they  revolted  against  the  beneficent 
sway  of  a  reforming  monarch  :  they  brought 
on  their  country  a  tyranny,  which  the  pencil 
of  Tacitus  would  hardly  be  able  to  portray. 

The  revolt  of  the  Spanish  troops  at  the  Isle 
of  Leon,  in  1819,  was  the  next  great  example 
of  military  defection.     What  have  been  its 
consequences]     Has  Spain  improved  in  free- 
dom— risen  in  character — augmented  in  wealth, 
since  that  glorious  insurrection  1    It  raised  up, 
for  a  few  years,  the  phantom  of  a  constitu- 
tional throne,  ephemeral  as  the  dynasties  of 
the  east,  pestilent  as  the  breath  of  contagion. 
Spain  was  rapidly  subjugated  when  it  rested 
on  such  defenders — treason  blasted  their  ef- 
forts, and  the  nation,  which  had  gloriously  re- 
sisted for  six  years  the  formidable  legions  of 
Napoleon,  sunk  under  the  first  attack  of  an 
inexperienced  army  of  invaders  led  byaBour- 
'       prince.    Since  that  time,  to  what  a  deplor- 
condition  has  Spain  been  reduced!     De- 
ed   by   domestic    tyranny,    destitute    of 
ign  influence — the  ridicule  and  scorn  of 
lEurope — this   once  great   power  has    almost 
'been  blotted  from  the  book  of  nations. 
I     Portugal,  Naples,   and    Piedmont,   all    h.-id 
;ary    rcvolutiiMis    about    the    same    ' 
■  ':  they  improved    tiic    chara<Mer,  bet 
[the  condition,  extended  the  freedom,  of  these 

t itries  ?     They  h.ivc,  on  the  contrary,  cstn- 

led  constitutions,  the  failure  and  absurdity 
hieh   I)  '  I'ht  the  cause  of  "     i 

i    into  ■  The   valiant    i 

ist  the  N«'apoiitan  iliroije  (Ird  at  the  lirst 
..it  of  the  .\ustrian  battalions;  and  the  free 
jinsiitutions  of  Piedmont  and  PorluKaU  without 
'  all  fallen  fr  '     i 

•Ml  the'-"  p 
ripi-.  til  niliiiiiui  c  iii'ciliim  I'  ,  le- 

.  hAVC  failed;  and  sterner  de  .  ,  suc- 

ceeded, from  the  moral  reaction  consequent  on 
iheir  disappearance. 

(Jreat  part  of  the  armies  in  South  America 
*»voIlcd  from  the  Spanish  throne,  and  success 


has  crowned  their  endeavours.  What  has 
been  the  consequence  ?  Anarchy,  confusion, 
and  military  confiscation — the  rule  of  bayonets 
instead  of  that  of  mitres — sullering,  dilapida* 
tion,  and  ruin,  which  have  caused  even  the 
leaden  yoke  of  the  Castilian  monarch  to  be 
regretted. 

At  length  the  glorious  days  of  July,  18.30, 
arrived,  and  the  declaration  of  the  whole  re^iu- 
lar  troops  of  the  line  in  Paris  against  the 
government,  at  once  decided  the  contest  in 
favour  of  the  populace.  Never  was  more  ex- 
travagant praise  bestowed  on  any  body  of  men, 
than  on  the  soldiers  who  had  been  guilty  of 
this  act  of  treason.  It  is  worth  -while,  there- 
fore, to  examine  what  have  been  its  effects, 
and  whether  the  cause  of  freedom  has  really 
been  benefitted  in  France  by  the  aid  of  treach- 
ery. 

The  French  nation  has  got  quit  of  the  priest- 
ridden,  imbecile  race  of  monarchs  ;  men  whose 
principles  were  arbitrary,  habits  indolent,  in- 
tellects weak ;  who  possessed  the  inclination, 
but  wanted  the  capacity  to  restrain  the  liberty 
of  their  people. 

They  have  terminated  a  pacific  era,  during 
which  the  country  made  unexampled  progress 
in  wealth,  industrj-,  and  prosperity ;  during 
which  many  of  the  wounds  of  the  Revolution 
were  closed,  and  new  channels  of  opulence 
opened;  during  which  the  princip.^s  of  real 
freedom  struck  deeply  their  roots,  and  the  in- 
dustrious habits  were  extensively  spread,  which 
can  alone  afford  security  for  their  continuance. 

They  have  begun,  instead,  the  career  of 
anarchy  and  popular  tyranny.  Industry  has 
been  paralyzed,  credit  suspended,  prosperi- 
ty blighted.  Commercial  undertakings  have 
ceased,  distrust  succeeded  to  confidence — de- 
spair to  hope — the  victims  of  the  Revolution 
have  disappeared,  a;nd  the  poor  who  gained  it 
are  destitute  of  bread. 

They  have  begun  again  the  career  of  Re- 
publican ambition  and  foreign  aggression ; 
they  aim  openly  at  revolutionizing  other  coun- 
tries, and  they  arc  unable  to  maintain  the  go- 
vernment they  have  established  in  their  own. 
The  Conscription  is  again  rending  asunder 
the  affections  of  private  life;  the  fountains  of 
domestic  happiness  arc  closed  ;  and  war,  with 
its  excitements  and  its  dangers,  is  again  threat- 
ening to  rouse  the  energies  of  its  population. 
In  the  shock  of  contending  factions,  liberty  is 

t  expiring.     The  imbecility  of  Polignac  has 

•n  succc'-dcd  by  the  energy  of  Soult — the 
arbitrary  principles  of  feeble  priests  is  about 
to  yield  to  the  unbending  despotism  of  ener- 
getic republicans. 

By  the  confession  of  the  journals  who  sup- 
port the  Revolution,  its  ailvantagcs  are  all  to 
romt ;  bitter  and  unpalalal)le  have  been  its 
fruits  to  this  hour.  The  three  per  cents,  have 
fallen  from  80  to  50;  twelve  thousand  work- 
men, without  breail,  in  Paris  alone,  are  main- 
tained on  the  public  works;  great  pari  «(  the 
banks  and  miTcantile  houses  are  -' ; 

Lafitle  himself  is  barely  solvent ;  il.  nt 

classes  arc  rapidly  leaving  th<'  capital ;  no  one 
expends  his  fortune;  universal  distrust  and 
apprehension  have  dried  up  the  sources  of 
industry. 


198 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


The  government,  blown  about  with  every 
wind  of  doctrine,  is  M'holly  unable  to  prevent 
che  downward  progress  of  the  Revolution. 
As  usual  in  public  convulsions,  the  audacious, 
the  reckless,  the  desperate,  are  pressing  for- 
ward to  the  front  ranks,  and  the  moderate 
and  rational  sinking  into  obscurity.  The 
Doitrinaires  were  subverted  by  the  tumults  in 
October;  their  successors  by  the  crisis  in  De- 
cember; the  last  ministers,  by  the  explosion 
in  February.  Without  authority,  power,  or 
influence,  the  throne  is  rapidly  falling  into 
contempt;  the  private  virtues  and  lirm  cha- 
racter of  the  king,  are  alone  adequate  to  stem 
the  swelling  tlood  of  democrac}'. 

Impelled  by  revolutionary  ambition  into 
foreign  war,  the  government  of  France,  whe- 
ther republican  or  monarchical,  must  inevita- 
bly become  despotic.  If  the  allies  succeed, 
the  Bourbons  will  be  restored  at  the  point  of 
the  bayonet.  If  the  republicans  are  victo- 
rious, military  despotism  will  speedily  be  esta- 
blished. The  victorious  legions  will  not  sur- 
render the  authority  they  have  won.  A  second 
successful  commander  will,  under  the  name 
of  Consul,  Dictator,  orEmperor,  re-establish  the 
empire  of  the  sword.  After  drenching  Europe 
with  blood,  democratic  ambition  Avill  in  the  end 
find  itself  mastered  by  the  power  it  has  pro- 
duced;  vi^'lorious  or  vanquished,  itM-ill  prove 
fatal  to  i'.^  parent  freedom. 

Such  have  been  the  fruits  of  military  treach- 
eiy  in  France. 

Does  Belgium  afford  a  more  flattering  pros- 
pect to  the  advocates  of  military  defection  ! 
Has  treason,  pestilential  and  blasting  else- 
where, there  brought  forth  the  sweet  and  lasting 
fruits  of  peace,  tranquillity,  and  indusHryl  Is 
the  independence  of  Flanders  as  secure,  its 
commerce  as  flourishing,  its  people  as  con- 
tented, its  agriculture  as  prosperous,  its  poor  as 
well  fed,  as  under  the  hateful  reign  of  the 
Orange  dynasty  1  By  the  admission  of  the  ad- 
vocates of  revolution,  according  to  the  state- 
ment of  M.  Potter  himself,  they  have  gained 
only  anarchy  and  wretchedness,  "discord  with- 
in, contempt  without — the  intrigues  of  kings — 
the  divisions  of  faction — the  apathy  of  despair." 

Etfects  so  uniform,  consequences  so  unva- 
rying, must  spring  from  some  common  cause. 
Victorious  or  vanquished,  military  treachery 
has  proved  fatal  to  every  stale  where  it  has  pre- 
vailed: it  has  everywhere  blighted  industry, 
shaken  credit,  destroyed  freedom.  Liberty  has 
never  suffered  so  much  as  from  the  rude  and 
sacrilegious  hands  of  such  defenders. 

"It  must  constantly  be  understood,  and  it  is 
not  sulliciently  recollected,"  said  Guizot  in  the 
Chamber  of  Deputies  on  the  3d  of  February, 
1831,  "  that  iVeedom  is  never  in  such  danger  as 
after  a  successful  revolution.  Habits  cannot 
be  conceived  so  much  at  variance  with  the  pro- 
tection of  the  people  as  the  excitation,  aml)i- 
tion,  and  misrule,  which  arise  from  their  first 
triumph."  These^wcre  the  words  of  the  repub- 
lican minister  established  in  oflice  by  the  revolt 
in  July ;  after  he  had  been  driven  from  the  helm 
by  the  increasing  vigour  of  the  democratic  fac- 
tion to  which  he  owed  his  ehjvation. 

If  the  matter  be  considered  coolly,  it  must  at 
ince  appear  thatfreedom  never  can  be  purchased 


by  the  revolt  of  soldiers  ;  and  that  the  military 
treachery  which  is  so  much  the  object  of  euio« 
gium,  is  more  dangerous  to  the  liberty  which 
has  excited  it,  than  to  any  other  human  interest. 
Freedom  consists  in  the  coercion  of  each 
class  by  the  jealousies  and  exertions  of  the 
others.  The  crown  is  watched  by  the  people, 
the  aristocracy  by  the  crown,  the  populace  by 
the  aristocracy.  It  is  the  jealousy  and  cflbrts 
of  these  different  interests  to  keep  each  other 
within  due  bounds,  which  form  the  balance  of 
power  indispensable  to  civil  liberty.  Without 
such  an  equilibrium,  one  or  other  of  the  con- 
stituent  bodies  must  be  crushed,  and  the  ascen- 
dency of  the  other  rendered  subversive  of  gene- 
ral freedom. 

But  when  an  established  government  is  over- 
turned by  a  revolt  of  its  own  soldiers,  the  event 
occurs  which  is  of  all  others  the  xaosl  fatal  to 
public  liberty,  viz.,  the  destruction  of  subsisting 
power  by  an  armed  and  limited  class  in  the 
state.  The  bayonet  becomes  thenceforward 
the  irresistible  argument  of  the  dominant  body, 
and  liberty,  exterminated  by  its  own  defenders, 
sinks  in  the  struggle  which  was  created  in  her 
name. 

It  is  quite  in  vain  to  expect  that  men  of  reck- 
less and  licentious  habits,  like  the  majority  of 
soldiers  in  every  country,  will  quietly  resign 
the  supreme  authority  after  having  won  it  at 
the  peril  of  their  lives.  Individuals  sometimes 
may  make  such  a  sacrifice — large  bodies  never 
have,  and  never  will.  The  Proetorian  Guard.s 
of  Rome,  and  the  Janizaries  of  Constantinople, 
have  often  revolted  against  the  reigning  power, 
and  bestowed  the  throne  on  their  own  favourite; 
but  it  has  never  been  found  that  general  free- 
dom was  improved  by  the  result,  or  that  indi- 
viduals were  better  defended  against  oppres- 
sion after  it  than  before. 

Freedom  cannot  be  established  in  a  day  by 
the  successful  issue  of  a  single  revolt. — Its 
growth  is  as  slow  as  that  of  industry  in  the  in- 
dividual :  its  preservation  dependent  on  the  es-  , 
tablishment  of  regular  habits,  and  the  main- 
tenance of  a  courageous  spirit  in  the  people. 
Nothing  can  be  so  destructive  to  these  habits 
as  a  successful  revolt  of  the  soldiery.  The 
ambition  Avhich  it  awakens,  the  sudden  eleva- 
tion which  it  confers,  the  power  which  it  lodges 
in  armed  and  inexperienced  hands,  are,  of  all 
things,  the  most  fatal  to  the  sober,  patient  and 
unobtrusive  habits,  which  are  the  parent  of 
real  freedom.  The  industry,  frugality,  and  mo- 
deration of  pacific  life,  appear  intolerable  to 
men  who  are  dazzled  by  the  glittering  prospect 
of  revolutionary  triumph. 

A  successful  insurrection  in  the  army  lodges 
supreme  authority  at  once  in  an  armed  force- 
No  power  capable  of  counteracting  it  remains. 
The  majesty  of  the  throne,  the  sense  of  duty, 
the  sanctity  of  an  oath,  the  awe  of  the  legiv 
laturo,  have  all  been  set  at  naught.  The  ener- 
gy of  the  citizens  has  never  been  developed, 
because  the  revolt  of  the  soldiers  terminated 
the  contest  before  their  support  was  required. 
The  struggle  has  depended  entirely  between 
the  throne  and  the  army;  the  interest  of  the 
state  can  never  be  promoted  by  the  victory  of 
either  of  these  contending  parties. 

This  is  the  circumstance  which  must  alwayi 


MILITAliV  TUEA.SON   AND  CIVIC  SOLDIERS. 


199 


render  treason  tti  the  army  destructive  to  last- 
in?  freedom.  It  terminates  thestrinr^leatonce, 
before  any  impulse  has  been  communicated  to 
the  unarmed  citizens,  or  they  have  acquired  the 
vigour  and  military  prowess  which  is  alone.ca- 
pable  of  controlling  them.  The  people  merely 
change  masters ;  instead  of  the  king  and  his 
ministers,  they  get  the  general  and  hisolHccrs. 
The  rule  of  the  sovereign  is  looked  back  to 
with  bitter  regret,  when  men  have  tasted  of  the 
severity  of  military  license,  and  experienced 
the  rigour  of  military  execution.  Whereas, 
during  the  vicissitudes  of  a  civil  war,  the  ener- 
gy of  all  classes  is  brought  into  action,  and  the 
chance  of  obtaining  ultimate  freedom  improved 
by  the  very  difficulty  with  which  it  has  been 
won.  The  British  constitution,  the  gradual  re- 
sult of  repeated  contests  between  the  crown 
and  the  people,  has  subsisted  unimpaired  for 
centuries — the  French,  efiected  at  once  by  the 
treachery  of  the  army,  has-  been  as  short-lived 
as  the  popularity  of  its  authors.  There  is  no 
royal  road  to  freedom  any  more  than  to  geo- 
metry; it  is  by  patient  exertion  and  progressive 
additions  to  their  influence,  that  freedom  is  ac- 
quired by  nations  not  less  than  eminence  by 
individuals. 

What  then,  it  may  be  asked,  are  soldiers  to 
do  when  a  sovereign  like  Charles  X.  promul- 
gates ordinances  subversive  of  public  freedom? 
Are  they  to  make  themselves  the  willing  instru- 
ment in  enslaving  their  fellow  citizens  ]  We 
answer,  Certainly;  if  they  have  any  regard  for 
the  ultimate  maintenance  of  their  libertj'.  If 
illegal  measures  have  been  adopted,  let  them 
be  repealed  by  the  civil  authorities  or  by  the 
efforts  of  the  people;  but  never  let  the  soldiers 
take  the  initiative  in  attempting  their  over- 
throw. The  interests  of  liberty  require  this  as 
indispensably  as  those  of  order.  Nothing  short 
of  an  unanimous  declaration  of  the  national 
will  by  the  higher  classes,  should  lead  to  a  de- 
fection from  loj'alty  on  the  part  of  its  sworn 
defenders. 

In  former  times,  no  doubt,  many  examples 
have  occurred  of  the  incipient  eflorts  of  free- 
dom being  entirely  extinguished  by  military 
execution ;  but  no  such  catastrophe  need  bi* 
apprehended  in  countries  where  the  press  is 
established;  the  republicans  themselves  have 
everywhere  proclaimed  this  truth.  The  opi- 
nions n'nd  iiii>T''^ts  of  the  many  must  prevail 
whep-  ill'  r  v.K'-  is  hrard.  The  only  thing  to 
be  feared  lor  them  is  from  their  own  passions. 
The  only  danger  to  liberty  in  such  circum- 
■tanccs  is  from  its  own  defenders ;  the  violence 
to  be  appr'  '  '  '  is  not  that  of  the  throne, 
but  of  «b<- 

IVo  •   this  ran  be  imagin«'d 

than  h  1  by  th<*  r<'rrnt  p-voIu- 

tion  in  France  and  Uelgium.  The  revolt  of  ih«' 
soldier  at  once  established  the  rule  of  th.-?  mob 
in  these  countries,  and  put  nn  end.  for  a  long 
limf  .It  IfasI,  t<>  '    M.     What 

STiiniy  is  Ihfi  i  ly.  life,  or 

iharariorl  Conlessrdly  none;  everything  is 
dcterminfd  by  the  bayonet  «)f  the  National 
Guard  and  army ;  neither  Ihc  throne  nor  the 
Tipoplp  can  wilhvtan"!  ihem.  Freedom  was  as 
iitle  ronfirined  by  ibeir  revolt,  as  at  Constnn- 
inople  by  an  insurrection  of  the  Janizaries. 


liiberty  in  France  was  cmUtn^trrd  for  the  mr^- 
ment  by  the  ordinances  of  the  Bourbons:  it 
has  been  dc^iroyi,!  by  the  insurrection  plannea 
to  overthrow  them.  Freedom,  supported  as  it 
then  was,  by  an  energetic  and  democratic  press, 
and  a  republican  population,  ran  no  risk  of  per- 
manent injury  from  the  intrigues  of  the  court 
A  priest-ridden  monarch,  guided  by  imbecile 
ministers,  could  never  have  subjugated  an 
ardent,  high-spirited,  aad  democratic  people. 

But  the  danger  is  very  different  from  the  en- 
ergy of  the  republicans,  and  the  ambition  of  the 
soldiers.  Marshal  Soult  and  his  bayonets  are 
not  so  easily  dealt  with  as  Prince  i^olignac 
and  his  Jesuits.  The  feeble  monarchy  of 
Louis  XVI.  was  overturned  with  ease  ;  the 
terrible  Committee  of  Public  Safety,  the  des- 
potic Directory,  the  energetic  sway  of  Napo- 
leon, ruled  the  Revolution,  and  crushed  free- 
dom, even  in  its  wildest  fits.  Three  days' 
insurrection  destroyed  the  feeble  government 
of  Charles.  A  revolt  ten  times  more  formi- 
dable was  crushed  with  ease  by  the  military 
power  of  the  Convention. 

Had  the  soldiers  nol  revolted  in  July,  what 
would  have  been  the  consequence  1  The  in- 
surrection in  Paris,  crushed  by  a  garrison  of 
twelve  thousand  men,  would  have  speedily 
sunk.  A  new  Chamber,  convoked  on  the 
basis  of  the  royal  ordinance,  would  have 
thrown  the  ministers  into  a  minority  in  the 
,  Chamber  of  Deputies,  and  by  them  the  obnox- 
ious measure  would  have  been  repealed.  If 
there  is  any  truth  in  the  growing  influence  of 
public  opinion,  so  uniformly  maintained  by 
liberal  writers,  this  must  hav^e  been  the  result. 
No  representatives  chosen  by  any  electors  in 
France,  could  have  withstood  the  odium  which 
supporting  the  measures  of  the  court- would 
have  produced.  Thus  liberty  would  have  been 
secured  without  exciting  the  tempest  which 
threatens  its  own  overthrow.  Public  credit, 
private  confidence,  general  prosperity,  would 
have  been  maintained;  the  peace  of  the  world 
preserved  ;  the  habits  conducive  to  a  state  of 
national  freedom  engendered. 

What  have  been  the  consequences  of  the 
boasted  treachery  of  the  troops  of  the  line  in 
July  !  The  excitation  of  revolutionary  hopes  ; 
the  rousing  of  democratic  ambition  ;  a  ferment 
in  society ;  the  abandonment  of  useful  indus- 
try; the  government  of  the  mob;  the  arming 
of  France;  the  suspension  of  pacific  enterprise. 
A  general  war  must  in  the  end  ensue  iVoin  its 
clfects.  Europe  will  be  drenched  wiili  i>lood, 
and  whatever  be  the  result,  it  will  bi'  equally 
fatal  to  the  cause  of  freedom.  If  the  aristo- 
cracy prevail,  it  will  be  the  government  of  the 
sword  ;   if  the  populaee,  of  the  guillotine. 

A  civil  war  in  France  wou'd  have  been  far 
more  serviceable  to  the  ciiii;c  of  real  liberty 
than  the  sudden  destruction  of  the  government 
by  the  revolt  of  the  army.  In  many  periods 
of  history,  freedom  has  emerged  from  the  col- 
lition  of  (lideieiit  classes  in  society,  in  none 
from  militarv  iusubordinaiion. 

If  Charles  I.  had  possessed  a  resular  armjr. 
and  it  had  betrayed  its  trust  on  the  fust  break- 
ing out  of  the  great  Rebellion.  wouM  the  resull 
I  have  been  as  favouraM--  to  the  cause  of  liberty, 
as  the  long  contest  which  ensued  ?     Nolhine 


800 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


can  be  clearer  than  that  it  would  not.  No 
greater  consequences  -would  have  followed 
such  a  revolt,  than  any  of  the  insurrections  of 
the  barons  af^ainst  the  princes  of  York  and 
Lancaster.  A  revolution  so  easily  achieved, 
would  as  easily  have  been  abandoned:  liberty 
■would  never  have  been  gained,  because  the 
trials  had  not  been  endured  by  which  it  is  to 
be  won.  The  only  security  lor  its  continu- 
ance is  to  be  found  in  the  energy  and  courage 
of  the  citizens :  it  is  not  by  witnessing  the  de- 
struction of  government  by  a  mutinous  soldiery 
that  these  habits  are  to  be  acquired. 

Soldiers,  therefore,  who  adhere  to  their  ho- 
nour and  their  oaths,  are  in  reality  the  best 
friends  of  the  cause  of  freedom.  They  pre- 
vent the  struggle  for  its  maintenance  from 
being  converted  into  a  mortal  combat,  in  which 
the  victory  of  either  party  must  prove  fatal  to 
the  very  object  for  which  they  are  contending. 
They  prevent  the  love  of  independence  from 
being  transformed  into  the  spirit  of  insubordi- 
nation, and  the  efforts  of  freedom  blasted  by 
the  violf.nce  of  popular,  or  the  irresistible 
weight  of  military  ambition.  They  turn  the 
spirit  of  liberty  into  a  pacific  channel;  and 
averting  it  from  that  direction  Avhere  it  falls 
under  the  rule  of  violence,  retain  it  in  that 
where  wisdom  and  foresight  duly  regulate  its 
movements. 

The  institution  of  a.  Nittio7ial  Gi'.ard,  of  which 
so  much  is  now  said,  is  not  less  the  subject 
of  delusion,  than  the  boasted  treachery  of- regu- 
lar soldiers. 

Citizen  soldiers  are  most  valuable  additions 
to  the  force  of  a  regular  army,  and  when  actu- 
ated by  a  common  and  patriotic  feeling,  they  are 
capable  of  rendering  most  effective  service  to 
the  stat( .  The  landwchr  of  Prussia,  and  the  vo- 
lunteers of  Russia,  sufficiently  demonstrated  that 
truth  during  the  campaigns  of  1812  and  1813. 

They  are  a  valuable  force  also  for  preserv- 
ing domestic  tranquillity  vp  to  a  certain  point, 
when  little  real  peril  is  to  be  encountered,  and 
a  display  of  moral  opinion  is  of  more  weight 
than  the  exertion  of  military  prowess.  But 
they  are  a  force  that  cannot  be  relied  on  dur- 
ing the  shades  of  opinion  which  take  place 
in  a  revolution,  and  still  less  in  the  perilous 
strife  which  follows  the  actual  collision  of  one 
class  of  the  state  with  another.  This  has  been 
completely  demonstrated  during  both  theFrench 
Revolutions. 

The  National  Guard  of  Paris  was  first  em- 
bodied on  the  2()th  July,  1789,  a  week  after  the 
capture  of  the  Bastile.  During  the  first  fer- 
vour of  the  revolutionary  ardour,  and  before 
the  strife  of  faction  had  brought  the  opposite 
parties  into  actual  contest,  they  frequently  ren- 
dered efTcctive  service  to  the  cause  of  order. 
On  more  than  one  occasion,  headed  by  Lafa- 
yette, they  dispersed  seditious  assemblages, 
and  once,  in  June,  1792,  were  brought  to  fire 
upon  the  .Jacobins  in  the  Champ  de  Mars.  But 
v,'hcnevcr  matters  approached  a  crisis,  when 
the  want  and  suflcring  consequent  on  a  revo- 
lution had  brought  forward  angry  bodies  of 
workmen  from  the  Fauxbourg;  when  the 
queslKin  was  not  one  of  turning  out  to  parade, 
but  of  li^hling  an  exasperated  multitude,  they 
luiiformly  failed. 


The  citizen  soldiers,  headod  by  Lafayette     i 
were  under  arms  in  great  force  on  the  5th  Oo     I 
tober,  1789,  when  a  furious   rabble  marched    ; 
to   Versailles,  broke   into   and  plundered  the 
palace,  attempted   to  murder  the  queen,  and 
brought  the  Royal  Family  in  captivity  to  Paris, 
preceded  by  the  heads  of  their  faithful  Body 
Guards.    They  refused  for  five  hours  to  listen 
to  the  entreaties  of  their  commander  to  march 
to  protect  the  palace  of  the  king  against  that 
atrocious  insult;  and  when  they  did  go,  were 
too  irresolute  to  prevent  the  violence  which 
followed. 

They  stood  by  on  20th  June,  1792,  when  a 
vociferous  rabble  broke  into  the  hall  of  the 
Assembly,  threatening  the  obnoxious  deputies  ^ 
with  instant  death;  when  they  rushed  into  the  , 
Palace  of  the  Tuileries,  pushed  their  pikes  at  j 
the  breast  of  Louis,  placed  the  Cap  of  Liberty  , 
on  his  head,  and  brought  the  Royal  Family  and  ( 
the  monarchy  into  imminent  danger. 

They  assembled  at  the  sound  of  the  generalc, 
when  the  Faux.bourgs  rose  in  revolt  on  the    > 
10th  August,  and  their  dense  battalions,  plen-    | 
tifully  supported  by  cavalry  and  artillery,  ac- 
cumulated in  great  force  round  the  Tuileries.    , 
But  division,  irresolution,  and  timidity,  para-    , 
lyzed  their  ranks.     First  the  Gendarmerie  de- 
serted to  the  assailants ;  then  the  cannoneers 
unloaded  their  guns ;  several  battalions  next 
joined   the  insurgents,  and   the  few  that  re- 
mained faitlif'ul  were  so  completely  paralyzed    ! 
by  the  general   defection  of  their  comrades,    . 
that  they  were  unable  to  render  any  effective    : 
support  to  the  Swiss  Guard.     From  amidst  a 
forest  of  citizen  bayonets,  the  monarch  was    ; 
dragged  a  captive  to  the  Temple,  and  the  go-    . 
vernment  of  France  yielded  up  to  a  sanguinary    , 
rabble.     Seven  thousand  National  Guards,  on 
that  day,  yielded  up  their  sovereign  to  a  despi- 
cable rabble ;  as  many  hundred  faithful  regulai 
soldiers  in  addition  to  the  heroic  Swiss  Guard 
would  have  established  his  throne  and  pre- 
vented the  Reign  of  Terror. 

\\nien  Lafayette,  indignant  at  the  atrocities 
of  the  Jacobins,  repaired  to  Paris  from  the 
army,  and  assigned  a  rendezvous  at  his  house, 
in  the  evening  of  June  27,  1792,  to  the  Na- 
tional Guard,  of  which  he  had  so  lately  been 
the  popular  commander,  in  order  to  march 
against  the  Jacobin  club,  only  thirty  men 
obeyed  the  summons.  The  immense  majority 
evinced  a  fatal  apathy,  and  surrendered  uf 
their  country,  without  a  struggle,  to  the  empire 
of  tiie  Jacobins. 

When  Louis,  Marie  Antoinette,  and  the 
Princess  Elisabeth,  were  successively  led  out 
to  the  scaflbld ;  when  the  brave  and  virtuous 
Madame  R(dand  became  the  victim  of  the  free- 
dom she  had  worshipped;  when  A'^ergniaud 
and  the  illustrious  leaders  of  the  Gironde 
were  brought  to  the  block;  when  Danlon  and 
Camille  Desmoulins  were  destroyed  by  the 
mob  whom  they  excited,  the  National  Guard 
lined  the  streets  and  attended  the  cars  to  the 
guillotine. 

When  the  executions  rose  to  a  hundred 
daily;  when  the  shopkeepers  closed  their  win- 
dows, to  avoid  witnessing  the  dismal  spectacles 
of  the  long  procession  which  was  approaching 
the  scallold ;  when  a  ditch  was  dug  to  convey  the 


MILITARY  TREASON  AND  CIVIC  SOLDIERS. 


201 


blood  of  the  victims  to  the  Seine ;  when  France 
groaned  under  tyranny,  unequalled  since  the 
bejrinnins:  of  the  vorUI,  lorly  thousand  National 
Guards,  with  arms  in  their  hands,  looked  on  in 
silent  obsen-ation  of  the  mournful  spectacle. 

When  indijrnant  nature  revolted  at  the  cruelty; 
when,  by  a  generous  union,  the  members  of  all 
sides  of  (he  Assembly  united,  the  power  of  the 
tyrants  was  shaken ;  when  Robespierre  was  de- 
clared hors  la  hi,  and  the  pciieralc  was  beat  to 
summon  the  citizen  soldiers  to  make  a  last 
effort  in  behalf,  not  only  of  their  country,  but  of 
theirown  existence,  only  three  thousand  obeyed 
llie  summons  !  Thirty-seven  thousand  declined 
to  come  forward  in  the  contest  for  their  lives, 
their  families,  and  every  thing  that  was  dear  to 
them.  With  this  contemptible  force  was  Robes- 
pierre besieged  in  the  Hotel  de  Yille ;  and  but 
tor  the  fortunate  and  unforeseen  defection  of 
the  cannoneers  of  the  Fauxbourgs  in  the  Place 
de  Greve,  the  tyrants  would  have  been  success- 
ful, the  Assemblj'  destroyed,  and  the  reign  of 
the  euillotine  perpetuated  on  the  earth. 

When  the  reaction  in  favour  of  the  victors, 
on  the  9th  Thermidnr,  had  roused  the  Parisian 
population  against  the  sanguinary  rule  of  the 
Convention;  when,  encouraged  by  the  contempt- 
ible force  at  the  disposal  of  government,  forty 
thousand  of  the  National  Guard  assaulted  five 
thousand  regular  soldiers,  in  position  at  the 
Tuileries,  on  Oct.  31,  1795,  Napoleon  showed 
what  reliance  could  be  placed  on  the  citizen 
soldiers.  With  a  few  discharges  of  artillery  he 
checked  the  advance  of  the  leading  battalions, 
spread  terror  through  their  dense  columns, 
and  a  revolt,  which  was  expected  to  overthrow 
the  tyranny  of  the  delegates  of  the  people,  ter- 
minated by  the  establishment  of  military  des- 
potism. 

When  Augereau,  on  4th  Sept.,  1797,  at  the 
command  of  the  Director}-,  seized  sixty  of  the 
popular  leaders  of  the  legislature ;  when  the 
law  of  the  sword  began,  and  all  the  liberties  of 
the  Revolution  were  about  to  be  sacrificed  at 
the  altar  of  military  violence,  the  National 
Guard  declined  to  move,  and  saw  their  fellow- 
citizens,  the  warmest  supporters  of  their  liber- 
ties, carried  into  captivity  and  exile,  without 
attcmpiinfl;  a  movement  in  their  behalf. 
'  When  Napoleon  overthrew  the  government 
in  ISOO;  when,  like  another  Cromwell,  he 
Kcind  ill'  "Miits  of  another  IJevolulion  ;  when 
he  m.iiri,.  I  his  grenadiers  into  the  counril  of 
I  Five  Hundred,  and  made  the  stem  rule  of  the 
sword  succeed  to  the  visions  of  enthusiastic 
Ifrccdom,  the  National  Guanl  n-mained  quiet 
rs  of  the  dfstrurtion  of  tli 
.  and  testified  the  same  •^ 
tho  rei:.'n  of  military,  which  they  had  done  lo 
that  nf 'I'-ni 'cratic  violence. 

Th"  .\  'innal  Guard  was  rc-oreanizcd  in 
|Au7ii  r,  1h:!(),  and  ih'-irr.     '  • 

Ihas  1,1  .fi   thr  Kilbjert  of  1, 

from  all  th''  1:1 -ral  journals  ol  K.nropr.  Jhe 
throne  wav  c.stablisnrd  by  their  bayonets;  the 
Citizen  King  has  thrown  himself  upon  their 
support ;  they  were  established  in  great  force 
m  every  quarter  of  Paris,  and  the  public  Iran- 
Quillitv  intrusted  to  tlii-ir  hamls.  History  has 
a  riirht  to  inqtiire  what  thry  have  dnuf  to  justify 
the  high  praises  of  their  supporters,  and  how 


far  the  cause  of  order  and  rational  libertv  has 
gained  by  their  exertions. 

They  had  the  history  of  the  former  Revolc 
tion  clearly  before  their  eyes  ;  they  knew  well, 
by  dear-bought  experience,  that  when  popular 
violence  is  once  loused,  it  overthrows  all  the 
bulwarks  both  of  order  and  freedom  ;  they 
were  supported  by  all  the  weight  of  covcni- 
ment:  they  had  ever)'  thing  at  stake,  in  keep- 
ing down  the  ferment  of  the  people.  With  so, 
many  motives  to  vigorous  action,  what  have 
they  done  1 

They  permitted  an  unruly  mob  of  thirty 
thousand  persons  to  assemble  round  the  I'alace 
of  Louis  Philippe,  on  October  25,  1830,  and  so 
completely  shatter  his  infant  authority,  that  he 
was  obliged  to  dismiss  the  able  and  philosophic 
Guizot,  the  greatest  historian  of  France,  and 
the  whole  cabinet  of  the  Dodrinnires,  from  his 
councils,  to  make  wa}'  for  republican  leaders 
of  sterner  mould,  and  better  adapted  to  the  in- 
creasing violence  of  the  popular  mind. 

At  the  trial  of  Polignac,  the  whole  National 
Guard  of  Paris  and  the  departments  in  the 
neighbourhood,  seventy  thousand  strong,  was 
assembled  in  the  capital ;  and  what  was  the 
proof  which  the  government  gave  of  confidence 
in  their  loyalty  and  etnciency  in  the  cause  of 
order  1  Albeit  encamped,  as  Lafayette  said,  at 
the  Luxembourg,  amidst  twenty  thousand  Na- 
tional Guards,  four  tiiousand  troops  of  the  line, 
three  thousand  cavalry,  ai.d  forty  pieces  of  ar- 
tillery, the  government  did  vot  venture  to  with- 
draw the  state  prisoners  to  Vincennes  in  day- 
light ;  and,  but  for  the  stratagem  of  Montalivet, 
in  getting  them  secretly  conveyed  away  in  the 
middle  of  the  night,  in  his  own  caleche,  from 
the  midst  of  that  vast  encampment  of  citizen 
soldiers,  they  would  have  been  murdered  in 
the  street,  within  sight  of  that  verj'  supreme 
tribunal  which  had  pronounced  that  sentence, 
and  saved  their  lives. 

At  that  critical  moment,  the  cannoneers  of 
the  National  Guard,  placed  with  their  pieces  at 
the  Louvre,  declared,  that,  if  inatti-rs  rame  to 
extremities,  they  would  have  turned  their  can- 
non a'^niiixt  the  government.  (Jrent  ]>art  of 
the  infantry,  it  was  found,  could  not  be  relied 
on.  The  agitation  occasioned  by  these  events 
produced  another  change  in  the  ministry,  but 
no  additional  sectirily  to  the  throne. 

In  February  last,  the  National  (Jiiard  joined 
the  populace  in  pillaging  the  palace  of  the 
Archbishop  of  Paris;  and  joining  in  the  in- 
fernal cry  against  every  species  of  religion, 
scaled  everi'  steeple  in  Paris,  with  saerilrgions 
down  the  cross  from  their  siimmiis, 
lecd  their  uniforms  by  e(l;inng  the 
linage  of  our  Saviour  in  all  the  churches  in 
the  metropolis.  The  apathy  and  irresoliilion 
of  the  National  (Jiiard  in  repressing  the  disor- 
'  r  of  the  populace  on  this  oce  ■  ''-h 

to  call  for  a  reproof  even  !>.  r 

<l«'nt  suppnrlersof  republican  11  •    'Jhf 

consequence  has  been  a  third  c'-....-        '■  minis 
tcrs  in  little  more  than  six  monihi. 

The  Paris  journals  are  dnilv  M'    ''  '     '!is 
tress  (>f  the  labourinir  rlav--'-'-,  il"'  ^n 

of  commercial  enterprisi-,  ih*'  want  ft  r.'nfi- 
dence.  and  the  disgraceful  tumults  which  in 
cessantly  agitate  the  public  mind,  and  have 


209 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  EeiSA^S. 


prevented  the  resumption  of  any  industrial 
occupation.  All  this  takes  place  in  tlic  midst, 
and  under  the  eye  of  fifty  thousand  National 
Guards,  in  the  city  alone. 

History  will  record  that  the  National  Guard 
of  France  was  instituted  in  1789,  for  the  con- 
solidation of  free  institutions,  and  the  preserva- 
tion of  public  tranquillity. 

Tiiat  since  its  establishment, the  government 
and  prevailing  institutions  have  been  the  sub- 
ject of  incessant  change;  that  they  have  had 
in  turn  a  constitutional  monarchy,  a  fierce  de- 
mocracy, a  sceptre  of  blood,  a  militar)'  consti- 
tution, a  despotic  consulate,  an  imperial  throne, 
a  regulated  monarchy,  and  a  citizen  king. 

That  during  their  guardianship,  a  greater 
number  of  lives  have  perished  in  civil  war — 
a  greater  number  of  murders  taken  place  on 
the  scaffold — a  greater  extent  of  confiscation 
of  fortune  been  inflicted — a  greater  quantity 
of  wealth  destroyed — a  greater  degree  of  vio- 
lence exerted  by  the  people — a  greater  sum  of 
anguish  endured — than  in  an  equal  extent  of 
time  and  population,  in  any  age  or  country, 
since  the  beginning  of  the  Atorld ! 

That  it  has  almost  invariably  failed  at  the  de- 
cisive m(.ment;  that,  instituted  for  the  defence 
of  property,  it  has  connived  at  unheard-of  spo- 
liation ;  appointed  for  the  preservation  of  order, 
its  existence  has  been  chiefly  signalized  by 
misrule;  charged  with  the  defence  of  life,  it 
has  permitted  blood  to  flow  in  ceaseless  tor- 
rents. 

Nothing  therefore  can  be  more  unfounded 
in  fact,  than  the  applause  so  generally  bestowed 
on  this  popular  institution,  considered  as  the 
sole  or  principal  support  of  government. — It 
has  been  of  value  only  as  an  auxiliary  to  the 
regular  force ;  it  is  utterly  unserviceable  in 
the  crisis  of  civil  warfare ;  and  is  then  only 
of  real  utility  when  some  common  patriotic 
feeling  has  sunk  all  minor  shades  of  opinion 


in  one  general  emotion. 


It- is  impossible  it  ever  should  be  otherwise 
— citizen  soldiers  are  extremely  serviceable 
when  they  are  subjected  to  the  bonds  of  dis- 
cipline, and  obedient  to  the  orders  of  the 
supreme  power.  But  when  they  take  upon 
themselves  to  discuss  the  measures  or  form 
V)f  government,  and  instead  of  obeying  orders 
to  canvass  principles,  there  is  an  end  not  only 
of  all  eflSciency  in  their  force,  but  of  all  utility 
in  their  institution.  Fifty  thousand  legislators, 
with  bayonets  in  their  hands,  form  a  hopeless 
National  Assembly. 

This  is  the  circumstance  which,  in  every 
decisive  crisis  between  the  opposing  parties, 
paralyzed  the  National  Guard  of  Paris,  and  to 
the  end  of  lime  will  paralyze  all  volunteer 
troops  in  similar  extremities:  They  shared  in 
the  opinions  of  their  fellow-citizens  ;  they  were 
members  of  clubs,  as  well  as  the  unarmed 
multitude;  they  were  as  ready  to  fight  with 
each  other,  as  with  the  supporters  of  anarchy. 
The  batta.iotis  drawn  from  the  Fauxhourg  8t. 
Germains  or  the  quarters  of  the  Palais  Royal, 
and  the  Chaussee  d'Antin,  were  disposed  to 
support  the  monarchy ;  but  those  from  the 
Fauxhourg  St.  Antoine  and  St.  Marceau,  were 
as  determined  to  aid  the  cause  of  democracy; 
and  ir   thio  divided  stale,  the  battalions  of  a 


democratic  cast,  from  their  stlperior  numbcni 
acquired  a  fatal  ascendency. 

The  case  would  be  the  same  in  London  if  i 
similar  crisis  should  arrive.  The  battalion; 
from  the  Regent  Park,  Regent  Street,  Picca- 
dilly, the  West  End,  and  all  the  opuleni 
quarters,  might  be  relied  on  to  support  th« 
cause  of  order;  but  what  could  be  expected 
from  those  raised  in  Wapping,  Deptford,  St 
Giles,  Spitalfields,  or  all  the  innumerable  lane; 
and  alleys  of  the  city,  and  its  eastern  suburbs  1 
If  the  National  Guard  of  London  were  an 
hundred  thousand  strong,  at  least  twenty  thou- 
sand of  them  would,  from  their  habits,  incli- 
nations, and  connections,  side,  on  the  first  real 
crisis,  with  the  democratic  party.  j 

It  is  a  fatal  delusion  to  suppose  that  at-  all' 
events,  and  in  all  circumstances,  the  National 
Guard  would  be  inclined  to  support  the  cause 
of  order,  and  prevent  the  depredation  from 
which  they  would  be  first  to  suffer : — They  un- 
questionably would  be  inclined  to  do  so  up  tc 
a  certain  point  of  danger,  and  as  long  as  they 
believed  that  the  ruling  power  in  the  state  was 
likely  to  prove  victorious.  But  no  sooner  does 
the  danger  become  more  urgent,  no  soonei' 
does  the  government  run  the  risk  of  defeat 
than  the  National  Guard  is  paralyzed,  from  the' 
very  circumstance  of  its  being  in  ■-->■■*  pan 
composed  of  men  of  properly.     'I  t  ca- 

pitalist is  the  most  timid  animal  m  cxi^jtence: 
next  comes  the  great  shopkeeper,  lastly  the' 
little  tradesman.  Their  resolution  is  inversely 
as  their  wealth.  In  all  ages,  desperate  daring' 
valour  has  been  found  in  the  greatest  degree' 
amongst  the  lowest  class  of  society.  The 
multiplied  enjoyments  of  life  render  men  un- 
willing to  incur  the  risk  of  losing  them. 

No  sooner,  therefore,  does  the  democratic 
party  appear  likely  to  become  victorious,  than 
the  shopkeepers  of  the  National  Guard  begin 
to  think  only  of  extricating  their  private  affairs 
from  the  general  ruin.  Savve  qui  pcf.t  is  then, 
if  not  the  general  cry,  at  least  the  general  feel- 
ing. The  merchant  sees  before  him  a  dismal 
vista  of  sacked  warehouses  and  burnt  stores; 
the  manufacturer,  of  insurgent  workmen  and 
suspended  orders;  the  tradesman,  of  pillaged 
shops  and  ruined  custom.  Despairing  of  the 
commonwealth,  ihey  recur,  as  all  men  do  in 
evident  peril,  to  the  imerring  instinct  of  self- 
preservation  ;  and  from  the  magnitude  of  their 
stake,  fall  under  the  influence  of  this  appre- 
hension long  before  it  has  reached  the  lower 
and  more  reckless  classes  of  society. 

Admirable,  therefore,  as  an  auxiliary  to  the 
regular  force  in  case  of  peril  from  foreign  in- 
vasion, a  National  Guard  is  not  to  be  relied  on 
during  the  perils  and  division*  of  civil  con- 
flict. It  always  has,  and  always  will  fail  in 
extremit}',  when  a  war  of  opinion  agitates  the 
state. 

The  only  sure  support  of  order  in  such 
unha]ipy  circumstances  is  to  be  found  in  a 
numerous  and  honourable  body  of  regular  sol 
diers.  Let  not  the  sworn  defender  of  order  be 
tainted  by  the  revolutionary  maxim,  that  the 
duties  of  the  citizen  are  superior  to  those  of 
the  soldier,  and  that  nature  formed  them  as 
men,  before  society  made  them  warriors.  The 
first  duty  of  a  soldier,  the  iirsl  principle  of 


ARNOLDS  ROME. 


SHKi 


military  brncur,  is  fidelity  to  the  executive 
power.  In  crushing^  an  insurrection  of  the 
populace  in  a  mixed  government,  he  is  not 
enslavmg  his  fellow-citizens ;  he  is  only  turn- 
ing the  efforts  of  freedom  into  their  proper 
channel,  and  preventing  the  contest  of  opinion 
from  dt'sencrating  into  that  of  force.  Liberty 
has  as  much  to  hope  from  his  success  as  tran- 


quillity :  nothing  is  so  fatal  to  its  f  flabiishmenl 
as  the  vitilcnce  exerted  fur  its  e<lciision.  In 
this  as  in  other  instances,  it  is  not  lawful  to 
do  evil  that  good  may  come  of  it ;  and  phi- 
losophy will  at  length  discover,  what  reason 
and  religion  have  long  ago  taught,  that  the 
only  secure  foundation  for  ultimate  cipedi 
ence,  is  the  present  discharge  of  duty. 


APxXOLD'S   ROME.* 


Thb  history  of  Rome  will  remain,  to  the  lat- 
est age  of  the  world,  the  most  attractive,  the 
most  useful,  and  the  most  elevating  subject  of 
human  contemplation.  It  must  ever  form  the 
basis  of  a  liberal  and  enlightened  education  ; 
it  must  ever  present  the  most  important  object 
10  the  contemplation  of  the  statesman  ;  it  must 
ever  exhibit  the  most  heart-stirring  record  to 
the  heart  of  the  soldier.  Modern  civilization, 
the  arts,  and  the  arms,  the  freedom  and  the  in- 
stitutions of  Europe  around  us,  are  the  bequest 
of  the  Roman  legions.  The  roads  which  we 
travel  are,  in  many  places,  those  which  these 
indomitable  pioneers  of  civilization  first  cleared 
through  the  wilderness  of  nature  ;  the  language 
which  we  speak  is  more  than  half  derived  from 
Roman  words  ;  the  laws  by  which  we  are  pro- 
tected have  found  their  purest  fountains  in  the 
treasures  of  Roman  jurisprudence;  the  ideas 
in  which  we  glory  are  to  be  found  traced  out 
in  the  fire  of  young  conception  in  the  Roman 
writers.  In  vain  docs  the  superficial  acquire- 
ment, or  shallow  variety,  of  modern  liberalism 
seek  to  throw  off  the  weight  of  obligation  to  the 
gran'i'iir  or  virtue  of  antiquity;  in  vain  are 
we  t'  1.1  that  useful  knowledge  is  alone  worthy 
of  cultivation,  that  ancient  fables  have  gone 
past,  and  that  tjie  study  of  physical  science 
shonlil  supersed'^  that  of  ihf  ancient  authors. 
E.\  r  of  error,  is  per- 

!  pe.  I  ds  the  inestimable 

1  importance  of  Roman  history.    The  more  that 
our  institutions  become  liberalized,  the  more 
I  rapid  the  strides  which   popular  u\pns  make 
I  ami'ir.'-t  us,  ihf  :  ilo  we  cliiii:  tn  itv 

I  animl     t.f  a  ^tn'  ■rweiil  exactly  lii 

I  eain  illered  thccon!iequenrc>ii>f 

th«'  ^ s ;  ,T'>i  '•  ••  •■>.,rc  that  wc  ex- 
perience the  insecurity,  i  lines<(,nnd  the 
rap 
ly  .' 
Ai>n\  with  whii-h  the  great  :   nnti- 

qnify.  by  a  word  or  an  cj:  ..  :.      ,;cd  its 

character,  or  revealed  it.<i  irndcncy. 

T'  somrth  '   •       '  '        :  '     -'v 

pri  !.  in  il)«»  ,1. 

tiini-  Tli>- hiv- 

tor)*  ot  ,  .irly  to  the 

ricissitudes  of  prosperity  and  diimster,  of  good 


•nUlorv  of  R«>nii' 

M»»irrc>rnM 

Votnc.     I.oii.l'iti     I.   I 
riilne.  Aiiguni,  I'^SS 


Hv  'n»<>m>»»   Arnnt'l.  T»   P  .  fli-tf! 


and  evil  fortune,  which  we  observe  in  the  na- 
tions of  the  world  at  this  time.  The  brilliant 
meteor  of  Athenian  greatness  disappeared  from 
the  world  almost  as  soon  as  the  bloody  phantas- 
magoria of  the  French  Revolution.  In  half-a 
century  after  they  arose,  naught  remained  of 
either  but  the  works  of  genius  they  had  pro- 
duced, and  the  deeds  of  glor)-  they  had  done. 
The  wonders  of  Napoleon's  reign  faded  as  ra- 
pidly as  the  triumphs  of  the  Macedonian  con- 
queror; and  the  distant  lustre  of  Babylon  and 
Nineveh  is  faintly  recalled  by  the  ephemeral 
dynasties  which  have  arisen,  under  the  pres- 
sure of  Arabian  or  Mogul  conquest,  in  the  re- 
gions of  the  east  in  modem  times.  But,  in  the 
Roman  annals,  a  different  and  mightier  system 
developes  itself.  From  the  infancy  of  the  re- 
public, from  the  days  even  of  the  kings,  and  the 
fabulous  reigns  of  Romulus  and  Nuiiia.an  un- 
broken progress  is  exhibited  which  never  ex- 
perienced a  permanent  reverse  till  the  eagles 
of  tne  republic  had  crossed  the  Euphrates,  and 
all  the  civilized  world,  from  'he  wall  of  Anlo- 
nius  to  the  foot  of  Mount  Allis,  was  subjected 
to  their  arms.  Their  reverses,  equally  with 
their  triumphs — their  defeats,  alike  with  their 
victories — their  infant  struggles  with  the  cities 
of  Latium,  not  less  than  their  later  contests 
with  Carthage  and  Milhridates^-contribiitfd  tr> 
develope  their  sireiigth,  and  .inav  bi-  r 
as  the  direct  causes  of  their  doiiiiiiinn. 
in  the  long  wars  with  the  Etruscan  and  8am- 
nitc communities  that  tin-  discipline  and  tactics 
were  slowly  and  |)ainfully  arquirctl,  which  en- 
•I)  to  fare  the  banded  slrrn:;th  of  the 
I  lian    cnnfedrracy, — and    in    the   des- 

P'-ralc  struggle  with  Hannibal,  that  the  resolu- 
tion and  ,vkill  were  drawn  forth  which  so  soon, 
on  its  Icrminntion,  gave  them  the  empire  of  the 
■  !.     The  durability  of  the  fa:  in 

rtion   to  the   tardiness  of  its  .nnd 

ihr  soliditv  of  its  m.'iterinls.     The  iwi  i\c  vul 
lures  which  Rnmulus  beheld  on  llie    I'.ilaiine 
Hill  were  emblematic  of  the  twelve  r<ntnries 
which  behfld  the  existence  of  ll 
wevt;    and  it  re()uire<l  a  ihon 
of  rorniption  and  derlin*'  to  i 
east  thi-i  brilliant  rmpirf,  wli 
by  the   genius  of  Conslantin 
riches  and  matchless  situ  • 
ft  pfMintrrpoisc  to  all  the  ' 

ers,  and  all  the  ferocity  ut  tiu; 


the 


the 
•  •••tm, 

'it.il 
vthiao 


in 


I      It  is  remarkable  that  lime  has  not  yet  pro 


904 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


dnccd  a  history  of  this  wonderful  people  com- 
mensurate either  to  their  dignitj-,  their  import- 
ance, or  their  intimate  connection  with  modern 
institutions.  The  pictured  pages  and  matchless 
descriptions  of  Livy,  indeed,  will,  to  the  end 
of  the  world,  fascinate  the  imagination  and 
subdue  the  hearts  of  men  ;  but  it  is  a  fragment 
only  of  his  great  work  which  has  descended  to 
our  times ;  and  even  when  complete,  it  came 
down  only  to  the  time  of  Augustus,  and  broke 
off  exactly  at  the  period  when  nations,  arrived 
at  the  stage  of  existence  to  which  we  have 
grown,  arc  most  interested  in  its  continuance. 
The  condensed  wisdom,  energetic  expressions, 
and  practical  experience  of  Sallust  and  Taci- 
tus, apply  only  to  detached  periods  of  the  later 
annals ;  and,  though  not  a  page  of  their  im- 
mortal works  can  be  read  without  suggesting 
reflections  on  the  extraordinary  political  saga- 
city which  they  had  acquired  from  experience, 
or  received  from  nature,  yet  we  shall  look  in 
vain,  in  the  fragments  of  this  work  which  have 
survived  the  wreck  of  time,  for  a  connected 
detail  even  of  the  later  periods  of  Roman  story. 
The  moderns  appear  to  have  been  deterred,  by 
the  exquisite  beauty  of  these  fragments  of  an- 
cient history,  from  adventuring  at  all  on  the 
same  field.  Ferguson's  is  considered  by  the 
English,  and  admitted  by  the  Germans,  to  be 
the  best  connected  history  of  the  Republic 
which  exists ;  but  not  only  does  it  embrace 
merely,  with  adequate  fulness,  the  period  from 
the  rise  of  the  Gracchi  to  the  ascent  of  the 
throne  by  Augustus,  but  it  does  not  contain  the 
views,  nor  is  it  dictated  by  the  practical  ac- 
quaintance with  human  affairs  which  is  neces- 
sary for  a  real  history  of  Roman  policy.  The 
Scotch  professor  has,  with  much  ability,  illus- 
trated the  contests  of  Sylla  and  Marius,  of  Cce- 
sar  and  Pompey ;  but  he  lived  in  a  pacific  age, 
amidst  the  unbroken  seclusion  of  an  academi- 
cal life,  and,  consequently,  could  not  possibly 
attain  those  clear  and  decisive  views  of  the 
tendency  and  springs  of  action,  in  civil  con- 
tests, which  are  brought  home  to  the  minds  of 
the  most  illiterate  by  the  storms  and  crimes  of 
a  revolution. 

Niebuhr  is  universally  allowed  to  have 
opened  a  new  era  in  the  early  history  of  the 
Republic.  Before  his  time  historians  Avere 
content  with  adopting,  without  examination, 
the  legends  which,  in  the  Roman  annals,  passed 
for  the  narrative  of  real  events,  and,  despairing 
of  adding  any  thing  to  their  beauty,  simpl}' 
preseiiiei!  their  readers  with  a  translation  of 
Livy  and  Dionysius.  Dissatisfied  with  such  a 
mode  of  recording  the  progress  of  so  celebrated 
a  people,  Ferguson  rejected  the  eai-ly  legends 
altogether,  and  passing,  in  the  most  cursory 
and  unsatisfactory  manner  over  the  first  five 
hundred  years  of  Roman  storj',  professed  him- 
self unable  todiscover  firm  historic  ground  till 
he  came  down  to  the  second  Punic  war.  But 
neither  of  these  methods  of  treating  the  subject 
suited  the  searching  eye  and  inquisitive  mind 
f.rHie  German  historian.  Possessed  of  extraor- 
dinary learning,  and  a  matchless  faculty  of 
drawing,  Avith  intuitive  sagacity,  important 
historical  and  political  conclusions  from  de- 
tached and,  to  ordinary  observers,  unmeaning 
details  of  subordinate  historians,  he  has  con- 


trived to  rear  up  from  comparatively  authentic 
data,  a  veracious  picture  of  the  early  Roman 
annals.  Instead  of  rejecting  in  despair  the 
whole  history  prior  to  the  invasion  of  the  Gauls 
as  a  mass  of  fables,  erected  by  the  vanity  of  pa- 
trician families,  and  adopted  by  the  credulity 
of  an  vminformed  people,  he  has  succeeded  in 
supporting  a  large  portion  of  those  annals  by 
unquestionable  evidence ;  and  stripping  it  only, 
in  some  parts,  of  those  colours  which  the  elo-, 
quence  of  Livy  has  rendered  immortal,  for  the 
improvement  and  delight  of  mankind.  It  is  a 
common  reproach  against  this  great  antiquary,; 
that  he  has  overthrown  the  whole  early  history; 
of  Rome,  but  no  reproach  was  ever  more  un-j 
founded.  In  truth,  as  Dr.  Arnold  has  justly 
observed,  it  must  be  evident  to  every  one  ac- 
quainted Avith  the  subject,  that  he  has  built  up 
much  more  than  he  has  destroyed,  and  fixed  on 
firm  historic  grounds  a  vast  deal  which  the  in- 
quisitive eye  of  modern  skepticism  was  in- 
clined to  lay  aside  as  entirely  fictitious.  No 
stronger  proof  of  this  can  be  desired  than  is  to 
be  found  in  the  fact,  that  while  Ferguson  began^ 
his  history  as  authentic  only  with  the  exploits 
of  Hannibal,  Niebuhr  has  deemed  it  certain 
that  historical  truth  is  to  be  found  not  only 
under  the  kings,  but  so  early  as  Ancus  Martius.; 

It  is  inconceivable,  indeed,  how  it  ever  could] 
have  been  seriously  believed  that  the  annalS' 
of  the  kings  were  entirely  fictitious,  when  the. 
Cloaca  Maxima  still  exists,  a  durable  monu-' 
ment  both  of  the  grandeur  of  conception  and, 
power  of  execution  which  at  that  early  period: 
had  distinguished  the  Roman  people.  Two; 
thousand  five  hundred  years  have  elapsed 
since  this  stupendous  work  was  executed,  U 
drain  the  waters  of  the  Forum  and  adjacent^ 
hollows  to  the  Tiber;  and  there  it  stands  al 
this  day,  without  a  stone  displaced,  still  per- 
forming its  destined  service!  Do  any  of  the 
edifices  of  Paris  or  London  promise  an  equal 
duration  1  From  the  moment  that  we  beheld 
that  magnificent  structure,  formed  of  the  aclual 
stone  of  the  eternal  city,  all  doubts  as  to  the 
authenticity  of  Roman  annals,  so  far,  at  least, 
as  they  portray  a  powerful  flourishing  kingdom 
anterior  to  the  Republic,  vanished  from  our 
minds.  If  nothing  else  remained  to  attest  the 
greatness  of  the  kings  at  this  period  but  the 
Cloaca  Maxima  and  the  treaty  with  Carthage 
in  the  first  year  of  the  Republic,  it  would  be 
sufficient  to  demonstrate  that  the  basis  of  the 
early  history  of  the  kings  was  to  be  found  in 
real  events.  And  this  Niebuhr,  after  the  most 
minute  and  critical  examination,  has  declared 
to  be  his  conviction. 

Doubtless,  the  same  historic  evidence  does 
not  exist  for  the  romantic  and  captivating  pari 
of  early  Roman  history.  We  cannot  assert 
that  we  have  good  evidence  that  Romulus 
fought,  or  that  Numa  prayed;  that  Ancus  con- 
quered, or  that  Tarquin  oppressed;  that  the 
brethren  of  the  Horatii  saved  their  country,  or 
Curtius  leaped  headlong  into  the  gulf  in  the 
Forum.  The  exquisite  story  of  Lucretia;  the 
heart-stirring  legend  of  Corioli;  the  invasion 
of  Porscnna,  the  virtue  of  Cincinnatus,  the 
siege  of  Veirr,  the  deliverance  of  Camillus,  are 
probably  all  founded  in  some  degree  on  reai 
events,  but  they  have  come  down  to  our  time* 


I 


ARNOLD'S  KO.ME. 


205 


glowing  with  the  genius  of  the  ancirnt  histori- 
ans, ami  j^iided  by  the  colours  wiiich  malchlcss 
eloquence  has  coiniminicated  to  tlie  additions 
•s-ith  which  the  fondness  of  national  or  family 
vanity  had  clothed  the  artless  narrative  of 
early  times.  Simplicity  is  the  invariable  cha- 
racteristic of  the  infancy  of  the  ^vorld.  Homer 
and  Job  are  often  in  the  highest  degree  both 
pathetic  and  sublime;  but  they  are  so  just 
because  they  arc  utterly  unconscious  of  any 
such  merits,  and  aimed  only  at  the  recital  of 
real  events.  The  glowing  pages  and  beautiful 
episfnles  of  Livy  are  as  evidently  subsequent 
addiiuins  as  the  pomp  and  majesty  of  Ossian 
are  to  the  meager  ballads  of  Caledonia. 

But  it  is  of  no  moment  either  to  the  great 
objects  of  historical  inquiry  or  the  future 
improvement  and  elevation  of  the  species, 
whether  the  Roman  legends  can  or  cannot  be 
supported  by  historical  evidence.  It  is  suffi- 
cient that  they  cxifl,  to  render  them  to  the  end 
of  the  world  the  most  delightful  subject  of  study 
for  youth,  not  the  least  useful  matter  for  con- 
templation in  maturer  years.  They  may  not 
be  strictly  historical,  but  rely  upon  it  they  are 
founded  in  the  main  upon  a  correct  picture  of 
llie  manners  and  ideas  of  the  time.  Amadis 
of  Gaul  is  not  a  true  story,  but  it  conve)-s, 
nevertheless,  a  faithful  though  exaggerated 
picture  of  the  ideas  and  manners  of  the  chi- 
valrous ages.  -There  is,  probably,  the  same 
truth  in  the  Roman  legends  that  there  is  in 
Achilles  and  Agamemnon — in  Front  de  Boeuf, 
Richard  Cceur  de  Lion,  and  Ivanhoc.  We  will 
not  find  in  Roman  story  a  real  Lucretia  or  Vir- 
ginia, any  more  than  in  British  history  a 
penuine  Rebecca  or  Jeanie  Deans ;  but  the 
characters  are  not  the  less  founded  in  the 
actual  manners  and  spirit  of  the  times.  It  is 
of  little  moment  to  us  whether  Romulus  watch- 
ed the  twelve  emblematic  ^'^^ltures  on  the  Pa- 
le  Hill,  or  Numa  consulted  Egeria  in  the  i 
ies  of  the  Campagna,  or  Veia;  was  stormed 
through  the  mine  sprung  in  the  Temple  of 
Juno,  or  the  Roman  ambassador  thnist  his 
hand  into  the  fire  before  Porsenna,  or  Lucretia, 
in  inlj'nt,  plunged  the  dagger 
ther  than  survive  the  honour 
01  her  house.  It  is  sufTicicnt  that  a  people 
have  existed,  to  whom  the  patriotic  devotion, 
the  individual  heroism,  the  high  resolves,  the 
undani      '  "iition   portrayed  in   iheso  im-! 

inoriai  ,  were  so  familiar,  that  they 

had  bl<n(kd  with  mal  events,  were  believed  to 
he  true,  because  they  were  fell  to  be  credible, 
and  formed  part  of  their  tradilionnl  annals. 
No  other  people  ever  p'  '    n  '     '  ' 

of  thr  same  n<>hle,  hear 

nnt)-',   ti"i-,rr '•    d    !,>•   oilier    Were    stai 
n  tin-  rlinr.T '.-r  il'    'iiied  lo  win,  and  W' 
to  hoM,  the  iiMpirc  of  the  worhl.    To  the  latest 
limes  the  h;  :..ry  of  infant  Rome,  with  nil  its 
»t;endaiil   !••.'•  nds,  must,  therefore,  form  the 
Bi'i  •    ■l<'7atii)g  '''t  for  il  ■ 

sinieii..n    of   \         .  iig    n   f.i 

picture,  if  not  of  the  actual  rvcnis  of  that  in- 
teresling  period,  nt  least  of  the  ideas  and  fecl- 
ingRthen  prevalent  nmonest  a  nation  called  lo 
such  exalt"-, 1  .!•  •        ■       .  •  ,„. 

feocd  With  a  siDi  it 


no  other  people  will  ever  cither  emulate  their 
fame,  or  approach  to  their  achievements. 

IS'otwithsianding  the  high  place  which  we 
have  assigned  to  IS'icbuhr  in  the  elucidation 
and  confirmation   of    early   Roman    history, 
nothing  can  be  more  apparent  than  that  his 
work  never  will  take  its  place  as  a  p.^pular 
history  of  the   Kepnhlic,  and  never  rival  in 
general  estimation   the  fascinating  pages  of 
Livy.     No  one  can  read  it  for  half  an  hour 
without  being  satisfied  of  that  fact.    Invalu- 
able to  the  scholar,  the  antiquarj-,  the  philolo- 
gist, it  has  no  charms  for  the  great  mass  of 
readers,  and  conveys  no  sort  of  idea  to  the  un- 
learned student  of  the  consecutive  chain  of 
events  even  among  the  very  people  whose  his- 
tory it  professes  to  portray.     In  this  respect  it 
labours  under  the  same  fault  which  is,  in  a  less 
degree,  conspicuous  in  the  philosophic  pages 
of  Sir  James  Mackintosh's  English   history; 
that  it  pre-supposes  an  intimate  acquaintance 
with  the  subject  in  the  reader,  and  is  to  all, 
not   nearly  as  well  versed  in  it  as  himself, 
either  in  great  part  unintelligible,  or  intolerably 
dull.     Heercn,    whose    labours    have    thrown 
such  a  flood  of  light  on  the  Persian,  Egyptian, 
and  Carthaginian  states,  has  justly  remarked 
thaf  Niebuhr,  with  all  his  aculeness,  is  to  be 
regarded  rather  As  an  essayist  on  histor}-,  than 
an  actual  historian.     He  has  elucidated  with 
extraordinary  learning  and  skill  several  of  the 
most  obscure  subjects  in  Roman  annals  ;  and 
on  many,  especially  the  vital  subjects  of  the 
Agrarian  law,  struck  out  ncAV  lights,  which,  if 
known  at  all  to  the  later  writers  of  the  empire, 
had  been  entirely  lost  during  the  change  of 
manners  and  ideas  consequent  on  the  Gothic 
conquests.     But  his  work  is  in  many  places 
so  obscure,  and    so    inuch    overloaded   with 
names,  and  subjects,  and  disquisitions,  in  greal 
part  unknown  to  readers,  even  of  fair  classi- 
cal attainments  and  extensive  general  know- 
ledge, that  it  never  can  lake  ils  place  among 
the  standard  histories  of  the  world.     He  is 
totally  destitute  of  two  qualities  indispensable 
to  a  great  historian,  and  particularlv  conspi- 
cuous in  the  far-famed  annalists  <  •  '\\y 
— powers  of  description,  and  the  li  al- 
ing   eye,  which,  touching  on   every  subject, 
brings  those  prominently  forward  only  which, 
from  their  intrinsic  importance,  should  attract 
the   attention   of  the  reader.     He   works  out 
ever)'  thing  with  equal  care  and  niinuleness, 
and,  in  consequi-nce,  the  impression  produced 
on  the  mind  of  an  ordinary  reader,  is  so  con- 
fused, as  to  amount  almost  to  nothing.    Like 
Perele  or  Waterloo,  in  the  imitation  t>f  nature, 
iiid    landscajie  painting,  and   historical    de- 
ripiion  in  this  particular  are  governed  l>v  iho 
line  jtrineiples,)  he  works  cuit  the  details  of 
each  individual  object  with  admirable  skill; 
but  there  is  no  huwUh  of  general  efl'ect  on  his 
canvas,  and  he  wants  the  general  shmlc  and 
.  which  in  C                               ''»- 
.,  not  less  l.i                            '  'L 
rivet  the  eye  of  the  spectator  on  a  few  brnliant 
sprds,  ami  proiluce  on  the  mind  even  <>l  the 
most  unskilled  the  charm  of  a  single  emotion. 
Niebtihr's  history,  li                with  all  its  m»» 
fits  and  debcts,  coiiJri«                « n  'o  the  com 


206 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


I 


mencement  of  the  most  important  era  in  the 
annals  of  the  republic.  It  is  in  the  empire  that 
the  great  want  of  continued  annals  is  felt.  Li- 
teracy speakinij,  there  is  nothing,  either  in 
anciont  or  modern  literature,  which  deserves 
the  name  of  a  history'  of  the  whole  period  of 
the  emperors.  Tiilemont  has,  with  unwearied 
industry  and  admirable  accuracy,  collected 
all  that  the  inimitable  fra2;ments  of  Tacitus, 
and  detached  lii:;hts  of  Seutonius,  Florus,  and 
the  panecryrists  have  left  on  this  vast  subject; 
and  Gibbon  has,  with  incomparable  talent, 
thrown,  in  his  first  chapters,  over  the  general 
conditions  of  the  empire,  the  light  of  his  ge- 
nius and  the  colouring  of  his  eloquence.  But 
Tiilemont,  though  a  laborious  and  valuable 
compiler,  is  no  historian ;  if  any  one  doubts 
this,  let  him  take  up  one  of  his  elaborate 
quartos  and  try  to  read  it.  Gibbon,  in  his  im- 
mortal work,  the  greatest  monument  of  his- 
torical industry  and  ability  that  exists  in  the 
world,  has  given  a  most  luminous  view  of  the 
events  which  led  to  the  decline  and  fall  of  the 
empire,  and  erected,  with  consummate  talent, 
a  bridge  across  the  gulf  which  separates  an- 
cient from  modern  story.  But  he  begins  only 
to  narrate  events  with  any  minuteness  at  the 
period  when  the  empire  had  already  attained 
to  its  highest  elevation ;  he  dismisses  in  a  few 
pages  the  conquests  of  Trajan,  the  wisdom  of 
Nerva,  the  beneficence  of  Marcus  Aurelius, 
and  enters  into  detail  for  the  first  time,  when 
the  blind  partiality  of  Marcus  Antoninus,  and 
the  guilt  of  his  empress,  had  prepared  in  the 
accession  and  vices  of  Commodus,  the  com- 
mencement of  that  long  series  of  depraved 
emperors  who  brought  about  the  ruin  of  the 
empire.  What  do  we  know  of  the  conquests 
of  Trajan,  the  wars  of  Severus,  the  victories 
of  Aurelian  T  Would  that  the  pencil  of  the 
author  of  the  Decline  and  Fall  had  throM'n 
over  Ihcm  the  brilliant  light  which  it  has  shed 
over  the  disasters  or  Julian,  the  storming  of 
Constantinople,  the  conquests  of  Mahomet,  or 
the  obstinate  wars  of  the  Bj-zantine  emperors 
with  the  Parthian  princes.  But  his  history 
embraces  so  vast  a  range  of  objects,  that  it 
could  not  satisfy  our  curiosity  on  the  annals 
even  of  the  people  who  formed  the  centre  of 
the  far-extended  group,  and  it  is  rather  a  pic- 
ture of  the  progress  of  the  nations  who  over- 
threw Rome,  than  of  Rome  itself. 

There  is  ample  room,  therefore,  for  a  great 
liistorical  work,  as  voluminous  and  as  elo- 
quent as  Gibbon,  on  the  Jiinc  and  Progress  of 
Roman  greatness;  and  it  embraces  topics  of 
far  more  importance,  in  the  present  age  of  the 
world,  than  the  succession  of  disasters  and 
fierce  barbarian  inroads  which  long  shook, 
ar.J  at  last  overturned  the  enduring  fabric  of 
the  empire.  Except  as  a  matter  of  curiosit)', 
we  have  little  connection  with  the  progress  of 
the  Gothic  and  Scythian  nations.  Christianity 
lias  turned  the  rivers  of  barbarism  by  their 
^ou^ce;  civilization  has  overspread  the  wilds 
of  Scythia;  gunpowder  and  fortified  towns 
have  given  knowledge  a  durable  superiority 
over  ignorance;  Russia  stands  as  an  impene- 
.rabl«  barrier  between  Europe  and  the  Tartar 
horse.  But  the  evils  which  the  Roman  insti- 
u»t)ons  contained  in  their  own  bosom,  as  well 


as  the  deeds  of  glory  and  extent  of  cbiTiirH)! 
to  which  they  led,  interest  us  in  the  nost  vita 
particulars.  Our  institutions  more  closely  re 
semble  theirs  than  those  of  any  othcT  peoph 
recorded  in  history,  and  the  causes  which  havi 
led  to  the  vast  extent  of  our  dominion  and  du 
rabilily  of  our  power,  are  the  same  which  gavi 
them  for  centuries  the  empire  of  thi  world 
The  same  causes  of  weakness,  also,  are  no-v 
assailing  us  which  once  destroyed  them  ;  we 
too,  have  wealth  imported  from  all  parts  of  th' 
world  to  corrupt  our  manners,  and  an  over 
grown  metropolis  to  spread  the  seeds  of  vie 
and  effeminacy,  as  from  a  common  centre 
over  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land ;  we 
too,  have  patricians  striving  to  retain  powe 
handed  down  to  them  by  their  ancestors,  an 
plebeians  burning  with  the  desire  of  distinc 
tion,  and  the  passion  for  political  elevatio: 
which  springs  from  the  spread  of  opulenc 
among  the  middle  classes ;  we,  too,  have  Grac 
chi  ready  to  hoist  the  standard  of  disunio 
by  raising  the  question  of  the  Agrarian  lav 
and  Syllas  and  Mariuses  to  rear  their  hostil 
banners  at  the  head  of  the  aristocratic  and  d( 
mocratic  factions ;  in  the  womb  of  time,  i 
provided  for  us  as  for  them,  the  final  ove) 
throw  of  our  liberties,  under  the  successfi 
leader  of  the  popular  part)',  and  long  ages  o 
decline  under  the  despotic  rule  imposed  upo 
us  b}'  the  blind  ambition  and  eastern  equalit 
of  the  people.  A  fair  and  philosophic  histor 
of  Rome,  therefore,  is  a  subject  of  incalculabl 
importance  to  the  citizens  of  this,  and  of  ever 
other  constitutional  monarchy  ;  in  their  error 
we  may  discern  the  mirror  of  our  own — i 
their  misfortunes  the  prototypes  of  those  w 
are  likely  to  undergo — in  their  fate,  that  whicl 
in  all  human  probabilit}',  awaits  ourselves. 

Such  a  history  never,  in  modern  times,  coul 
have  been  written  but  at  this  period.  All  sul 
sequent  ages,  from  the  days  of  Cicero,  ha\' 
been  practically  ignorant  of  the  very  elemen 
of  political  knowledge  requisite  for  a  rigl 
imderstanding  or  fair  discussion  of  the  sul 
ject.  In  vain  were  the  lessons  of  political  wi 
dom  to  be  found  profusely  scattered  throug 
the  Roman  historians — in  vain  did  Sallust  ar 
Tacitus  point,  by  a  word  or  an  epithet,  to  th 
important  conclusions  deducible  from  the 
civil  convulsions ; — the  practical  experiene 
the  daily  intercourse  with  republican  institi 
tions  were  awanting,  which  were  necessary' 
give  the  due  weight  to  their  reflections.  Tl 
lessons  of  political  wisdom  were  so  constantl 
brought  home  to  the  citizens  of  antiquity  by  tl 
storms  and  dissensions  of  the  Forum,  that  the 
deemed  it  unnecessary  to  do  more  than  allnc 
to  them,  as  a  subject  on  which  all  were  agree 
and  with  which  every  one  was  familiar.  Lit 
first  principles  in  our  House  of  Commcms,  thf 
were  universally  taken  for  granted,  and.  ther 
fore,  never  made  the  theme  of  serious  illustr 
tion.  It  is  now  only  that  we  begin  to  pcrcei^ 
the  weighty  sense  and  condensed  wisdom  r 
many  expressions  which  dropped  seeming 
unconsciously  from  their  historical  writer 
that  dear-bought  experience  has  taught  us  th 
pride,  insolency,  and  corrupt  principles  are  ll 
main  sources  of  popular  ambition  in  our  time 
as  in  the  days  of  Catiline ;  and  that  the  sayir 


ARNOLD'S  ROME. 


207 


of  Johnson  ceases  to  pass  for  a  witty  paradox: 
'Palriotism  is  the  last  refuge  of  a  scoundrel." 
Dr.  Arnold  has  now  fairly  set  himself  to 
work  with  this  noble  task,  and  he  is,  in  many 
respects,  peculiarly  fitted  for  the  undertaking. 
Long  known  to  the  classical  world  as  an  ac- 
complished scholar,  and  the  learned  editor  of 
the  best  edition  of  Thucydides  extant,  he  is 
still  more  familiar  to  many  of  our  readers  as 
the  energetic  head-master  of  Kugby  school ; 
and  is  to  lliis  hour  looked  up  to  with  mingled 
sentiments  of  awe  and  affection  by  many  of 
the  most  celebrated  characters  of  the  age. 
The  fir>t  volume  of  the  great  work  in  which 
he  is  engaged  alone  is  published,  which  brings 
down  the  history  of  the  Republic  to  the  burn- 
ing of  Rome  by  the  Goths,  but  it  atfords  a  fair 
specimen  of  the  spirit  and  ability  with  which 
the  remainder  is  likely  to  be  carried  on.  In 
many  respects  he  has  shown  himself  ad- 
mirably calculated  for  the  great  but  diilicult 
•ask  wi>ich  he  has  undertaken.  His  classical 
attainments,  both  in  Greek  and  Roman  litera- 
ture, are  of  the  verj'  highest  order;  his  indus- 
,r)'  is  indefatigable,  and  he  possesses  much  of 
Aat  instinctive  glance  or  natural  sagacity 
which  enabled  IS'iebuhr,  amidst  the  fictions 
and  chaos  of  ancient  annals,  to  fix  at  once  on 
.he  outlines  of  truth  and  the  course  of  real 


Revolution  to  ihectern.al  execration  of  mankind 
There  is  no  writer  on  America  who  has  bruughl 
forward  sue!)  a  ho.st  of  facts  decisive  airauist 
republican  institutions  as  Miss  .MartunMu, 
whom  the  liberals  extol  as  the  only  author  who 
has  given  a  veracioys  account  of  the  transat- 
lantic democracies;  and  we  desire  no  other 
witness  but  Dr.  Arnold  to  the  facts  which  de- 
monstrate that  it  was  the  cxlravagiiiu  preten- 
sion and  ambition  of  the  comm'in.s,  which,  in 
the  end,  proved  fatal  to  the  liberties  of  Rome. 

The  Campagna  of  Rome,  the  fields  of  Lalium, 
the  Alban  Mount,  the  Palatine  Hill,  were  fami- 
liar to  the  childhood  of  us  all ;  and  not  the  least 
delightful  hours  of  the  youth  of  many  of  us 
have  been  spent  in  exploring  the  realities  of 
that  enchanting  region.  We  transcribe  with 
pleasure  Dr.  Arnold's  animated  and  correct 
description  of  it,  drawn  from  actual  observa- 
tion with  the  hand  of  a  master. 

"  The  territory  of  the  original  Rome  during 
its  first  period,  the  true  Ager  Romanns,  could  be 
gone  round  in  a  single  day.  It  did  not  extend 
beyond  the  Tiber  at  all,  nor  probably  beyond 
the  Anio;  and  on  the  east  and  south,  where  it 
had  most  room  to  spread,  its  limit  was  between 
five  and  six  miles  from  the  cit)'.  This  Ager 
Romanus  was  the  exclusive  property  of  the 
Roman  people,  that  is  of  the  houses ;  it  did  not 


pvents.    His  powers  of  description  are  of  no    include  the  lands  conquered  from  the  Latins, 
ordinar}-  kind,  as  our  readers  will  at  once  per-  j  and  given  back  to  them  again  when  the  Latins 


ceive  from  the  extracts  we  are  about  to  lay  be- 
"ore  them;  and  many  of  his  reflections  prove 
Siat  he  is  endowed  with  that  faculty  of  draw- 
in;:  general  conclusions  from  particular  events, 
which,  when  not  pushed  too  far,  is  the  surest 
of  the  real  genius  for  philosophical  his- 

br.  .\mold,  it  is  well  known,  is  a  whig — per- 
naps,  wc  may  add,  an  ultra-liberal.  So  far 
fiom  objecting  to  his  book  on  this  account,  we 
hail  it  with  the  more  satisfaction  that  it  docs 
come  from  an  author  of  such  principles,  and 
therefore  that  it  can  safely  be  referred  to  as  a 
work  in  which  the  truth  of  ancient  events  is 
not  likely  to  be  disguised  or  perverted  to  an- 
swiT  the  views  at  least  of  the  conservative  parly 
in  (Jreat  Britain.  We  arc  satisfied  from  mnny 
insi.'iii'  viiliime  before  us,  that  he  is 

of  an  i;.  ,  ■•,  searching  turn  of  mind,  and 

thai  he  would  deem  himself  dishonoured  if 
he  concealed  or  altered  any  wll-.iscertainrd 
fnois  in  Roman  history.     More  th.in  this  wimIo 

re.     We  not  otily  do  n 
,  ly  enjoy,  his  occasional  ir. 

jiiberal  views  in  what  we  may  call  linnian  /m/i- 
\y-      «?  in  them  the  best  ^'iiarantec  thai 
'  itistancei  aeainst  democratic  pnii- 


erted  in 
iu;heTiti<' 

fiilrA  a  writT  i--  rat 
wc  hnM  it  ;i'rf'TtIy  nu 
rinmpli  it'  ti  ir.h  what  i 
ical  ipih  <.iis,     Thf  c»'i 
ng  whii'ii  r.innot  W  suji; 
jf  an    honest   opponent, 
awycr  knows  the  value 


anrl  may  itc.  relied  on  as 

.  .f     )i'  .     T II  1  fir  1  ri!#«<|,         Pro- 

rid  li)>cral, 


became  the  plebs  or  commons  of  Rome.  Ac- 
cording to  the  augurs,  the  Ager  Romanus  was 
a  peculiar  district  in  a  religious  sense;  aus- 
pices could  be  taken  within  its  bounds  which 
could  be  taken  nowhere  without  them. 

"And  now,  what  was  Rome,  and  what  was 
the  country  around  it,  which  have  both  acquired 
an  interest  such  as  can  cease  only  when  earth 
itself  shall  perish?  The  hills  of  Rome  are  such 
as  we  rarely  see  in  England,  low  in  height,  but 
with  steep  and  rocky  sides.  In  early  times  the 
natural  wood  still  remaineil  in  patches  amidst 
the  buildings,  as  at  this  day  it  grow.s  here  and 
there  on  the  green  sides  of  the  Monte  Testaceo. 
Across  the  Tiber  the  ground  rises  to  a  greater 
hei^'ht  than  that  of  the  Roman  hills,  but  its 
summit  is  a  level,  unbroken  line;  whilo  the 
heights,  which  opposite  to  Rome  it  in- 

mediately  from  the  riv«"r,  iindiT  tii  of 

Janiculus  and  Valicanus,  then  swept  away  to 
some  distance  from  it,  and  return  in  their  high- 
fst  and  bolilest  form  at  the  Mnns  .Marius,  just 
the  Milvian  britlgr  and  the  Flaminian 
'J'lius  to  the  west  the  view  is  immedi- 
ately bounded;  but  to  the  north  and  north-east 
the  eye  ranges  over  the  low  ground  of  the  ('nm- 
pacna  to  the  nearest  line  uf  the  .\pennineM, 
'i  closes  up,  as  with  a  .ill,  ail 

ibine,  Latin,  ami  \'»\i  .  while 

over  It  are  still  distinctly  to  be  seen  the  hiRh 
summits  of  the  central  Apennine't.  covered 
with  .snow,  even  at  this  day,  for  more  than  six 


^>ut  unwilling  wiine.ss.    Enough  m  t 


icmths  in  the  year.     Soul! 
!■•  wide  pl.Tin  of  the  ('nun 
(li'd  by  the  equally  ' 

,'■  '     ii  can  only  be  (iis|ini:i 

Every  experienced  |  brighter  light  reflected  from  Us  wni<  rs. 
of   a  con  ■  •  ard,  after  ten  miles  of  plain,  the  VK'' 


1  bv  the  .Mban  hills,  n  clll^ler 


■  ties 
me 

.  inr 
East- 

•  iind- 

old 


ui  their  apologist,  Thiers,  «o  doom  the  French  ■  points  rising  out  of  the  Campagna,  hie  Arran 


208 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


from  the  sea,  on  the  highest  of  which,  at  nearly  I 
the  same  height  with  the  summit  of  Hclvell)'n, 
stood  tiic  Temple  of  Jupiter  Latiaris,  the  scene  ' 
of  the  common  worship  of  all  the  people  of  the  [ 
Latin  name.     Immediately  under  this  hiijhest, 
point  lies  the  cratcr-likekbasin  of  the  Alban 
lake;  and  on  its  nearer  nm  mis:ht  be  seen  the  i 
trees  of  the  grove  of  Florentia,  where  the  Latins 
held  the  great  civil  assemblies  of  their  nation.  | 
Further  to  the  north,  on  the  edge  of  the  Alban 
hills,  looking  towards  Rome,  was  the  town  and 
citadel  of  T usculum  ;  and  beyond  this,  a  lower 
summit,  crowned  with  the  walls  and  towers  of 
Labicum,  seems  to  connect  the  Alban  hills  with 
the  lineof  the  Apenninzs  just  at  the  spot  where 
the  citadel  of  Praineste,  high  np  on  the  moun- 
tain side,  marks  the  opening  into  the  country 
of  the  Hcrnicians,  and  into  the  valleys  of  the 
streams  that  feed  the  Liris. 

"  Return  ing  nearer  to  Rome,  the  lowland  coun- 
try of  the  Campagna  is  brolicn  by  long  green 
swelling  ridges,  the  ground  rising  and  falling, 
as  in  the  heath  country  of  Surrey  and  Berk- 
shire. The  streams  are  dull  and  sluggish,  but 
the  hill  sides  above  them  constantly  break  away 
into  little  rocky  cliffs,  where  on  every  ledge  the 
■wild  fig  now  strikes  out  its  branches,  and  tufts 
of  broom  are  clustering,  but  which  in  old  times 
formed  the  natural  strength  of  the  citadels  of 
the  numerous  cities  of  Latium.  Except  in 
these  narrow  dells,  the  present  aspect  of  the 
country  is  all  bare  and  desolate,  with  no  trees 
nor  any  humafi  habitation.  But  anciently,  in 
the  time  of  the  early  kings  of  Rome,  it  was  full 
of  independent  cities,  and,  in  its  population  and 
the  careful  cultivation  of  its  little  garden-like 
farms,  must  have  resembled  the  most  flourish- 
ing parts  of  Lombardy  or  the  Netherlands." 

We  have  already  adverted  to  the  difliculty  of 
determining  where  fiction  ends  and  real  history 
begins  in  the  early  Roman  annals,  and  the  scan- 
tj'  foundation  there  is  in  authentic  records,  for 
any  of  the  early  legends  of  their  history.  Fully 
alive,  however,  to  the  exquisite  beauty  of  these 
remains,  aad  the  influence  they  had  on  the  Ro- 
man history,  as  well  as  their  importance  as 
evincing  the  lofty  character  of  their  infant  peo- 
ple, Dr.  Arnold  has  adopted  the  plan  of  not  re- 
jecting them  altogether,  but  giving  them  in  a 
simple  narrative,  something  like  the  Bible,  and 
commencng  with  his  ordinary  style  when  he 
arrives  at  events  which  really  rest  on  historic 
ground.  This  is  certain.y  much  better  than 
entirely  rejecting  them;  but,  at  the  same  time, 
it  introduces  a  quaint  style  of  writing,  in  re- 
counting these  early  events,  to  which  we  can 
hardly  reconcile  ourselves,  after  the  rich  colour- 
ing and  graphic  hand  of  Livy.  As  an  example 
of  the  way  in  which  he  treats  this  interesting 
but  diflicult  pan:  of  his  subject,  we  give  his  ac- 
count of  the  story  of  Lucretia,  the  exquisite 
episode  with  which  Livy  terminates  his  first 
book  and  narrative  of  the  kings  of  Rome. 

"Now  when  they  came  back  to  Rome,  Kin? 
Tarquinius  was  at  war  wiih  the  people  of  Ar- 
dea;  and  as  the  city  was  strong,  his  army  lay 
a  long  while  before  it,  till  it  should  be  forced  to 
yield  through  famine.  So  the  Romans  had  lei- 
sure for  feasting  and  for  diverting  thomselves  : 
»nd  once  Titus  and  Aruns  were  supping  with 
their  brother  Sextus,  and  their  cousin  Tarqui- 


nius of  Collatia  was  supping  with  them.  Al 
they  disputed  about  their  wives,  whose  wif«( 
them  all  was  the  worthiest  lad}'.  Then  sa 
Tarquinius  of  Collatia,  '  Let  us  go  and  see  wi^ 
our  own  eyes  what  our  wives  are  doing, 
shall  we  know  which  is  the  worthiest.'  Upol 
this  they  all  mounted  their  horses  and  rode  first 
to  Rome ;  and  there  they  found  the  wives  of  Ti- 
tus, and  of  Aruns,  and  of  Sextus,  feasting  and 
making  merry.  Then  they  rode  on  to  Collatia. 
and  it  w^is  late  in  the  night;  but  they  found 
Lucretia,  the  wife  of  Tarquinius  of  Collatia 
neither  feasting,  nor  yet  sleeping,  but  she  was 
sitting  with  all  her  handmaids  around  her,  and 
all  were  working  at  the  loom.  So  when  thej 
saw  this,  they  all  said,  'Lucretia  is  the  worthi- 
est lady.'  And  she  entertained  her  husbane' 
and  his  kinsmen,  and  after  that  they  rode  bacli 
to  the  camp  before  Ardea. 

"But  a  spirit  of  wicked  passion  seized  upon 
Sextus,  and  a  few  days  afterwards  he  went  alone 
to  Collatia,  and  Lucretia  received  him  hospita- 
bl)',  for  he  was  her  husband's  kinsman.  Ai 
midnight  he  arose  and  went  to  her  chamber 
and  he  said  that  if  she  yielded  not  to  him  he 
would  slay  her  and  one  of  her  slaves  with  her 
and  would  say  to  her  husband  that  he  had  slair 
her  in  her  adultery.  So  when  Sextus  had  ac- 
complished his  wicked  purpose  he  went  bach 
again  to  the  camp. 

"Then  Lucretia  sent  in  haste  to  Rome,  tc 
pray  that  her  father  Spurius  Lucretius  woulc 
come  to  her ;  and  she  sent  to  Ardea  to  summer 
her  husband.  Her  father  brought  along  with 
him  Publius  Valerius,  and  her  husband  brough 
with  him  Lucius  Junius,  whom  men  callec 
Brutus.  When  they  arrived,  they  asked  ear 
nestly,  'Is  all  well"!'  Then  she  told  them  of 
the  wicked  deed  of  Sextus,  and  she  said,  'Ifyt 
be  men,  avenge  it.'  And  they  all  swore  to  her 
that  they  would  avenge  it.  Then  she  said  again 
'I  am  not  guilty;  yet  must  I  too  share  ir 
the  punishment  of  this  deed,  lest  any  shouh 
think  that  they  may  be  false  to  their  husband; 
and  live.'  And  she  drew  a  knife  from  hei 
bosom,  and  stabbed  herself  to  the  heart. 

"  At  that  sight  her  husband  and  her  fathe; 
cried  aloud ;  but  Lucius  drew  the  knife  fron 
the  wound,  and  held  it  up,  and  said,  'By  thi: 
blood  I  swear  that  I  Avill  visit  this  deed  irpor 
King  Tarquinius,  and  all  his  accursed  race 
neither  shall  any  man  hereafter  be  king  ii 
Rome,  lest  he  do  the  like  wickedness.'  Aud  hi 
gave  the  knife  to  her  husband,  and  to  her  fa 
ther,  and  to  Publius  Valerius.  They  marvel 
led  to  hear  such  words  from  him  vvhom  mer 
called  dull ;  but  they  swore  also,  and  they  tool- 
up  the  body  of  Lucretia,  and  carried  it  dowi 
into  the  forum;  and  they  said,  'Behold  thi 
deeds  of  the  wicked  family  of  Tarquinius. 
All  the  people  of  Collatia  Avere  moved,  am 
the  men  took  up  arms,  and  they  set  a  guard  a 
the  gates,  that  none  might  go  out  to  carry  tht 
tidings  to  Tarquinius,  and  they  followed  Lu 
cius  to  Rome.  There,  too,  all  the  people  cami 
together,  and  the  crier  summoned  them  to  as 
semble  before  the  tribune  of  the  Celeres,  foi 
Lucius  held  that  oflice.  And  Lucius  spoke  tc 
them  of  all  the  tyranny  of  Tarquinius  and  hi; 
sons,  and  of  the  wicked  deed  of  Sextus.  An( 
the  people  in  their  curiae  took  back  from  Tar 


ARNOLDS  ROME. 


«09 


]ainius  the  snverpign  power,  which  Ihey  hail 
l\\ri\  him,  and  tliey  banished  him  and  all  his 
lamily.  Then  the  youn2;er  men  followed  Lu- 
;ius  to  Ardea,  to  win  over  the  army  there  to 
join  them  ;  and  the  cily  was  left  in  the  char:jc 
j{  Spiirius  Lucretius.  But  the  wicked  Tullia 
led  in  haste  from  her  house,  and  all,  both  men 
ind  women,  cursed  her  as  she  passed,  and 
prayed  that  the  furies  of  her  father's  blood 
ui^lit  visit  her  with  vencjeance. 

".^[eanwhile  King  Tarquinjus  set  out  with 
>peed  to  Rome  to  put  down  the  tumult.  But 
Lucius  turned  aside  from  the  road  that  he 
nisht  not  meet  him,  and  came  to  the  camp ; 
md  the  soldiers  joyfully  received  him,  and 
:hey  drove  out  the  sons  of  Tarquinius.  King 
farquinius  came' to  Rome,  but  the  gates  were 
shut,  and  they  declared  to  him  from  the  walls 
ihe  sentence  of  banishment  which* had  been 
'd  against  him  and  his  family.  So  he 
I'd  to  his  fortune,  and  went  to  live  at  Crere 
srith  his  sons  Titus  and  Aruns.  His  other 
son.  Sextus,  went  to  Gabii,  and  the  people 
ihere,  remembering  how  he  had  betrayed  them 
to  his  father,  slew  him.  Then  the  army  left 
the  camp  before  Ardea  and  went  back  to  llome. 
And  all  men  said,  '  Let  us  follow  the  good  laws 
L)f  the  good  King  Servius  ;  and  let  us  meet  in 
9ur  centuries,  according  as  he  directed,  and 
let  us  choose  two  men  year  by  year  to  govern 
us,  instead  of  a  king.'  Then  the  people  met 
in  their  centuries  in  the  field  of  Mars,  and 
'.hey  chose  two  men  to  rule  over  them,  Lucius 
iuuius,  whom  men  called  Brutus,  and  Lucius 
Tarquinius  of  Collatia." 

Every  classical   reader  must   perceive  the 

i^bject  which  our  author  had  in  view.    He  has 

in  great  part  translated  Livy,  and  he  wishes  to 

^jreserve  the  legend  which  he  has  rendered  im- 

nortal ;  but  he  is  desirous,  at  the  same  time, 

>f  doing  it,  as  he  himself  tells   us,  in  such  a 

:ier   that  it  shall   be    impossible   for  any 

r,  even  the  most  illiterate,  to  imagine  that 

le  IS  recording  a  real  event.     It  may  be  pre- 

udicc,  and  the  force  of  early  association,  but 

ve  ran  hardly  reconcile  ourselves  to  this  Mo- 

•  the  history  of  the  most 

I .     ry   author's   style,  to   be 

;  be  natural.     The  reader  cx- 

1    ....         .i    ..agreeable   feeling    in    coming 

pon  such  quaint  and  perhaps  aderted  pas- 

'  '        '  habituated  U)  the  flowing  and 

.  !hi'  author.     It  woiilfl  bi*  bet- 

;r,  we  coiic'iv",  to  write   the   \v  one 

niforin  in.iiimr.  and  mark  the  ■!  b*-- 

ver-n  il.  iry  and  authentic  part.s  by  a 

'  iiir  type,  or  some  other  equally 

:iriinn.     But  this  is  a  trivial  mat 


-d  by  many  facts  and  passages  in  lis  later 

We  have   previously  noticed  the   decisive 

rid'-n'-'-   w!  f'loaca   '^T  !  the 


in    fh'- 


juin 


caty  wi;li   ' 

iTord  ol'  ihf  early  >   "f  the  Woman 

lonarchy.  But  we  v.  .  :  aware,  till  rcad- 
ig  Arnold — even  Nicbuhr  has  not  so  distinctly 
rought  out  the  f.irt — that  at  th-    •  f  the 

(pulsion  of  the  Tnrquins  anci  til'  tice- 

lent  of  the  Republic,   Rome  waj>   ui ready  a 
14 


powerful  monarchy,  whose  sway  extended 
from  the  northern  extremity  of  the  Campagna 
to  the  rocks  of  Terracina;  and  that  it  was 
then  more  powerful  than  it  ever  was  for  the 
first  hundred  and  fifty  years  of  the  Com- 
monwealth! The  Roman  kingdom  is  com* 
pared  by  Arnold,  under  the  last  of  the  kings, 
to  Judea  under  Solomon ;  and  the  fact  of  a 
treaty,  recorded  in  Polybius,  boir.g  in  that  year 
concluded  with  Carthage,  proves  that  the  state 
had  already  acquired  consideration  with  dis- 
tant slates. 

"  Setting  aside,"  says  our  author,  "  the  tyran- 
ny ascribed  to  Tarquinius,  and  remembering 
that  il  was  his  policy  to  deprive  the  commons 
of  their  latclj'  acquired  citizenship,  and  to 
treat  them  like  subjects  rather  than  members 
of  the  stale,  the  picture  given  of  the  wealth 
and  greatness  of  .ludea  under  Solomon  may 
convey  some  idea  of  the  stale  of  Rome  under 
its  latter  kings.  Powerful  amongst  surround- 
ing nations,  exposed  to  no  hostile  invasions, 
with  a  flourishing  agriculture  and  an  active 
commerce,  the  country  was  great  and  pros- 
perous ;  and  the  king  was  enabled  to  execute 
public  works  of  the  highest  magnificence,  and 
to  invest  himself  with  a  splendour  unknown  in 
the  earlier  times  of  the  monarchy." 

But  mark  the  efliectupon  the  external  power 
and  internal  liberties  of  the  nation,  conse- 
quent on  the  violent  change  in  the  govern- 
ment and  establishment  of  the  Commonwealth, 
as  portraj'ed  in  the  authentic  pages  of  this 
liberal  historian. 

"  In  the  first  year  of  the  commonwealth,  the 
Romans  still  possessed  the  dominion  enjoyed 
by  their  kings  ;  all  the  cities  of  the  coast  of 
Latium,  as  we  have  already  seen,  were  subject 
to  them  as  far  as  Terracina.  Within  twelve 
years,  wc  cannot  rcrtninly  say  hnir  murk  sooner,  these 
were  all  become  intlr/ienrfcnt.  This  is  e.isily  in- 
telligible, if  we  only  take  into  account  the  loss 
to  Rome  of  an  able  and  absolute  king,  the  na- 
tural weakness  of  an  unsettled  government, 
and  the  distractions  produced  by  the  king's  at- 
tempts to  recover  his  throne.  'Fhe  Latins  may 
have  held,  as  we  are  told  of  the  Sabines  in 
this  very  time,  that  their  di-penilent  alliance 
with  Rome  had  been  concluded  with  King 
Tarquiniu.s,  and  that  as  he  was  king  no  longer, 
and  as  his  sons  had  been  driven  out  with  him, 
all  covenants  between  Latium  ami  Rome  were 
become  null  and  void.  But  it  is  possible  also, 
if  the  chronology  of  the  common  story  of 
these  limes  can  be  at  all  depended  on,  that  the 
Latin  cities  owed  their  independence  to  the 
Etruscan  conquest  of  Rome.  For  that  war, 
which  has  been  given  in  its  poetical  version 
w.ir  with  I'orsenna,  was  really  a  great 
ik  of  the  EiriiM'an  power  upon  the  na- 
lums  sotithwanl  of  Etruria,  in  the  very  front 
of  whom  lay  the  Romans.  In  the  very  next 
year  alter  the  expulsion  of  the  king,  according 
to  the  common   story,  and  certain'  le 

time  within  the  period  with  which  v  \v 

concerned,  the  Etruscans  fell  upon  K"iii'\  I'ho 
result  of  the  war  is,  indeed,  as  ■  fr.m:*' Iv  dis. 
guised  in  the  poetical  story  as  <  * 

invasion  of  Spain  is  in  the  rom.n U'ino 

was  Completely  conquered ;  all  the  territory 
which  the  kings  had  won  on  the  right  bank  o' 


310. 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


the  Tiber  wa5  now  lost.  Rome  itself  was  sur- 
rendered to  the  Etruscan  conqueror;  his  sove- 
reigntv  was  fully  acknowledged,  the  Romans 
gave  up  their  arms,  and  recovered  their  city 
and  territory  on  condition  of  renouncing  the 
use  of  iron  except  for  implements  of  agricul- 
ture. But  this  bondage  did  not  last  long;  the 
Etruscan  power  was  broken  by  a  great  defeat 
sustained  before  Aricia;  for  after  the  fall  of 
Rome  the  conquerors  attacked  Latium,  and 
while  besieging  Aricia^  the  united  force  of  the 
Latin  cities,  aided  by  the  Greeks  of  Cumrc, 
succeeded  in  destroying  their  army,  and  in 
confining  their  power  to  their  own  side  of  the 
Tiber.  Still,  however,  the  Romans  did  not  re- 
cover their  territory  on  the  right  bank  of  that 
river,  and  the  number  of  their  tribes,  as  has 
been  already  noticed,  was  consequently  less- 
ened by  one-third,  being  reduced  from  thirty  to 
twenty. 

"Thus  within  a  short  time  after  the  banish- 
ment of  the  last  king,  the  Romans  lost  all  their 
territory  on  the  Etruscan  side  of  the  Tiber, 
and  all  their  dominion  over  Latium.  A  third 
people  M'ere  their  immediate  neighbours  on 
the  north-east,  the  Sabines.  The  cities  of  the 
Sabines  reached,  says  Varro,  from  Reate,  to 
the  distance  of  half  a  day's  journey  from 
Rome ;  that  is,  according  to  the  varying  esti- 
mate of  a  day's  journey,  either  seventy-five 
or  an  h-^ndred  stadia,  about  ten  or  twelve 
miles. 

"  It  is  certain,  also,  that  the  first  enlarge- 
ment of  the  Roman  territory,  after  its  great 
diminution  in  the  Etruscan  war,  took  place 
towards  the  north-east,  between  the  Tiber  and 
the  Anio;  and  here  were  the  lands  of  the  only 
new  tribes  that  were  added  to  the  Roman  na- 
tion, for  the  space  of  more  than  one  hundred 
and  twenty  years  after  the  establishment  of 
the  commonwealth." 

Such  were  the  disastrous  effects  of  the  re- 
volution which  expelled  Taiquinius  Superbus, 
even  though  originating,  if  we  may  believe  the 
story  of  Lucretia,  in  a  heinous  crime  on  his 
part,  on  the  external  power  and  territorial 
possessions  of  Rome.  Let  us  next  inquire 
whether  the  social  condition  of  the  people  was 
improved  by  the  change,  and  the  plebeians 
reaped  those  fruits  from  the  violent  change  of 
the  government  which  they  were  doubtless  led 
to  expect. 

"The  most  important  part,"  says  Arnold, 
•fin  the  history  of  the  first  years  of  the  com- 
monwealth is  the  tracing,  if  possible,  the  gra- 
dual depression  of  the  commons  to  that  ex- 
treme point  of  misery  which  led  to  the  institu- 
tion of  the  tribunalship.  We  have  seen  that 
immediately  after  the  expulsion  of  the  king, 
the  commons  shared  in  the  advantages  of  the 
revolution;  but  within  a  few  years  we  find 
them  so  oppressed  and  powerless,  that  their 
utmost  hopes  aspired,  not  to  the  assertion  of 

f»olitical  equality  with  the  burghers,  but  mere- 
y  to  the  obtaining  protection  from  personal 
injuries. 

"The  specific  character  of  their  degradation 
is  stated  to  have  been  this;  that  there  pre- 
vailed among  them  severe  distress,  amounting 
ill  many  cases  to  actual  ruin;  that  to  relieve 
themselves  from  their  poverty,  they  were  in 


the  habit  of  borrowing  money  of  the  burghers; 
that  the  distress  continuing,  they  became  ge 
nerally  insolvent;  and  t^at  as  the  law  of, 
debtor  and  creditor  was  exceedingly  severej 
they  became  liable  in  their  persons  to  the 
cruelty  of  the  burghers,  were  treated  by  them  as 
slaves,  confined  as  such  in  their  workhouses, 
kept  to  taskwork,  and  often  beaten  at  the  dis- 
cretion of  their  task-masters." 

Various  were  the  miseries  to  which  tht 
commons  were  reduced  in  consequence  of 
the  revolution,  and  inexorable  the  rigour  witt 
which  the  nobles  pressed  the  advantage  the) 
had  gained  by  the  abolition  of  the  kingly  forir 
of  government.  The  civil  convulsions  anc 
general  distress.  Dr.  Arnold  tells  us,  terminatec 
in  the  establishment  of  an  exclusive  opprcssiv( 
aristocracv,  interrupted  occasionally  by  the  le 
galized  drepotism  of  a  single  individual. 

"Thus  the  monarchy  was  exchanged  for  ai 
exclusive  aristocracy,  in  which  the  burghers  o 
patricians  possessed  the  whole  dominion  of  th< 
state.     For  mixed  as  was  the  influence  in  thi 
assembly  of  the  centuries,  and  although  thi 
burghers  through  their  clients  exercised  ni 
small  control  over  it,  still  they  did  not  think  i 
safe  to  intrust  it  with  much  power.     In  th 
election  of  consuls,  the  centuries  could  onl; 
choose  out  of  a  number  of  patrician  or  burghe, 
candidates  ;  and  even  after  this  election  it  rei 
mained  for  the  burghers  in  their  great  counci 
in  the  curite  to  ratify  it  or  to  annul  it,  by  coD' 
ferring  upon,  or  refusing  to  the   persons  s> 
elected  the  '  Imperium  ;'  in  other  words,  thi' 
sovereign  power  which  belonged  to  the  coti  , 
suls  as  the  successors  of  the  kings,  and  whici 
except  so  far  as  it  was  limited  within  the  wall 
of  the  city,  and  a  circle  of  one  mile  withot; 
them,  by  the  right  of  appeal,  was  absolute  ove' 
life  and  death.    As  for  any  legislative  powe 
in  this  period  of  the  commonwealth,  the  coi 
suls  were  their  own  law.    No  doubt  the  burgl 
ers   had   their  customs,   which   in   all   gre; 
points  the  consuls  would   duly  observe,  bi 
cause,  otherwise  on  the  expiration   of  the; 
office  they  would  be  liable  to  arraignment  bi 
fore  the  curiae,  and  to  such  punishment  £ 
that  sovereign  assembly  might  please  to  inflic 
but  the  commons  had  no  such  security,  an 
the  uncertainty  of  the  consul's  judgments  Wf 
the  particular  grievance  which  afterwards  le 
to   the  formation  of  the  code  of  the  tweh 
tables. 

"  We  are  lold,  however,  that  within  ten  yeai 
of  the  first  institution  of  the  consuls  the  bur. 
crs  found  it  necessary  to  create  a  single  niagistr,^ 
with  powers  still  more  absolute,  who  was  to  exe 
cise  the  full  sovereignty  of  a  king,  and  n 
without  that  single  check  to  irhich  the  kings  of  Rf 
had  been  subjected.  The  Master  of  the  ])Coy 
that  is,  of  the  burghers,  or,  as  he  was  otli' 
wise  called,  the  Dictator,  was  appointed,  it 
true,  for  six  months  only  ;  and  therefore  liabi 
like  the  consuls,  to  be  arraigned  after  the  e 
piration  of  his  ofl^ce,  for  any  acts  of  tyrant 
which  he  might  have  committed  during  i 
continuance.  But  whilst  he  retained  his  i 
fice  he  was  as  absolute  without  the  walls  oft! 
city  as  the  consuls  were  within  them  ;  ncith 
commoners  nor  burghers  had  any  right  of  n 
peal  from  his  sentence,  although  the  latter  h; 


ARNOLD'S  ROME. 


ni 


i  enjoyed  this  protection  in  the  times  of  the  mo-   or  tribe  masters;  but  instead  of  hein^^  nicrelj 


narchy 
At  length  the  misery  of  the  people,  flowin 


the  oflicers  of  one  -particular  tribe,  and  exer- 
cising an  aniliority  only  over  Ihe  members  of 


ffrom  the  revolution,  became  so  excessive  that!  their  own  order,  liiey  were  named  tribunes  of 
'they  could  endure  it  no  lonecr,  and  they  took  j  the   commons  at  larce,  and  their  power,  as 


the  resolution  t»  separate  altogether  from  their 
oppressors,  and  retire  to  the  sacred  hill  to  found 
a  new  commonwealth. 

"  FiHeen  years  after  the  expulsion  of  Tar- 
quinius.  the  commons,  driven  to  despair  by 
their  distress,  and  exposed  without  protection 
'to  the  capricious  cruelty  of  the  burj^hers,  re- 
solved to  endure  their  degraded  state  no  longer. 
The  particulars  of  this  second  revolution  are 
as  uncertain  as  those  of  the  overthrow  of  the 
monarchy ;  but  thus  much  is  certain,  and  is 
(remarkable,  that  Ihe  commons  sought  safety, 
not  victor}' ;  the)'  desired  to  escape  from  Rome, 
not  to  govern  it.  It  may  be  true  that  the  com- 
mons who  were  left  in  Rome  gathered  together 
on  the  Avcntine,  the  quarter  appropriated  to 
their  order,  and  occupied  the  hill  as  a  fortress  ; 
but  it  is  universally  agreed  that  the  most  effi- 
:ient  part  of  their  bod}',  who  were  at  that  time 
in  the  field  as  soldiers,  deserted  their  generals, 
ind  marched  otTto  a  hill  beyond  the  Anio;  that 
s,  to  a  spot  beyond  the  limits  of  the  Ager  Ro- 
nanus.  the  proper  territory  of  the  burghers, 
Jut  within  the  district  which  had  been  assigned 
.0  one  of  the  newly  created  tribes  of  the  com- 
nons,  the  Crustuminian.  Here  they  establish- 
'd  themselves,  and  here  they  proposed  to  found 
I  new  city  of  their  own,  to  which  they  would 
lave  gathered  their  families,  and  the  rest  of 
heir  order  who  were  left  behind  in  Rome,  and 
lave  given  up  their  old  city  to  its  original  pos- 
-ors,  the  burghers  and  their  clients.     But 

burghers  were  as  unwilling  to  lose  the 
ervices  of  the  commons,  as  the  Egyptians  in 
he  like  case  to  let  the  Israelites  go,  and  they 
ndeavoured  by  every  means  to  persuade  them 
o  return.  To  show  how  little  the  commons 
hou^lu  of  gaining  political  power,  we  have 
nly  to  notice  their  demands.  They  required 
.  general  cancelling  of  the  obligations  of  in- 
olvent  debtors,  and  the  release  of  all  those 
ns,  in  default  of  payment,  had 
1  over  to  thn  pnwr  of  their  credi- 
>r>  ;  ainl  liirther,  the  !  nn  having  two  of 

icir  own  body  ackn'  I  by  the  burghers 

s  their  protectors;  and  to  make  this  proicc- 

'"    '!,  the  persons  of  those  who  ntTorded 

as  inviolable  as  those  of  the  her- 


protectors  m  stopping  any  exercise  of  oppres- 
sion towards  their  own  body,  extended  over 
the  burghers,  and  was  by  them  solemnly  ac- 
knowledged. The  number  of  the  tribunes  was 
probabl}"  suggested  by  that  of  the  consuls; 
there  were  to  be  two  chief  officers  of  the  com- 
mons, as  there  were  of  the  burghers." 

Thus,  all  that  the  Roman  populace  e.iined 
by  the  revolution  which  overturned  the  kingly 
power,  was  such  a  diminution  of  terrilon,-  and 
external  importance  as  it  required  them  more 
than  one  hundred  and  fifty  years  to  recover, 
and  such  an  oppressive  form  of  aristocratic 
government  as  compelled  them  to  take  refuge 
under  a  dictator,  and  led  to  such  a  degree  of 
misery  as,  eighteen  years  after  the  convulsion, 
made  them  ready  to  quit  their  country  and 
homes,  and  become  exiles  from  their  native 
land  ! 

At  the  close  of  the  third  centur}' of  Rome, 
and  fifty  years  after  the  expulsion  of  the  Tar- 
quins,  Arnold  gives  the  following  picture  of 
the  external  condition  of  the  Republic: 

"At  the  close  of  the  third  century  of  Rome, 
the  warfare  which  the  Romans  had  to  main- 
tain against  the  Opican  nations  was  generally 
defensive;  that  the  vEquians  and  Volscians 
had  advanced  from  the  line  of  the  Apennines 
and  established  themselves  on  the  Alban  hills, 
in  the  heart  of  Latium ;  that  of  the  thirty  Latin 
states  which  had  formed  the  league  with  Rome  in 
the  year  201,  thirteen  were  now  either  destroy- 
ed, or  were  in  the  possession  of  the  Opicans; 
that  on  the  Alban  hills  themselves,  Tusculum 
alone  remained  independent;  and  that  there 
was  no  other  friendly  city  to  obstruct  the  ir- 
ruptions of  the  enemy  into  the  territfiry  of 
Rome.  .Aceonlingly,  that  territory  was  plun- 
dered year  after  year,  and  whatever  defeats 
the  plunderers  may  at  times  have  sustained, 
yet  they  were  never  deterred  from  renewing  a 
contest  which  they  found  in  the  main  profitable 
and  glfirious.  So  gmilly  had  thr  piiirr  iinii  ilo- 
mintini  of  Home  fallen  tince  Iht  overthrote  -if  tht 
wotuirrhy." 

It  was  by  slow  decrees,  and  in  a  long  scries 
of  contests,  continued  without  intermission  for 
two  hundred  years,  that  the  eommons  rerover- 
liberties  they  hail  lost  from  the  ronse- 
■  s  of  this  triuinjih  in  this  first  convul- 
mon;  so  true  it  is,  in  nil  ages,  Ihnt  the  peopio 
arc  not  only  never  permanent  gainers,  but  in 
the  end  Ihe  greatest  losers  by  Ihe  revolution  in 
whieh  they  had  '  leoiupletely  virtoinoiis. 

The  next  L''  'I  convulsion  nf  K. line 

was  that  consequent  on  tne  overtnrow  of  the 
Decemvirs.  The  stjcccss  of  that  revolution 
operated  in  the  end  grievously  to  the  preiudica 
of  Ihe  commons,  and  retarded,  by  '  '•• 

liiry,  the  advance  of  real  fieednm.     '  lO 

ktiiiws  that  the  Decemvirs  were  cl'-ii-il  in  re- 
moihl  the  laws  of  the   rominonwralth  :  that 

and  con* 

lllird    til  •  '       ■■     "  -"-Ij 

amc  which  the  chf:  .1  that  i  'he 

ad  borne  before, — they  were  caiied  Trtbuiii,  i  general  and  unconlrollable  ludigiiatioa  excited 


iid  might  be  slain  by  any  one  with  impunity. 

'o  these  tcrr"    •    •  ••—•»■" — ^d  ;  a  solemn 

•rntv  was  '  iiem  and  Ihe 

;  and 

I  f..r 
leir  ])  ■  '••rity,  that  th»*v  wimi.l  hold  inviolable 
le  j>ei'>"iis  of  two  (ifllcrrn,  to  be  chosen  by 
le  cminrK's  on  the  field  of  Mars,  whose  busi- 
ets  it   i)'."!!!  I   !  •    "  ,'■■•• 

ny  enniiii";i"T 

ul;   that   is   lo   s-ay.   wh"    might    rfsruc    any 
eblor  from  the  powrr  ,.f  V-,  rrr,tit,,r,  if  ihey 

onceived  it  to  been;  llv  exert-    Ihey  shamefully  abused  their  trust 

d.     The  two  olTicei  ' 


212 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


by  the  atrocious  violence  of  Appius  to  the 
daughter  of  Virginiiis.  A  justcr  cause  for  re- 
sistance, a  fairer  ground  for  the  overthrow  of 
existing  authority,  could  not  be  imagined ;  it 
was  accordingly  successful,  and  the  immediate 
effect  of  the  popular  triumph  was  a  very  great 
accession  of  political  power  to  the  commons. 
Arnold  tells  us — 

"  The  revolution  did  not  stop  here.  Other 
and  deeper  changes  were  effected ;  but  they 
lasted  so  short  a  time,  that  their  memory  has 
almost  vanished  out  of  the  records  of  history. 
The  assembly  of  the  tribes  had  been  put  on  a 
level  with  that  of  the  centuries,  and  the  same 
principle  was  followed  out  in  the  equal  divi- 
sion of  all  the  magistracies  of  the  state  be- 
tween the  patricians  and  the  commons.  Two 
supreme  magistrates,  invested  with  the  high- 
est judicial  power,  and  discharging  also  those 
important  duties  which  were  afterwards  per- 
formed by  the  censors,  were  to  be  chosen  every 
year,  one  from  the  patricians,  and  the  other  from 
the  commons.  Ten  tribunes  of  the  soldiers, 
or  decemviri,  chosen,  five  from  the  patricians 
and  five  from  the  commons,  were  to  command 
the  armies  in  war,  and  to  watch  over  the  rights 
of  the  patricians ;  while  ten  tribunes  of  the 
commons,  also  chosen  in  equal  proportions 
from  both  orders,  were  to  watch  over  the  liber- 
ties of  the  commons.  And  as  patricians  were 
thus  admitted  to  the  old  Iribuneship,  so  the  as- 
semblies of  the  tribes  were  henceforth,  like 
those  of  the  centuries,  to  be  held  under  the 
sanctions  of  augury,  and  nothing  could  be  de- 
termined in  them  if  the  auspices  were  unfa- 
vourable. Thus  the  two  orders  were  to  be 
made  fully  equal  to  one  another ;  but  at  the 
same  time  they  were  to  be  kept  perpetually  dis- 
tinct ;  for  at  this  very  moment  the  whole  twelve 
tables  of  the  laws  of  the  decemvirs  received 
the  solemn  sanction  of  the  people,  although, 
as  we  have  seen,  there  x-as  a  law  in  one  of 
the  last  tables  which  declared  the  marriage  of 
a  patrician  with  a  plebeian  to  be  unlawful. 

"  There  being  thus  an  end  of  all  exclusive 
magistracies,  whether  patrician  or  plebeian ; 
and  all  magistrates  being  now  recognised  as 
acting  in  the  name  of  the  Avhole  people,  the 
persons  of  all  were  to  be  regarded  as  equally 
sacred.  Thus  the  consul  Horatius  proposed 
and  carried  a  law  which  declared  that,  who- 
ever harmed  any  tribune  of  the  commons,  any 
jedile,  any  judge,  or  any  decemvir,  should  be 
outlaTod  and  accursed  ;  that  any  man  might 
slay  him,  and  that  all  his  property  should  be 
confiscated  to  the  temple  of  Ceres.  Another 
law  was  passed  by  M.  Duilius,  one  of  the  tri- 
bunes, carrying  the  penalties  of  the  Valerian 
law  to  a  greater  height  against  any  magistrate 
who  should  either  neglect  to  have  new  magis- 
trates appointed  at  the  end  of  the  year,  or  who 
should  create  them  without  giving  the  right  of 
appeal  from  their  sentence.  Whosoever  vio- 
lated either  of  these  provisions  was  to  be 
burned  alive  as  a  public  enemy. 

"  Finally,  in  order  to  prevent  the  decrees  of 
the  senate  from  being  tampered  with  by  the 
patricians,  Horatius  and  Valerius  began  the 
practice  of  having  them  carried  to  the  temple 
pf  Ceres  on  the  Avcntinc,  and  there  laid  up 
onder  the  care  of  the  a;diles  of  the  commons. 


"  This  complete  revolution  was  conduct© 
chiefly,  as  far  as  appears,  by  the  two  consuls 
and  by  M.  Duilius.  Of  the  latter  we  shook: 
Avish  to  have  some  further  knowledge ;  it  is  ai 
unsatisfactory  history,  in  which  we  can  onl: 
judge  of  the  man  from  his  public  measures; 
instead  of  being  enabled  to  form  some  estiraat- 
of  the  merit  of  his  measures  from  our  acquaint 
ance  with  the  character  of  the  man.  But  ther 
is  no  doubt  tiiat  the  new  constitution  attemptei, 
to  obtain  objects  for  which  the  time  was  no 
yet  come,  which  were  regarded  rather  as  th 
triumph  of  a  party,  than  as  called  for  by  th 
wants  and  feelings  of  the  nation  ;  and  therefor 
the  Roman  constitution  of  30G  was  as  shor 
Jived  as  Simon  de  Montfort's  provisions  of  Oi. 
ford,  or  as  some  of  the  strongest  measures  oi 
the  Long  Parliament.  An  advantage  pursuei 
too  far  in  politics,  as  well  as  in  war,  is  apt  t 
end  in  a  repulse." 

After  a  continued  struggle  of  seven  year 
however,  this  democratic  constitution  yields 
to  the  reaction  in  favour  of  the  old  institution 
of  the  state,  and  the  experienced  evils  of  th' 
new, — and  another  constitution  was  the  resu 
of  the  struggle  which  restored  matters  to  th, 
same  situation  in  which  they  had  been  befoi; 
the  overthrow  of  the  Decemvirs  ;  with  the  a<l 
dition  of  a  most  important  officer — the  Censo: 
endowed  with  almost  despotic  power — to  lY 
patrician  faction.  This  decided  reaction 
thus  described,  and  the  inferences  deducib 
from  it  fairly  stated  by  Dr.  Arnold. 

"  In  the  following  year  we  meet  for  the  fir 
time  with  the  name  of  a  new  patrician  magi 
tracy,  the  Censorship;  and  Niebuhr  saw  clea 
ly  that  the  creation  of  this  office  Avas  connect' 
with  the  appointment  of  tribunes  of  the  S(; 
diers ;  and  that  both  belong  to  what  may  1 
called  the  constitution  of  the  year  312. 

"This  constitution  recognised  two  point' 
a  sort  of  continuation  of  the  principle  of  tl 
decemvirate,  inasmuch  as  the  supreme  gover 
ment  Avas  again,  to  speak  in  modern  langnn' 
put  in  commission,  and  the  kingly  poA\  ^ 
formerly  united   in   the   consuls   or  praM. 
were  now  to  be  divided  between  the  ccn> 
and  tribunes  of  the  soldiers  ;  and  secondly,  l 
eligibility  of  the  commons  to  share  in  some 
the  powers    thus   divided.     But  the  partitii 
even  in  theory,  was  far  from  equal :  the  t^ 
censors,  who  were  to  hold  their  office  for  fi 
years,  Avere  not  oaily  chosen  from  the  patriciai 
but,  as  Niebuhr  thinks,  by  them,  that  is, 
the  assembly  of  the  curia; ;  the  two  qua;sto 
Aviio  judged  in  cases  of  blood,  were  also  chos 
from  the  patricians,  although  by  the  ccnturi' 
Thus  the  civil  power  of  the  old  prtetors  was 
its  most  important  points  still  exercised  ( 
clusively  by  the   patricians ;  and  e\'en   th( 
military  power,  which  Avas  professedly  to 
open  to  both  orders,  Avas  not  transmitted  to  i 
tribunes  of  the  soldiers,  Avithout  some  dimin 
tion  of  its  majest}'.     The  ncAV  tribuneship  w 
not  an  exact  image  of  the  kingly  sovereigni 
it  Avas  not  a  curule  office,  and  therefore  no  t 
bune  cA'er  enjoyed  the  honour  of  a  triumph, 
Avhich  the  conquering   general,  ascending 
the  Capitol  to  sacrifice  to  the  guardian  gi 
of  Home,  Avas  wont  to  be  arrayed  in  all  t 
insignia  of  royalty. 


ARNOLD'S   ROME. 


313 


!     "But  even  the  small  share  of  power  thus 

I  (framed   in   theor}'  to   the  coinmons,  was    in 

I  practice  withheki  from  them.     Whether  from 

the  intlueiice  of  the  patricians  in  the  centuries, 

or  by  religious  pretences  urged  b)-  the  augurs, 

or  by  the  enormous  and  arbitrary  power  of 

!  refusing  votes  which  the  officer  presiding  at 

I  the  comitia  was  wont  to  exercise,  the  college 

[of  the  tribunes  was  for  many  years  filled  by 

I  the  patricians  alone.     And.  while  the  censor- 

r  j>hip  was  to  be  a  fixed  institution,  the  tribunes 

I  of  the  soldiers  were  to  be  replaced  whenever 

it  might  appear  needful  by  two  consuls;  and 

|fn  the  consulship  no  plebeian  was  so  much  as 

•  lily  eligible.     Thus  the  victory  of  the  aris- 

racy  may  seem  to  have  been  complete,  and 

I  we    may  wonder    how   the    commons,   after 

lh.iving   carried   so   triumphantly  the   law  of 

iCanuleius,  should  have  allowed  the  political 

!  rights  asserted  for  them  by  his  colleagues,  to 

[have  been  so  partially  conceded  in  theory,  and 

I  in  practice  to  be  so  totally  withheld. 
"The  explanation  is  simple,  and  it  is  one 
of  the  most  valuable  lessons  of  history.     The 
nmons  obtained  those  reforms  which  they 
i red,  and  they  desired  such  only  as  their 
)siate  was  ripe  for.    They  had  witlulrawn  in 
times  past  to  the  Sacred  Hill,  but  it  was  to 
escape  from  intolerable  personal  oppression; 
they  had  recently  occupied    the  Avcntine  in 
arms,  but  it  was  to  get  rid  of  a  tyranny  which 
'nn^ered   the   honour   of  their  wives   and 
-  jghters,  and    to  recover   the   protection  of 
[their  tribunes  ;  they  had  more  lately  still  re- 

fired  to  the  Janiculum,  but  it  was  to  remove 
in  insulting  distinction  which  embittered  the 
<  of  private  life,  and  imposed  on  their 
ildren,  in  many  instances,  the  incon- 

Ivenicnces,  if  not  the  reproach  of  illegitimacy. 
These  were  all  objects  of  universal  and  per- 
'ional  interest;  and  these  the  commons  were 
'      i  not  to  relinquish.     But  the  possible 
■n  of  a  few  distinguished  members  of 
ncir  body  to  the  highest  offices  of  state  con- 
^frned  the   mass  of  the  commons  but  little. 
They  had  their  own  tribunes  for  their  pers(mal 
•  n ;  but  cunile  magistracies,  ami  the 
nent  of  the  commfmwealtti,  sc-uH'd  to 
iig  to  the  patricians,  or  at  least 
-  in  their  hands  without  any  great 
So  it  is  that  all   things  come  best  in  their 
■  :    that   political   power   is   then    most 
fxprrispd  liv  .1  pf'oplc.  whon  it  h.is  not 


»ant  of  It.  rtecurily  lor  person  and  property 
'iiaMfs  a  nation  togrow  wiH'  •'  '  '-rruption; 
n  r(tnif:TiMnx  for  this  a  p^f.  e  of  law 


1   It  nn  "th'T 

.  .  1  more  nr :.  m<"n 

iwakf-n   to  the  hi(;he<it  cnf  re  of  the 

■iprncl  nind,  the  deiirr  ol  m  active 

•  h.Tf  in  Ml"  !»r^nt  work  of    -  -ni,     Th'* 

Rr- 

Jl^-:  ,  ,  y 

rears;  but  they  continued  to  incrente  in  pros- 

[xrity  and  in  influmrr;  and  what  the  fn''-' 

•lad  wi'-rlv  yielded,  ihrir  sons  in  thr  fn 

if  time  accoutred.     So  the  Engli.sh  House  ut 


Commons,  in  the  reign  of  Edward  Ilf.,  declined 
to  interfere  in  questions  of  pccice  and  war,  at 
being  too  high  for  them  to  compass;  but  they 
would  not  allow  the  crown  to  take  their  monej 
without  their  own  consent;  and  so  the  natioii 
grew,  and  the  influence  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons grew  along  with  it,  till  that  house  has 
become  the  great  and  predominant  power  in 
the  British  constitution. 

"If  this  view  be  correct,  Trcbonius  judged 
far  more  wisely  than  M.  Duilius;  and  the 
abandonment  of  half  the  plebeian  tribuneship 
to  the  patricians,  in  order  to  obtain  for  the 
plebeians  an  equal  share  in  the  higher  magis- 
tracies, would  have  been  as  really  injurious  to 
the  commons  as  it  was  unwelcome  to  the  pride 
of  the  aristocracy.  It  was  resigning  a  weapon 
with  which  they  were  familiar,  for  one  which 
they  knew  not  how  to  wield.  The  tribuneship 
was  the  foster-nurse  of  Roman  liberty,  and 
without  its  care  that  liberty  never  would 
have  grown  to  maturity.  What  evils  it  after- 
wards wrought,  when  the  public  freedom  was 
fully  ripened,  arose  from  that  great  defect  of 
the  Roman  constitution,  its  conferring  such 
extravagant  powers  on  all  its  officers.  It  pro- 
posed to  check  one  tyranny  by  another;  in- 
stead of  so  limiting  the  prerogatives  of  every 
magistrate  and  order  in  the  stale,  whether 
aristocratical  or  popular,  as  to  exclude  tyranny 
from  all." 

Our  limits  will  not  admit  of  any  other  ex- 
tracts, how  interesting  soever  they  may  be. 
Those. already  made  will  sufficiently  indicate 
the  character  of  the  work.  It  is  clear  that  Dr. 
Arnold,  in  addition  to  his  well-known  classical 
and  critical  acquirements,  possesses  a  discri- 
minating judgment,  a  rcllecting  philosophic 
turn  of  mind,  and  the  power  of  graphic  inte- 
resting description.  These  are  valuable  quali- 
ties to  any  historian :  they  are  indispensable 
to  the  annalist  of  Rome,  and  promise  to  render 
his  work,  if  continued  in  the  same  spirit,  the 
best  history  of  that  wondrrful  state  in  the 
English,  perhaps  in  any  modern,  language. 
We  congratulate  him  upon  the  auspicious 
commfneeinent  of  his  labours;  we  cordially 
wish  him  success,  and  shall  follow  him,  with 
no  ordinary  interest,  '  the  remainder 

of  his  vast  subject,  ini'  to  the  student 

of  ancient  events,  and  the  observer  of  contem- 
porary transactions. 

TIhto    arc    two    points    which   we   would 
iiiiiKiid  to  the  considi'ration  of 
ithor.  as  essential  to  the  success 
of  his  work  as  a  popular  or  durable  history. 

The  first  is,  to  avoid,  as  much  as  possible, 
in  Iht  Ifjl,  all  discussions  concerning  i/ufsiiontM 
!  disputed  points,  and  give  the  con- 
I  winch  he  arrives  in  dislinri  propo- 
sitions, without  any  ofiherriiiiMlor.ininin.irian 
p- 1  ..i.ii,  '  lilt  which  they  are  founded.  Tlies« 
1,1  1,  are  of  inestimable  imporinnre  to 

th--  !•  lined  or  the  thoiuhtful.  But  how  few 
are  they,  compared  to  the  mars  of  readers! 
and  how  inrapable  of  ■  •"•'»' 

work  any  extensive  ( •  '      ■  ''*• 

be  Riven,  but  in  nnt($,  so  an  not,  iry 

-  ■    '  r'i.  to  interrupt  the  i-'-r-    •  ■  •  <  r.i- 

r  break  the  continur 

Tiic  second  is,  to  exert  hinu'-u  \"  w  "tmotV 


214 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


and,  on  every  occasion  which  presents  itself, 
»o  paint,  with  graphic  fire,  the  events,  or  peo- 
ple, or  scenes  which  occur  in  the  course  of  his 
narrative,  and  to  give  all  the  interest  in  his 
power  to  the  description  of  tattles,  sieges, 
incidents,  episodes,  or  speeches,  which  present 
themselves.  More  even  than  accuracy  of  de- 
tail, or  any  other  more  solid  qualities,  these 
fascinating  graces  determine,  with  future  ages, 
the  celebrity  and  permanent  interest  of  an  his- 
torical work.  What  is  the  charm*  which  at- 
tracts all  ages,  and  will  do  so  to  the  end  of  the 
world,  to  the  retreat  of  the  Ten  Thousand,  the 
youth  of  Cyrus,  the  early  annals  of  Rome,  the 
Catiline  conspiracy,  the  reign  of  Tiberius,  the 
exploits  of  Alexander,  the  Latin  conquest  of 
Constantinople,  the  misfortunes  of  Mary,  the 
death  of  Charles  I."?  The  eloquent  fictions 
and  graphic  powers  of  Xenophon  and  hivy, 
of  Sallust  and  Tacitus,  of  Quintus  Curtius  and 
Gibbon,  of  Robertson  and  Hume.  In  vain 
does  criticism  assail,  and  superior  learning 
disprove,  and  subsequent  discoveries  overturn 
their  enchanting  narratives;  in  vain  does  the 
intellect  of  the  learned  few  become  skeptical 
as  to  the  facts  they  relate,  and  which  have 
sunk  in  the  hearts  of  the  many.  The  imagi- 
nation is  kindled,  the  heart  is  overcome,  and 
the  works  remain,  not  onl}'-  immortal  in  cele- 
brit}'',  but  undeca3'ing  in  influence  through 
every  succeeding  age.  Why  should  not  his- 
tory, in  modern  as  in  ancient  times,  unite  the 
interest  of  the  romance  to  the  accuracy  of  the 
annalist?  Why  should  not  real  events  en- 
chain the  mind  with  the  graces  and  the  colours 
of  poetry  1  That  Dr.  Arnold  is  learned,  all 
who  have  studied  his  admirable  edition  of 
Thucydides  know;  that  he  can  paint  with 
force  and  interest,  none  who  read  the  volume 
before  us  can  doubt.  Why,  then,  should  not 
the  latter  qualities  throw  their  brilliant  hues 
over  the  accurate  drawing  of  the  former  ? 

We  have  already  said  that  we  find  no  fault 
with  Dr.  Arnold  on  account  of  his  politics ; 
nav,  that  we  value  his  work  the  more,  because, 
giving,  as  it  promises  to  do,  in  the  main,  a 
faithful  account  of  the  facts  of  Roman  histor)^ 
it  cannot  fail  to  furnish,  from  a  source  the  least 
suspicious,  a  host  of  facts  decisive  in  favour 
of  Conservative  principles.  By  Conservative 
principles  we  do  not  mean  attachment  to 
despotic  power,  or  aversion  to  genuine  free- 
dom :  on  the  ccntraiy,  we  mean  the  utmost 
abhc  rrence  of  the  former,  and  the  strongest 


attachment  to  the  latter.  We  mean  an  attac> 
ment  to  that  form  of  giA'ernment,  and  th; 
balance  of  power,  which  alone  can  rendc 
these  blessings  permanent, — which  render  pn 
perty  the  ruling,  and  numbers  only  the  cor 
trolling  power, — which  give  to  weight  of  po: 
session  and  intellect  the  direction  of  aflfair 
and  intrust  to  the  ardent  feelings  of  the  mult 
tude  the  duty  only  of  preventing  their  excesse: 
or  exposing  their  corruption.  Without  th 
former,  the  rule  of  the  people  degenerates,  i 
a  few  years,  in  eveiy  instance  recorded  i 
history,  into  licentious  excess,  and  absolni 
tyranny;  without  the  latter,  the  ambition  c 
selfishness  of  the  aristocrac}'  perverts  to  thei 
own  private  purposes  the  domain  of  the  stati 
Paradoxical  as.it  may  appear,  it  is  strictly  an 
literally  true,  that  the  general  inclination  O' 
abstract  students,  remote  from  a  practic; 
intercourse  Avith  mankind,  to  republican  prii 
ciples,  is  a  decisive  proof  of  the  experience 
necessity  for  Conservative  policy  that  ha 
always  been  felt  in  the  actual  administratio 
of  affairs.  Recluse  or  speculative  men  becom' 
attached  to  liberal  ideas,  because  they  see  thei 
constanll}'  put  forth,  in  glowing  and  generoi;; 
language,  by  the  popular  orators  and  writei 
in  every  age  :  they  associate  oppression  wit 
the  government  of  a  single  ruler,  or  a  comp;: 
ratively  small  number  of  persons  of  gre; 
possessions,  because  they  see,  in  general,  th; 
goyernment  is  established  on  one  or  other  c 
these  bases;  and,  consequently,  mos  of  ft; 
oppressive  acts  recorded  in  history  have  em; 
nated  from  such  authority.  They  forget  thi 
the  opportunity  of  abusing  power  has  been  s: 
generally  afforded  to  these  classes  by  the  e:' 
perienced  impossibility  of  intrusting  it  to  an 
other ;  that  if  the  theorj'  of  popular  goveri 
meat  had  been  practicable,  Democracy,  instea: 
of  exhibiting  only  a  few  blood-stained  sped 
in  history,  would  have  occupied  the  large: 
space  in  its  annals;  that  if  the  people  had  bee, 
really  capable  of  directing  affairs,  they  wouli; 
in  every  age,  have  been  the  supreme  authorit; 
and  the  holders  of  property  the  declaimei 
against  their  abuses;  and  that  no  proof  cant 
so  decisive  against  the  practicability  of  an 
form  of  government,  as  the  fact,  that  it  he 
been  found,  during  six  thousand  years,  of  sue 
rare  occurrence,  as  to  make  even  learne 
persons,  till  taught  by  experience,  blind  la  v 
tendency. 


I 


MIE-UJEAU 


816 


MIEAHEAU/ 


"  It  IS  a  melancholj-  fact,"  says  Madame  dc 
BtafI,  "  lliat  wliile  the  human  race  is  conti- 
nually advancins^  by  the  acquisitions  of  intel- 
lect. It  is  doomed  to  move  perpetually  in  the 
same  circle  of  error,  from  the  influence  of  the 
passions."  If  this  observation  was  just,  even 
when  this  great  author  wrote,  how  much  more 
is  it  now  applicable,  when  a  new  generation 
has  arisen,  blind  to  the  lessons  of  experience, 
and  we  in  this  free  and  prosperous  land,  have 
yielded  to  the  same  passions,  and  been  seduced 
by  the  same  delusions,  which,  three-and-forty 
years  ago,  actuated  the  French  people,  and 
have  been  deemed  inexcusable  by  all  subse- 
quent historians,  evea  in  its  enslaved  popula- 
tion ! 

It  would  appear  inconceivable,  that  the  same 
errors  should  thus  be  repeated  by  successive 
nations,  without  the  least  regard  to  the  les- 
sons of  history;  that  all  the  dictates  of  expe- 
rience, all  the  conclusions  of  wisdom,  all  the 
penalties  of  weakness,  should  be  forgotten, 
before  the  generation  which  has  suffered  under 
their  neglect  is  cold  in  their  graves;  that  the 
same  vices  should  be  repeated,  the  same  crimi- 
nal ambition  indulged,  to  the  end  of  the  world; 
if  we  did  not  recollect  that  it  is  the  very  essence 
of  passion,  whether  in  nations  or  individuals, 
to  be  insensible  to  the  sufferings  of  others,  and 
to  pursue  its  own  headstrong  inclinations,  re- 
pardlfss  alike  of  the  admonitions  of  reason, 
and  the  experience  of  the  world.  It  would 
seem  that  the  vehemence  of  desire  in  nations 
is  as  little  liable  to  be  influenced  by  considera- 
tions of  prudence,  or  the  slightest  regard  to  the 
con^^qn'-'ices,  as  the  career  of  intemperance  in 
ind  '  :  and  that,  in  like  manner,  as  every 
sue  age  beholds  multitudes  who,  in  the 

pursuit  of  desire,  rush  headlong  down  the  gulf 
of  r,^-'  r,^  so  every  successive  generation 
is  ''.  I  witness  the  sacrifice  of  national 

pr  .  r. 

en<'-.  .  M- 

bition.  Providence  has  appnmied  reriain 
trials  for  nations  as  well  as  individuals;  and 
for  those  who.  disrccarding  the  admonitions 

of   ^    ■  •       •      •  •  •  ■■     ■ 

yir    ' 

pomtrd  1(1  r 

criminal  ■'.'■  .. at 

of  cmpir''s 

Fori 
wi/pH 
lllw    • 
in  • 
disrarcled,  the  jftisnns  of  ♦•'<  I : 

▼ition:^"    •■  — •     "  "•  1- 

cal  nil  1- 

ttitf 


Ki.    1  ■ 

»"n.      I 

«b«D  tlia  Kgforni  iiill  waa  bvfor«  lliv  iiau««  pf  !"««». 


than  the  paths  of  private  life. 

■'  ion  for  I- 

nniinn  ;•    I 


destroyed:  a  new  cnnMitution  introduce^ 
amidst  the  unanimous  applause  of  tlie  peo 
pic:  the  monarch  placed  himself  at  the  head 
of  the  movement,  the  nobles  joined  the  com* 
mons,  the  clergy  united  in  the  work  of  reform : 
all  classes,  by  common  consent,  conspired  in 
the  demolition  and  reconstruction  of  the  con- 
stitution. A  new  era  was  thought  to  have 
dawned  on  human  affairs;  the  age  of  gold  to 
be  about  to  return  from  the  regeneration  of 
mankind. 

The  consequence,  as  all  the  world  knows, 
was  ruin,  devastation,  and  misery,  unparalleled 
in  modern  times  :  the  king,  the  queen,  the  royal 
family  were  beheaded,  the  nobles  exiled  or 
guillotined,  the  clergy  confiscated  and  banish- 
ed, the  fundholders  starved  and  ruined,  the 
merchants  exterminated,  the  landholders  beg- 
gared, the  people  decimated.  The  wrath  of 
Heaven  needed  no  destroying  angel  to  be  the 
minister  of  its  vengeance :  the  guilty  passion* 
of  men  worked  out  their  own  and  well-de 
served  punishment.  The  fierce  passion  of  de 
mocracy  was  extinguished  in  blood :  the  Reign 
of  Terror  froze  every  heart  with  horror:  the 
tyranny  of  the  Directory  destroyed  the  very 
name  of  freedom :  the  ambition  of  Napoleon 
visited  every  cottage  with  mourning,  and 
doomed  to  tears  every  mother  in  France;  and 
the  sycophancy  of  all  classes,  the  natural  re- 
sult of  former  license,  so  paved  the  way  for 
military  despotism,  that  the  haui^hty  emperor 
could  only  exclaim  with  Tiberius — "  O  ho- 
mines ad  serviiulem  parati !" 

Forty  years  after,  the  same  unruly  and  reck- 
less  spirit  seized  the  very  nation  who  had  wit- 
nessed these  horrors,  ami  bravely  stru^'i^lrd  fir 
twenty  years  to  avert  them  from  iiL-r  own 
shores.  The  passion  of  democracy  became 
general  in  all  the  manufacturing  and  tradmg 
classes :  a  large  portion  of  the  nobility  were 
deluded  by  the  infatuated  iil-  '  v  yield- 

ing to  the  torrent,  they  ct.uld  its  di- 

rection :  the  ministers  of  the  crown  put  them- 
selves  at   the    head   of    the   movement,   ajid 
wielded  the  royal  prerogative    to   give   force 
i-e  to   lb"'  ambition   of  the  mul- 
.  al    faii;itieism   a:;aia   reared  its 
hydra  hrad :  the  ministers  of  religion  became 
the  objects  of  odium ;  every  thing  sacred,  every 
thine  vcnerahje,  the  .subject  of  opprobrium, 
'  ■  '         to  this   tempest  of  passion 

itened  men  sericuisly  antici* 
I,  not  II   n-petition   of  the   horrors  of  the 
1  .     .1  h  Hevolution,  l)Ut  thi*  stnyiiii:  of  ilir  fury 
of  democracy,  the  stilling  of  the  waven  of  fac 
tion.  the  calming  the  ambition  of  the  prople. 
I  ,  That  a  di-lusion  so  extraordinary-,  a  blind- 

••SH  so  infatiiatrd.  should  b:n  •  ' 

i^'-r  the  preat  ;iiid  I>1 ly  •'  ' 

on  the  theatre  of  Kurope.  wu  Uh 

•  ui.  r  incredible  to  fiilure  nc'"'-     '  "». 

lowr-ver.  that  it  exists,   not  only  (he 

1  unthinking  millions,  who,  b«ing  iin  .^Muie  of 


'816 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


judging  of  the  consequences  of  pdlitical 
changes,  are  of  no  weiglit  in  a  philnsnijhieal 
view  of  the  subject,  but  among  thinking  thou- 
sands who  arc  capable  of  forming  a  correct 
judgment,  and  whose  opinions  on  other  sub- 
jects are  highly  worthy  of  consideration.  Tliis 
is  the  circumstance  wliich  furnishes  the  real 
phenomenon,  and  into  the  causes  of  which  fu- 
ture ages  Avill  anxiously  inquire.  It  is  no  more 
surprising  that  a  new  generation  of  shop- 
keepers,' manufacturers,  and  artisans,  should 
be  devoured  by  the  passion  for  political 
power,  without  any  regard  to  its  recent  con- 
sequences in  the  neighbouring  kingdom,  than 
that  youth,  in  every  successive  generation, 
should  yield  to  the  seductions  of  pleasure,  or 
the  allurements  of  vice,  without  ever  thinking 
of  the  miseries  it  has  brought  upon  their  fa- 
thers, and  the  old  time  before  them.  But  how 
men  of  sense,  talent,  and  information  ;  men 
who  really  have  a  stake  in  the  country,  and 
would  themselves  be  the  first  victims  of  revo- 
lution, should  be  carried  aAvay  by  the  same  in- 
fatuation, cannot  be  so  i-asily  explained  ;  and, 
if  it  cannot  be  accounted  for  from  some  acci- 
dental circumstances,  offers  the  most  gloomy 
prospects  for  the  cause  of  truth,  and  the  future 
destinies  of  mankind. 

"The  direction  of  literature  and  philosophy 
in  France,  during  the  last  half  of  the  IStli 
centur}-,"  says  Madame  de  Stael,  "  was  ex- 
tremely bad ;  but,  if  I  may  be  allowed,  the  ex- 
pression, the  direction  of  ignorance  has  "been 
still  worse;  for  no  one  book  can  do  much 
mischief  to  those  who  read  all.  If  the  idlers 
in  the  world,  on  the  other  hand,  occupy  them- 
selves by  reading  a  few  moments,  the  work 
which  they  read  makes  as  great  an  impression 
on  them  as  the  arrival  of  a  stranger  in  the 
desert;  and  if  that  work  abounds  in  sophisms, 
they  have  no  opposite  arguments  to  oppose  to 
it.  The  discovery  of  printing  is  truly  fatal  to 
those  who  read  o)ily  by  halves  or  chance  ;  for  know- 
ledge, like  the  Lance  of  Argail,  inflicts  wounds 
which  nothing  but  itself  can  heal."*  In  this 
observation  is  to  be  found  the  true  solution  of 
the  extraordinary  political  delusions  which 
now  overspread  the  world;  and  it  is  much 
easier  to  discern  the  causes  of  the  calamil)', 
than  perceive  what  remedy  can  be  devised  for  it. 

If  you  could  give  to  all  who  can  read  the 
newspapers,  either  intellect  to  understand,  or 
taste  to  relish,  or  money  to  buy,  or  time  to  read, 
works  of  historical  information,  or  philoso- 
phical wisdom,  there  might  be  a  reasonable 
nope  that  error  in  the  end  would  be  banished 
from  thought,  and  that  political  knowledge, 
like  the  Thames  water  in  the  course  of  a  long 
voyage,  would  »vork  itself  pure.  But  as  it  is 
obvious  to  every  one  practically  acquainted 
with  the  condition  of  mankind,  that  ninety- 
nine  out  of  the  humlred  who  peruse  the  daily 
press,  are  either  totally  incapable  of  ft)rming  a 
saund  opinion  from  their  own  reflections  on 
any  subject  of  thought,  or  so  influenced  by 
prejudice  as  to  be  inaccessible  to  the  force  of 
rta-sor".,  or  so  much  swayed  l)y  passion  as  to 
ne  deaf  to  argument,  or  so  destitute  of  infor- 
►nation  as  to  be  insensible  to  its  force,  it  is 


•  Un  rAUemagno,  iii.  2^17. 


hardly  possible  to  discern  any  mode  in  which, 
with  a  daily  press  extensively  read,  and  poli. 
tical  excitement  kept  up,  as  it  always  will  be 
by  its  authors,  either  truth  is  to  become  genc« 
rally  known,  or  error  sufliciently  combated. 
Every  one,  how  slender  soever  his  intellect, 
how  slight  his  information,  how  limited  his 
time  for  study,  can  understand  and  feel  gra- 
tified by  abuse  of  his  superiors.  The  com- 
mon slang  declamation  against  the  aristocrats, 
the  clergy,  and  the  throne,  in  France,  aud 
against  the  boroughmongers,  the  bishops,  and 
the  peers,  in  England,  is  on  the  level  of  the 
meanest  capacity ;  and  is  calculated  to  seduce 
all  those  who  are  "either,"  in  Bacon's  words, 
"weak  in  judgment,  or  infirm  in  resolution; 
that  is,  the  greater  proportion  of  mankind." 

It  is  this  circumstance  of  the  universal  dif« 
fusion  of  passion,  and  the  extremely  limited 
extent    of    such  intellect    or    information  as 
qualifies  to  judge  on  political  subjects,  M-hich 
renders  the  future  prospects   of  any  nation, ' 
which  has  got  itself  involved  in  the  M-hirlwind  '. 
of  innovation,  so  extremely  melancholy.  Every  i 
change  M'hich  is  proposed  holds  out  some  im- 
mediute  or  apparent  benefit,  which  forms  the  , 
jittraction  and  inducement  to   the   multitude.  ■ 
Every  one  can  see  and  understand  this  imme-  i 
diate  or  imaginary  benefit ;  and  therefore  the  > 
change  is  clamorously  demanded  by  the  people. ! 
To  discern  the  idtimate  eifects  again,  to  see  how 
these  changes  are  to  operate  on  the  frame  of  so- 
ciety, and  the  misery  they  are  calculated  to  bring 
on  the  very  persons  who  demand  them,  requires  ; 
a  head  of  more  than  ordinary  strength,and  know-  j 
ledge  of  more  than  ordinary  extent.  Nature  has 
not  given  the  one,  education  can  never  give 
the  other,  to  above  one  in  a  hundred.     Hence 
the  poison  circulates   universally,  while   the 
antidote  is  confined  to  a  few;  and  therefore, 
in  such  periods,  the  most  extravagant  mea- 
sures are  forced  upon  government,  and  a  total 
disregard  of  experience  characterizes  the  na- 
tional councils. 

It  is  to  this  cause  that  the  extremely  short 
duration  of  any  institutions,  which  have  been 
framed  under  the  pressure  of  democratic  in- 
fluence, is  to  be  ascribed,  and  the  rapidity  with 
which  they  are  terminated  by  the  tranquil  des- 
potism of  the  sword.  Rome, in  two  generations, 
ran  through  the  horrors  of  democratic  convul- 
sions, until  they  were  stopped  by  the  sword  of 
the  Dictator.  France,  since  the  reform  trans- 
ports of  1789  began,  has  had  thirteen  dilferent 
constitutions ;  none  of  which  subsisted  two 
years,  except  such  as  were  supported  by  the 
power  of  Napoleon  and  the  bayonets  of  the 
allies.  England,  in  five  years  after  the  people 
ran  mad  in  1642,  Avas  quietly  sheltered  under 
the  despotism  of  Cromwell ;  aud  the  convulsions 
of  the  republics  of  South  America  have  been 
so  numerous  since  their  struggles  began,  thai 
civilized  nations  have  ceased  to  count  them. 

Historians  recording  events  at  a  distance 
from  the  period  of  their  occurrence,  and  ig- 
norant of  the  experienced  evils  Avhich  led  to 
iheir  adoption,  have  often  indulged  in  eloquent 
doclaniati(Ui  against  the  corruption  and  debase- 
ment of  those  nations,  such  as  Florence,  Milan, 
Sienna,  and  Denmark,  which  have  by  common 
consent,  and  a  solemn  act,  surrendered  theit 


I 


MIKADEAU 


217 


|iberti;s  to  a  sovereijrn  prince.  There  is  no- 
ihiiig.  however,  either  extraortHiiary  or  ile- 
basing  about  it;  they  surrendered  tlicir  privi- 
leges, because  they  had  never  known  what 
real  freedom  was ;  they  invoked  the  tranquillity 
of  despotism,  to  avoid  the  experienced  ills  of 
anarchy;  they  chose  the  lesser,  to  avoid  the 
greater  evil.  Democracy,  admirable  as  a 
spring,  and  when  duly  tempered  by  the  other 
cJements  of  society,  is  utterly  destructive 
where  it  becomes  predominant,  or  is  deprived 
i(  its  regulating  weight.  The  evils  it  pro- 
duces are  so  excessive,  the  suftering  it  occa- 
sions so  dreadful,  that  society  cannot  exist 
under  them,  and  the  people  take  refuge  in 
despair,  in  the  surrender  of  all  they  have 
been  contending  for,  to  obtain  that  peace 
which  they  have  sought  for  in  vain  amidst 
its  stormy  convulsions.  The  horrors  of  de- 
mocratic tyranny  greatly  exceed  those  either 
of  regal  or  aristocratic  oppression.  History 
contains  numerous  examples  of  nations,  who 
have  lingered  on  for  centuries,  under  the 
bowstring  of  the  sultan,  or  the  fetters  of  the 
feudal  nobility ;  but  none  in  which  democratic 
violence,  wlien  once  fairlj'  let  loose,  has  not 
speedily  brought  about  its  own  extirpation. 

But  although  there  is  little  hope  that  the 
multitude,  when  once  infected  by  the  deadly 
contagion  of  dcmocracj',  can  right  themselves, 
or  be  righted  by  others,  by  the  utmost  efforts 
of  reason,  argument,  or  eloquence,  nature  has 
in  reserve  one  remedy  of  sovereign  and  uni- 
versal efficacy,  which  is  as  universally  under- 
d,  and  as  quick  in  its  operation,  as    the 

■n  which  rendered  its  application  neces- 
sar}-.  This  Remedy  is  Scffeiiino.  Every 
man  cannot,  indeed,  understand  political  rea- 
soning; but  every  man  can  feel  the  want  of 
a  meal.  The  multitude  may  be  insensible  to 
the  efforts  of  reason  and  eloquence;  but  they 
cannot  !■  i.iain  deaf  to  the  dangers  of  murdrr 
ind  cijijla^ration.  These,  the  natural  and 
unvarying  attendants  on  democratic  ascend- 
-■-,  will  as  certainly  in  the  end   tame   the 

•  spirits  of  the  people,  as  winter  will  suc- 

r ;  but  wh'-ther  thi'V  will  do  so  in 

rve  the  national  freedom,  or  up- 

liold  thr  national  fortunes,  is  a  very  different, 

[ind  far  more  doubtful  question.     It  is  seldom 

I  hat  the  illumination   of  suffcrinp^  comes   in 

to  save  the  people  from  the  despotism  of 

word. 

It   i.s    in    this   particular  that    the  superior 

;trength  .ind  .  (Tk-  '-r.'-v    ,.f  free   con>titution<«, 

.uch  ;l^  Mr;'  iMi  ni;  the  fatal  cncroach- 

.   I't  any   possessed   bv   .'1 

•.    i^    to    hn    fiiind.     'I'h- 


o  till"  lii:,'li''r  .11.  I  nii'tf  n. 

.  power  of  ri>iiil>ining  to  ii-  i,i  ui' 

•bstarirs  are  thrown  in   the  w.n 

i-lii'}i 

>i<if  ■,  '.".■. 

nlisied   on  the   side   of  truth ;  honour    and 

■atriotism  .nre  found  in  the  po<it  of  Hangrr; 

irtue   r>'i  ives   il5   noblest   altnbulc   m    the 

niv'     '        •  ■         •     ■  -f- 

cnri 


ster  which  has  started  i.ito  political  activity; 
but  they  combine  the  brave,  the  enlightened, 
and  the  good,  into  a  united  phalanx,  which, 
if  it  cannot  singly  resist  the  torrent,  may,  at 
least,  arrest  its  fury,  till  the  powers  of  nature 
come  to  its  aid.  Ti  lo  come  at  last 
with  desperate  and  cl.  in  the  uni- 

versal suffering,  the  lai-spread  agony,  the  hope- 
less depression  of  the  poor;  but  the  danger 
is  imminent,  that  before  the  change  takes  place 
the  work  of  destruction  may  be  completed,  and 
the  national  liberties,  deprived  of  the  ark  of  the 
constitution,  be  doomed  to  perish  under  the 
futile  attempts  to  reconstruct  it. 

There  never  was  a  mistake  so  deplorable, 
as  to  imagine  that  it  is  possible,  to  give  to  any 
nation  at  once  a  new  constitution;  or  to  pre- 
serve the  slightest  guarantee  for  freedom, 
under  institutions  created  at  once  by  the 
utmost  efforts  of  human  wisdom.  It  is  as  im- 
possible at  once  to  give  a  durable  constitution 
to  a  nation  as  it  is  to  give  a  healthful  frame 
to  an  individual,  without  going  through  the 
previous  changes  of  childhood  and  youth. 
"  Governments,"  says  Sir  James  Mackintosh, 
"  are  not  framed  after  a  model,  but  all  their 
parts  grow  out  of  occasional  acts,  prompted 
by  some  urgent  expedience,  or  some  private 
interest,  which  in  the  course  of  time  coalesce 
and  harden  into  usage;  and  this  bundle  of 
usages  is  the  object  of  respect,  and  the  guide 
of  conduct,  long  before  it  is  imbodied,  defined, 
or  enforced  in  written  laws.  Government 
may  be,  in  some  degree,  reduced  to  system, 
but  it  cannot  flow  from  it.  It  is  not  like  a 
machine,  or  a  building,  which  may  be  con- 
structed entirely,  and  according  to  a  previous 
plan,  by  the  art  and  labour  of  man.  It  is 
better  illustrated  by  comparison  with  vege- 
tables, or  even  animals,  which  may  be,  in  a 
very  high  degree,  improved  by  skill  and  care 
— which  may  be  grievously  injured  by  neglect, 
or  destroyed  by  violence,  but  which  cannot  be 
produced  by  human  contrivance.  A  govern- 
ment can,  indeed,  be  no  more  than  a  mere 
draught  or  scheme  of  rule,  when  it  is  not  com- 
posed of  habits  of  (ibedience  on  the  part  of 
the  people,  and  of  an  habitual  exercise  of  cer- 
tain portions  of  authority  by  the  individuals  or 
bodies  who  constitute   the  !i    power. 

These    habits,    like   all    otl,  .    i>nly    be 

formed  by  n-peated  nrtN;  tliev  iMiumt  be  sud- 
denly infuse<l  by  the  lawgiver,  nor  can  they 
immediately  follow  the  most  perfect  convic- 
tion of  their  propriety.  Many  causes  having 
more  power  over  the  human  minil  ih.in  writ- 
■    > ,  it  is  extrcii  '     iiill.  from  tin-  mere 

lofnwritie of  govcinmeiit,  to 

what  it  will  prove  in  neiion.     'J'herc 

"■■vernments  so  bad  that  it  is  jusiih- 

rny  them,  and  to  trust  lo  the  pri-ba- 

•y   in.u  ;i  better  govrrninent  wil'  ii 

r  Mead.     lint  as  the  rise  of  a  w.  > 

'<•,  »o  trrrililr  a  prril  if  ttrrrr  In  i 

,       I  thf  r<it<  of  ttjr.m,,',  irf.irh  it  m  I-  ,  ' 

Tfform,     It  may  be  i  v  to  burn  «  I  r-    t 

containing   much   u-'iu    timber,  I '  "  : 

shelter   111    liea<^l«i  of  prev,  wtio  .nre  i 

■  I 


>  alter  the  opinion  of  the  many-hcidcd  nion- 1  thinned  by  their  inadcauale  labour. 


It  i<t  fiv 


918 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


howevpr,  that  they  should  be  apprized,  before 
they  take  an  irreparable  step,  how  little  it  is 
possible  to  foresee,  whether  the  earlh,  stripped 
of  its  vegetation,  shall  become  an  unprofitable 
desert  or  a  pestilential  marsh."* 

The  great  cause,  therefore,  of  the  devastat- 
ing march  of  revolutions,  and  the  total  sub- 
version which  they  in  general  effect  in  the 
liberties   of  the    people,   is   the   fumlamental 
changes  in  laws  and  institutions  which  they 
effect.    As  long  as  these  remain  untouched, 
or  not  altered  in  any  considerable  degree,  any 
passing  despotism,  how  grievous  soever,  is 
only  of  temporary  effect;  and  when  the  tyran- 
ny is  overpast,  the  public  freedom  again  runs 
into  its  wonted  and  consuetudinary  channels. 
Thus  the  successive  tyrannies  of  Richard  the 
Third;  Henry  the  Eighth,  and  James  the  Se- 
cond, produced   no   fatal   effects   on  English 
freedom,  because  they  subsisted  only  during 
the  lifetime  of  an  arbitrary  or  capricious  sove- 
reign ;  and,  upon  his  death,  the  ancient  privi- 
leges of  the  people  revived,  and  the  liberties 
of  the  nation  again  were  as  extensive  as  ever. 
The  great  rebellion  hardl}'-  partook  at  all,  at 
least  in  its  early  stages,  of  a  democratic  move- 
ment.   Its  leaders  were  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, who  possessed  four-fifths  of  the  landed 
property  of  the  kingdom,  and  were  proprietors 
of  three  times  as  much  territory  as  the  Upper 
House;  hence  no  considerable  changes  in  laws, 
institutions,   or  customs,   took   place.    "  The 
courts  of  law,"  says  Lingard,  "still  adminis- 
tered law  on  the  old  precedents,  and,  with  the 
exception  of  a  change  of  the  dynasty  on  the 
throne,  the  people  perceived  little  change  in 
the  administration  of  government."!     Power 
was  not,  during  the  course  of  the  Revolution, 
transferred  into  other  and  inferior  hands,  from 
whence  it  never  can  be  wrenched  but  at  the 
sword's  point;  it  remained  in  the  House  of 
Commons,   the   legal   representatives   of   the 
kingdom,  till  it  was  taken  from  them  by  the 
hand  of  Cromwell.    The  true  democratic  spi- 
rit appeared  at  the  cVose  of  the  struggles  in  the 
Fifth  Monarchy  men,  but  their  numbers  were 
too  inconsiderable  to  acquire  any  preponder- 
ance before  the  usurpation  of  the  daring  Pro- 
tector.    Accordingly,  on  the  Restoration,  the 
first  thing  that  government  did,  was  to  issue 
writs  for  all   persons  to  return  members   to 
Parlianrent  who  were  qualified  prior  to  1G40; 
and  after  an  abeyance  of  twenty  years,  the 
blood  of  the  constitution  was  again  poured 
into   its   ancient  veins.    The   Revolution    of 
1688,  as  it  is  called,  was  not  strictly  speaking 
a  revolution ;  it  was  merely  a  change  of  dy- 
nasty,  accompanied  by   a   unanimous    effort 
of  the  public  will,  and  unattended  by  the  least 
change  in  the  aristocratic  influence,  or  the  ba- 
lance of  powers  in  the  state. 

The  wisdom  of  our  ancestors  is  a  foolish 
phrase,  which  does  not  convey  the  meaning 
which  it  is  intended  to  express.  When  it  is 
said  that  institutions  formed  by  the  wisdom  of 
former  ages  should  not  be  changed,  it  is  not 
meant  that  onr  ancestors  were  gifted  with  any 
extraordinary  sagacity,  or  were  in  any  respect 


•  MJickintosli'H  History  of  England,  i.  73. 
^  Lingard,  xi.  1.,  ir 


superior  to  what  we  are — what  \z  meant  is, 
that  the  customs  which  they  adopted  were  the 
result  of  experienced  utility  and  known  neces- 
sity; and  that  the  collection  of  usages,  called 
the  constitution,  is  more  perfect  than  any  ha 
man  wisdom  could  at  once  have  framed,  be- 
cause it  has  arisen  out  of 'social  wants,  and 
been  adapted  to  the  exigencies  of  actual  prae* 
tice,  during  a  long  course  of  ages.  To  demo- 
lish and  reconstruct  such  a  constitution,  to 
remove  power  from  the  hands  in  which  it  was 
formerly  vested,  and  throw  it  into  channels 
where  it  never  was  accustomed  to  flow,  is, 
an  evil  incomparably  greater,  an  experiment 
infinitely  more  hazardous,  than  the  total  sub- 
version of  the  liberties  of  the  people  by  an 
ambitious  monarch  or  a  military  usurper,  be- 
cause it  not  only  destroys  the  balance  of  power 
at  the  moment,  but  renders  it  impossible  foi 
the  nation  to  right  itself  at  the  close  of  the  ty- 
ranny, and  raises  up  a  host  of  separate  revo- 
lutionary interests,  vested  at  the  moment  with 
supreme  authoritj^  and  dependent  for  their  ex- 
istence upon  the  continuance  of  the  revolu- 
tionary regime.  It  is  to  government  what  a 
total  change  of  landed  property  is  to  the  body 
politic  ;  a  wound  which,  as  Ireland  sufhcientlj 
proves,  a  nation  can  never  recover. 

As  the  Reform  Bill  proposes  to  throw  s 
large  part  of  the  political  power  in  the  state 
into  new  and  inexperienced  hands,  the  changf 
thereby  contemplated  is  incomparably  greatei 
■and  more  perilous  than  the  most  compleU 
prostration  of  the  liberties,  either  of  the  people 
or  the  aristocracy,  by  a  passing  tyranny.  It  ij 
the  creation  of  new  and  formidable  revolu 
tionary  interests  which  will  never  expire;  th» 
vesting  of  power  in  hands  jealous  of  its  pos 
session,  in  proportion  to  the  novelty  of  itJ 
acquisition,  and  their  own  unfitness  to  wielt 
it,  which  is  the  insuperable  evil.  Such  a  ca 
lainity  is  inflicted  as  eflfectually  by  the  tranqni 
and  pacific  formation  of  a  new  constitution 
as  by  the  most  terrible  civil  wars,  or  the  se 
verest  military  oppression.  The  liberties  of 
England  survived  the  Avars  of  tiie  Roses,  th( 
fury  of  the  Covenant,  and  the  tyranny  ol 
Henry  VIII. ;  but  those  of  France  were  a 
once  destroyed  by  the  insane  innovations  of 
the  Constituent  Assembly.  And  this  dcstruc 
tion  took  place  without  any  bloodshed  crop 
position,  under  the  auspices  of  a  reformint 
king,  a  conceding  nobility,  and  an  intoxicatei 
people,  by  the  mere  unresisted  A'otes  of  tli« 
States-General. 

The  example  of  France  is  so  extremely  am 
exactly  applicable  to  our  changes — the  pacifi< 
and  applauded  march  of  its  innovations  vm 
so  precisely  similar  to  that  which  has  so  lon| 
been  pressed  upon  the  legislature  in  this  coun 
try,  that  it  is  not  surprising  that  it  should  '•■ 
an  extremely  sore  subject  with  the  Refurmi 
and  that  they  should  endeavour,  by  every  mc 
thod  of  ingenuity,  misrepresentation,  and  con 
cealment,  to  withdraw  the  public  atientioi 
from  so  damning  a  precedent.  It  is  fortunate 
therefore,  for  the  cause  of  truth,  that  at  tli 
juncture  a  work  has  appeared,  flowing  frou 
the  least  suspicious  quarter,  which  at  one 
puts  this  matter  on  the  right  footing,  and  de 
monstrates  that  it  was  not  undue  delay,  bu, 


I 


MiiJAnKAr. 


219 


OTtT  rapidity  of  concession,  which  hrou;jht 
about  the  unexampled  horrors  of  its  Kevolu- 
tion. 

M.  Dumont,  whose  "Souvenirs  sur   Mira- 
beau"  is  prefixed  to  this  article,  was  the  early 
and  faithful  friend  of  that  cxtraordinarj*  man. 
t   He  wrote  a  great  proportion  of  his  speeches, 
I   and  composed  almost  entirely  the  Courier  de 
\   Provence,  a  journal  published  in  the  name  of 
I   Miraljeau,  and  to  which  a  great  part  of  his 
[   political  celebrity  was  owing.     The  celebrated 
I   declaration  on   the  Rights  of  Man,  published 
by  the  Constituent  As-^cmbly,  was  almost  en- 
tirely composed  by  him.     He  was  the  intimate 
friend  of  Brissot,  Garat,  Roland,  Vergniaud. 
I  Talleyrand,  and  all  the  leaders  of  the  popular 
party,  and  his  opinion  was  deemed  of  so  much 
importance,  that  he  was  frequently  consulted 
by  the  ministers  as  to  the  choice  of  persons  to 
I  fill  the  highest  situations.     In  this  country  he 
I  was   the  intimate   and   valued   friend   of  Sir 
j  Samuel  Romilly,  Mr.  Whitbread,  Lord  Lans- 
I  downe,  I^ord    Holland,  and  all    the   party  at 
Holland  Hiiusc.    Latterly,  he  was  chiefly  oc- 
cupied in  arranging,  composing,  and  putting 
into  order  the  multifarious  effusions  of  Mr. 
I  Bentham's  genius;  and  from  his  pen  almost 
all  the  productions  of  that  great  and  original 
man  have  flowed.     Half  the  fame  of  Mirabeau, 
and  more  than  half  that  of  Bentham,  rest  on 
his  labours.     He  was  no  common  person  who 
was  selected  to  be  the  coadjutor  of  two  such 
men,  and  rendered  the  vehicle  of  communicat- 
ing their  varied  and  original  thoughts  to  the 
world. 

Before  quoting  the  highly  interesting  ob- 
servations of  this  able  and  impartial  observer 
on  the  French  Constituent  Assembly,  and 
comparing  them  with  the  progress  of  Reform 
in  this  country,  we  shall  recall  to  our  readers' 
recollection  the  dates  of  the  leading  measures 
of  that  celebrated  body,  as,  without  havinir 
them  in  view,  the  importance  of  M.  Dumonl's 
observations  cannot  be  duly  appreciated.  Such 
a  survey  will  at  the  same  time  bring  to  the 
t'^t  the  accuracy  of  Mr.  Maraulay's  and  Sir 
Jiihn  Hi 't. house'.-,  assertion,  that  it  was  not  the 
conccsMon,  but  the  resistance,  of  the  privi- 
leged orders,  which  precipitated  the  fatal  ca- 
tarart  of  their  Revolution.  The  abstract  is 
abrnliri'd  from  Mitrnct,  the  ablest  historian  on 
the    r  1  le   of    whirh    F' 

boa'-i,  I.  ;lc,  the  well  kn<' 

'  of  Its  events. 

In  .Xngust,  1788,  Tjonin.  in  obedience  to  the 
wish"H  of  the  nation,  aj;rred  to  a^^emhlc  the 
St         '■     -ral,  which  had  not  met  in  France 

Sn  1. 

In  -  r.  1789. 

of  Nil a  r"i'' 

number  of  the   r<  of  the  Tiers 

Etal  ;   in   other  Wf>r  ;   ,   n--   ■;    M-.lrd   th''   Hon 
of  Commons  of  Fr.mrr,*   whib*  ihosr  of  v 
clerirv  anJ  nobles  were  left  at  their  former 
amount. 

The  elections  in  April,  1789,  werr  mndiict- 
ed  With  the  utmost  favour  to  the  popular  par- 
■.7.  No  scrutiny  of  those  rntiiled  to  vote  look 
b)*c»*;  after  the  few  first  days,  every  person 

•  MIgnrl.  1   23. 


decently  dn-  allowed  to  vote,  without 

asking  any  ■,  .* 

M'hiMi  the  States-General  met  in  May  6, 
1789,  the  king  and  his  minister,  Neckar,  wer« 
received  with  cold  and  dignified  courtesy  by 
the  nobles  and  clergy,  but  rapturous  applause 
by  the  Tiers  Etat,  who  saw  in  them  the  au 
ihors  of  the  prodigious  addition  wiiich  the 
number  and  consequence  of  their  order  had 
received.-)- 

May  9.    No  sooner  had  the  St.itcs-Gonera) 
proceeded  to  business,  than  tlu-  Tifr-  I'tai  do» 
mandcd  that  the  nobles  and  clei 
riiiil  vote  with  them  in  one  chnriibcr  .'  .i  ,  '    '-'A 

unexampled  in  French  history,  and  which  it 
was  foreseen  would  give  them  the  complete 
ascendency,  by  reason  of  their  numerical  su- 
periority to  those  of  both  the  other  orders 
united.t 

May  10  to  June  9.  The  nobles  and  clergy 
resisted  for  a  short  while  this  prodigious  inno- 
vation, and  insisted  that,  after  the  manner  of 
all  the  States-General  which  had  assembled  in 
France  from  the  foundation  of  the  monarchy, 
the  orders  should  sit  and  vole  by  separate 
chambers;  and  that  this  was  more  especially 
indispensable  since  the  recent  duplication  of 
the  Tiers  Etat  had  given  that  body  a  numeri 
cal  superiority  over  the  two  other  orders  taken 
together.^ 

June  17.  The  Tiers  Etat  declared  themselves 
the  National  Assembly  of  France,  a  designa- 
tion, says  Dumont,  which  indicated  their  in 
tcntion  to  usurp  the  whole  sovereignty  of  "the 
state."  '     , 

June  21.  The  king,  terrified  al  the  thoughts 
of  a  collision  with  the  Commons,  and  thinking 
to  put  himself  at  the  head  of  the  movement, 
first  persuaded,  and  at  length,  through  the 
medium   of  Marshal  Luxeml'  '     ' 

the  nobles  to  yield  to  this  den., 
Etat.1 

The  nobles  and  clerg)'  gradually  yielded. 
On  the  19ih  June,  1789,  one  hundred  and  forlj- 
seven  of  the  clergy  joined  the  Tiers  Etat,  and 
on  the  25th,  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  with  forty- 
seven  of  the  nobles,  also 
ami  adhered   to  the  opp 

mainder  fimling  their  numl  isly 

,. ..   1 — I,  and  urged  on  by  ""1? 

II,  also  joined  the  Ti        '  1  sat 

.    thrm  in  oil' 

'    i   that  day  (s         ■ 

was  comjileicd." 

On  the  '.i.ld  June,  I7sy,  the  km-  h»  Id  a 
solemn  meeting  of  the  whole  estates  in  one 
^1  '        ■    d  while    he  dcci        '  '     luer 

r  r  the  Tiers  Ei.it  •  'i.il, 

((ranted  by  a  king  to  hi.1  subjeris.  All   iho 
'     rts  of  the  Revolution,  says  Mignci,  were 

■  i|  bv  that  roval  onlinanre.** 

July  13.  The  king  onl  ^'h« 

had  been  assetnblid  in  il.  f-^ 

pital,  to  be  wiihilrawn,  and  .«•  ""^  <?» 
tablishment  of  Nation''  <;'••'•:.  , 


'■ly  on    ~-'-h   Jiine.^ 
ml), the  IJevolutioa 


•  T»iini>.nt.  ♦  M 

f  Mifi.ri.  I.  3f7.    II  I 
T   l.irrpCrllo,  Pr.  Ill-' 

ft  Ihld.  I.  3. 


tMi:nrl.  tn 

rr.nini.  |i  ■>• 

•  •  III.  I  «1 


} 


280 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


July  14.  The  Baslile  taken,  and  all  Paris  in 
an  insurrection.    . 

July  Ki.  Tlie  king;  appointed  Lafayette  com- 
mandi-r  of  the  National  Guard,  and  Bailly,  the 
president  of  the  Assembly,  mayor  of  Paris. 

July  17.  The  king  visited  Paris  in  the  midst 
of  a  mob  of  200,000  revolutionary  democrats. 

Aug.  4.  The  whole  feudal  rights,  including 
tithes,  abandoned  in  one  nigiit  by  the  nobility, 
on  the  motion  of  the  Duke  de  Noailles. 

Aug.  13.  Decree  of  the  Assembly  declaring 
all  ecclesiastical  estates  national  property. 

Aug.  20.  The  Declaration  of  the  Rights  of 
Man  issued. 

Aug.  23.  Freedom  of  religious  opinions  pro- 
claimed. 

Aug.  24.  The  unlimited  freedom  of  the  press 
established. 

Aug.  25.  Dreadful  disturbances  in  Paris  on 
account  of  famine. 

Sept.  13.  A  new  decree  on  account  of  the 
extreme  suffering  at  Paris. 

Oct.  5.  Versailles  invaded  by  a  clamorous 
mob.  The  king  and  queen  nearly  murdered, 
and  brought  captives  by  a  furious  mob  to  Pa- 
ris. 

Nov.  2.  Decree  passed,  on  the  motion  of  the 
Bishop  of  Autun,  for  the  confiscation  and  dis- 
posal of  all  ecclesiastical  property. 

Feb.  24,  1790.  Titles  of  honour  abolished. 

Feb.  26.  New  division  of  the  kingdom  into 
departments  ;  and  all  appointments,  civil  and 
militar}',  vested  in  the  people. 

March  17.  Sale  of  400  millions  of  the  na- 
tional domains  authorized,  and  assignats,  bear- 
ing a  forced  circulation,  issued,  to  supply  the 
immense  deficiency  of  the  revenue.* 

It  is  unnecessary  to  go  farther.  Here  it  ap- 
pears, that  within  two  months  of  the  meeting  of 
the  States-General,  the  union  of  the  orders  in 
one  chamber,  in  other  words,  the  annihilation 
of  the  House  of  Peers,  was  eflected,  the  feudal 
rights  abolished,  and  the  entire  sovereignty 
vested  in  the  National  Assembly.  In  three 
months,  the  church  property  was  confiscated, 
the  Rights  of  Man  published,  titles  annihilated, 
and  the  unlimited  freedom  of  the  press  pro- 
claimed. In  five  months,  the  king  and  royal 
family  were  brought  prisoners  to  Paris.  In 
SIX  moH^/is,  the  distress  naturally  consequent  on 
these  convulsions  had  attracted  the  constant 
attention  of  the  Assembly,  and  spread  the  ut- 
most misery  among  the  people  ;  and  in  ten 
month,  the  total  failure  of  the  revenue  had 
rendered  the  sale  of  church  property,  and  the 
issuing  of  assignats  bearing  a  forced  circula- 
tion, necessary,  which  it  is  well  known  soon 
«wallo\v<fd  up  property  of  every  description 
throughout  France.  We  do  not  know  what 
ihf-  reformers  consider  as  tardy  concessions 
of  the  nobility  and  throne;  but  when  it  is  re- 
collected that  all  these  proceedings  were  agreed 
to  by  the  king,  and  passed  by  the  legislature  at 
rtie  dates  here  specified,  it  is  conceived  that  a 
more  rapiil  revolutionary  progress  could  hard- 
y  be  wished  for  by  the  most  ardent  reformer. 

The  authority  of  Madame  de  Stael  was  ap- 
pealed to  in  the  House  of  Commons,  as  illus- 
trative of  the  •::.'.:i  attempts  of  a  portion  of  the 

•  See  LacretcUe;  Pr.  Hist.  d.  1—9,  Introduction. 


aristocracy  to  stem  the  torrent.  Let  us  hear 
the  opinion  of  the  same  great  writer,  as  to 
who  it  was  that  jmt  it  in  motion.  "No  revolu« 
tion,"  she  observes,  "can  succeed  in  a  great 
country,  unless  it  is  commenced  by  the  aristocratical 
class.  The  people  afterwards  get  possession 
of  it,  but  they  cannot  strike  the  first  blow.  ' 
When  I  recollect  that  it  \va.s  the  parlinmcnts,  the 
nobles,  and  the  clergy  of  France,  who  first  strove 
to  limit  the  royal  authority,  I  am  far  from  in- 
sinuating that  their  design  in  so  doing  was 
culpable.  A  sincere  enthusiasm  then  ani- 
mated all  ranks  of  Frenchmen — public  spirit 
had  spread  universally ;  and  among  the  higher 
classes,  the  most  enlightened  and  generous 
were  those  who  ardently  desired  that  public 
opinion  should  have  its  due  sway  in  the  direc- 
tion of  affairs.  But  can  the  privileged  ranks,  who  ', 
commenced  the  licvolution,  accuse  those  who  only 
carried  it  on  1  Some  will  say,  we  wished  only 
that  the  changes  should  proceed  a  certain 
length;  others,  that  they  should  go  a  step  far- 
ther; but^who  can  rcgidate  the  impidsc  of  a  great 
people  when  once  put  in  motion?"*  These  are ' 
the  words  of  sober  wisdom,  and  coming,  as 
they  do,  from  the  gifted  daughter  of  M.  Neckar, 
who  had  so  large  a  share,  by  the  duplication 
of  the  Tiers  Etat,  in  the  raising  of  the  tempest, 
and  who  was  so  devoted  a  worshipper  of  her 
father's  memory,  none  were  ever  uttered  worthy ' 
of  more  profound  meditation. 

This  is  the  true  principle  on  the  subject. 
The  aid  of  the  Crown,  or  of  a  portion  of  the 
aristocracy,  is  indispensable  to  put  the  torrent 
of  democracy  in  motion.  After  it  is  fairly  set 
agoing,  all  their  efforts  are  unavailing  to  re- 
strain its  course.  This  is  what  we  have  all 
along  maintained.  Unless  the  French  nobility 
had  headed  the  mob  in  demanding  the  States- 
General,  matters  could  never  have  been  brought 
to  a  crisis.  After  they  had  roused  the  public 
feeling,  they  found,  by  dear-bought  experience,' 
that  they  were  altogether  unable  to  restrain  its 
fury.  In  this  country,  the  revolutionary  party; 
could  have  done  nothing,  had  they  not  been 
supported  in  their  projects  of  reform  by  the 
ministers  of  the  Crown  and  the  AVhig  nobility 
Having  been  so,  we  shall  see  whether  they  wif 
be  better  able  than  their  compeers  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Channel  to  master  the  tempest  they 
have  raised. 

It  has  been  already  stated,  that  a  large  por- 
tion of  the  nobilit}''  supported  the  pretension 
of  the  Tiers  Etat.     Dumont  gives  the  foUowin 
picture  of  the  reforming  nobles,  and  of  the  e>:- 
travagant  expectations  of  the  different  classes 
who  supportc'-l  their  favourite  innovations: 

"The  house  of  the  Duke  de  Rochefoucauld" 
distinguished  by  its  simplicity,  the  purity  of  i^ 
manners,  and  the  independence  of  its  princi- 
ples, assembled  all  those  members  of  the  n  i- 
bility  who  supported  the  people,  the  double  re- 
presentation of  the  Tiers  Etat,  the  vote  per  ra- 
pita,  the  abandonment  of  all  privileges,  and  the 
like.  Condorcet,  Dupont,  Lafayette,  the  Didie 
de  Liancourt,  were  the  chief  persons  of  that 
society.  Their  ruling  passion  was  to  create  for 
Frnnre  n  new  constitution.  Such  of  the  nobility 
and  princes  as  wished  to  preserve  the  ancient 


*  Revolution  Fran^alse;     13^ 


MIRABKAU. 


S91 


coH*titiition  of  the  Stalcs-Gcncrnl,  (ormcil  the  aris- 

locratic  party,   against  which  the  public  in- 

'  dignation  was  so  general;  but  nlihi>n:;h  much 

I  noise  was  made  about  thcin,   their  numbers 

I  were  inconsiderable.    The  bulk  of  the  nation 

I  saw  only  in  the  Stales-General  the  ntcnns  of  di- 

^  niinis-'.im:;  the  la.ns ;   the  fundholders,  so  often 

exposed  to  the  consequences  of  a  violation  of 

public  faith,  considered  them  as  an  imunnblc 

\  rampitrt  ag:aiuft  nalional  hnnkruplnj.     The  defi- 

(  cit  had  made  them  tremble.    They  were  on  the 

point  y.^i  ruin  ;  and  they  embraced  with  warmth 

the  hope  of  giving  to  the  revenues  of  the  state 

a  secure  foundation.     These  ideas  were  utterly 

inconsistent  with  each  other.     The  nohilily  had 

III  /An'r  bosotn  a  democratic  as  well  as  an  aristo- 

•  cratic  party.     The  clergy  ircrc  divided  in  the  same 

I  manner,  and  so  were  the  commons.    No  words 

can  convey  an  idea  of  the  confusion  of  ideas, 

the  extravagant  expectations,  the  hopes  and 

passions  of  all  parties.    You  would  imagine 

the  world  was  on  the  day  after  the  creation." — 

Pp.  37,  38. 

We  have  seen  that  the  clergy,  by  their  join- 
ing the  Tiers  Etat,  first  gave  them  a  decided 
superiority  over  the  other  orders,  and  vested 
'"n  their  hands  omnipotent  power,  by  compel- 
hng  the  nobles  to  sit  and  vote  with  them  in  an 
assembly  where  they  were  numerically  infe- 
rior to  the  popular  parlj-.  The  return  they 
met  with  in  a  few  months  was,  a  decree  confs- 
eating  all  their  properly  to  the  service  of  the 
rtatc.  With  bitter  and  unavailing  anguish  did 
they  then  look  back  to  their  insane  conduct  in 
so  strongly  fanning  a  flame  of  which  they  were 
soon  to  be  the  victims.  Dumont  gives  the  fol- 
[lowing  striking  account  of  the  feelings  of  one 
'of  their  reforming  bishops,  when  the  tempest 
ihey  had  raised  reached  their  own  doors. 

"The  Bishop  of  Charlres  was  one  of  the  bi- 
shops who  were  attached  to  the  popular  party; 
Jiat  is  to  say,  he  was  a  supporter  of  the  union 
)f  the  orders,  of  the  vote  by  head,  and  the  new 
constitution.     He  was  by  no  means  a  man  of 
iliiical  turn,  nor  of  any  depth  of  understand- 
;  but  he  had  so  much  candour  and  good 
!i  that  he  divtrn^ted  no  one;  he  never  ima- 
'•d  that  the  Tiers  Et.it  could  have  any  other 
lesign  but  to  reform  the  existing  abuses,  and 
lo  the  good  which  appeared  so  easy  a  matter 
o  all  the  world.     A  slrang'T  to  everv  species 
)f  I  in  his  ■•  fol- 

<.'  ':••  than  li.  ,  and 

n'hat  he  sincerely  believed  to  be  lor  the  public 
rood.  His  religion  was  like  his  politics ;  he 
ras  benevolent,  tolerant,  .tnd  sincerely  re- 
oiced  til  sre  the  V  ;%  rxi-mptnl  fnun 

rvcry    sp'cics   of  ■  '.      lIi*    was   well 

iware  that  the  clerpy  wmilil  be  calbd  on  to 
naWc  great  sacrifices;  but  never  nniiripatrd 
h.at  he  was  destined  to  l>c  the  victim  (>(  the  Re- 
ohitiiin.     I  saw  him   at  the  ti'  '  '     ' 

vholc  goods  iif  th'"  rhureh  wrp 
ional  property,  with  tm  -i 

iiR  his  old  domestics,  t  :■• , 

nansion,  selling  his  m  <'t%  to  | 

ischarge  his  d<'bt<;.     H-  i'>  i-nrfh- 

•curing  his  scirr^-w  into  m  Hi^  r^ 

'rets  wcf"  H'l  I'  r  h  in  >•'!'. 
CCiised  hinis'll  l^r  li.r.  iiii,' 
•  deceived,  and  embraced  the  party  ol  the  | 


Tiers  Etat,  which  violated,  when  iriiimphan^ 
all  the  engai;emr-ntb  wlurh  it  had  made  when 
in  a  state  of  weakness.  How  grievous  it  musi 
have  been  to  a  man  of  pood  principles  to  have 
contributed  to  the  success  of  so  unjust  a  party  I 
Yet  never  man  had  less  reason,  morally  speakr 
ing.  to  reproach  himself." — Pp.  6fi.  f,7. 

This  spoliation  of  the  clergy  has  already 
commenced  in  this  countr>-.  even  before  the 
great  democratic  measure  of  Reform  is  carried. 
As  usual  also,  the  supporters  of  the  popular 
parly  are  likely  to  be  its  first  victims.  We  all 
recollect  the  decided  part  which  Lord  Milton 
took  in  supporting  the  Reform  Bill,  and  the 
long  and  obstinate  conflict  he  maintained  with 
Mr.  Cartwright,  and  the  Conservative  party  in 
Northamptonshire,  at  the  last  election.  Well, 
he  gained  his  point,  and  he  is  now  be^-inning 
to  taste  its  fruits.  Let  us  hear  the  proclama- 
tion which  he  has  Jately  placarded  over  all  his 
extensive  estates  in  the  county  of  Wicklow — 
"  Grosrcnor  Place,  March  10. 

"I  was  in  hopes  that  the  inhabitants  of  our 
part  of  the  country  had  too  deep'  sense  of  the 
importance  of  respecting  the  rights  of  property, 
and  of  obeying  the  laws,  to  permit  them  to  con- 
template what  I  can  call  by  no  other  name 
than  a  scheme  nf  spoliation  and  robhcry.  It  seems 
that  the  occupier  proposes  to  withhold  payment 
of  lithe,  &c. ;  hut  let  me  ask,  what  is  it  that  en- 
titles the  occupier  himself  to  the  land  which  he 
occupies  1  Is  it  not  the  law  which  sanctions 
the  lease  by  which  he  holds  it  7  The  law  gives 
him  a  right  to  the  cattle  which  he  rears  on  his 
land,  to  the  plough  with  which  he  cultivates  it, 
and  to  the  car  in  which  he  carries  his  produce 
to  the  market;  the  law  also  gives  him  his  right 
to  nine-tenths  of  the  produce  of  his  land,  but 
the  same  law  assigns  the  other  tenth  to  another 
person.  In  this  distribution  of  the  produce  of 
the  land,  there  is  no  injustice,  becau-ie  the  te- 
nant was  perfectly  aware  of  it  when  he  entered 
upon  his  land;  but  in  any  forcible  change  of 
this  distribution  there  would  l»c  great  injustice, 
because  it  irould  be  a  Irniiffcr  of  j  i   int 

person  to  nno'her  trilhoul  an  cip'  iter 

irordf,  it  iroiibl  be  a  robbrrif.  The  (n'«ii|'iiT  must 
also  remember  that  the  rent  he  pays  to  the 
landlord  is  calcniatcd  upon  the  principle  of  his 
receiving  only  nine-tenths  of  the  produce — if 
he  were  entitled  to  the  <ither  tenth,  the  rent 
v'  upon  hiin  In  pay  would 

1"         .  i>r.     .Ml  our  land  is  v,i- 

lueil  lo  the  tenants  upon  this  principle;  but  if 
tithes,  Ac,  arc  swept  awav  without  an  p<iuiva- 
lont,  wc  shall  .idopt  a  dillen-nt  principle,  and 
the  landlord,  not  the  tenant,  will  be  ihf  ?aiuer. 

Mll.T..>." 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  prineiplps 

here  laid  down  by  LonI  Milton  are  well  found 

ed;  but  did  it  never  occur  lo  his  |onl>hip  ihni 

'■m^'what  in'  of 

i:       :ii  Ilill!     If  t^  .-t, 

"  that  till-  transfer  of  pi  •  n 

to  anothi-r  withf)iit  an  ■-  , v." 

what   nrf   we  say  of  the   di*^'  i?   the 

■"  '  !••        •     in  I'nrl  '  'he 

worih  V  ••''t- 

tlif    K.Imiiii  hr 

•  holders  II,  '  '      ■'-r- 

dcn,  ti  19  to  be  recollected,  have  declared  iha". 


I 


222 


ALISOx\'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


these  rights  "are  a  property  as  well  as  a  trust."* 
They  stand,  therefore,  on  the  same  foundation 
as  Lonl  Filzwilliam's  right  to  his  Irish  tithes. 
No  more  injustice  is  done  by  confiscating  the 
one  than  the  other.  But  this  is  just  an  in- 
stance how  clear-sighted  men  are  to  the  "  rob- 
bery" of  revolutionary  measures  when  they 
approach  their  own  door,  and  how  extremely 
blind  when  it  touches  upon  the  freeholds  of 
others.  Lord  Milton  was  a  keen  supporter  of 
schedule  A,  and  disregarded  the  exclamations 
against ''  robbery  and  spoliation,"  which  were 
so  loudly  made  by  the  able  and  intrepid  Con- 
servative band  in  the  House  of  Commons. 
Did  his  lordship  ever  imagine  that  the  system 
of  spoliation  was  to  stop  short  at  the  freehold 
corporations,  or  the  boroughs  of  Tory  Peers  1 
He  will  learn  to  his  cost  that  the  radicals  can 
find  as  good  plunder  in  the  estates  of  the  Whig 
as  the  Conservative  nobility.  But  when  the 
day  of  reckoning  comes,  he  cannot  plead  the 
excuse  of  the  honest  and  benevolent  Bishop  of 
Charlres.  He  was  well  forewarned  of  the  con- 
sequences ;  the  example  of  France  was  before 
his  eyes,  and  it  was  clearly  pointed  out  to  his 
attention ;  but  he  obstinately  rushed  forward  in 
the  insane  career  of  innovation,  which,  almost 
under  his  own  eyes,  had  swallowed  up  all  the 
reforming  nobility  and  clergy  of  that  unhappy 
kingdom. 

The  vast  importance  of  u-nrrh  in  revolution- 
ary convulsions,  of  which  Napoleon  was  so 
well  aware  when  he  said  that  "it  was  by  epi- 
thets that  you  govern  mankind,"  appears  in  the 
account  given  b)^  this  able  and  impartial  writer 
on  the  designation  which  the  Tiers  Etat  chose 
for  themselves  before  their  union  with  the 
other  orders. 

"  The  people  of  Versailles  openly  insulted 
in  the  streets  and  at  the  gates  of  the  Assembly 
those  whom  they  called  Aristocrats.  The  power 
of  that  word  becam.e  magical,  as  is  always  the 
case  with  party  epithets.  What  astonishes  me 
is,  that  there  was  no  contrar)''  denomination 
fixed  on  by  the  opposite  party.  They  were 
called  the  Nation,  The  effects  of  these  two 
words,  when  constantly  opposed  to  each  othcK'' 
may  readily  be  conceiv^ed. 

"Though  the  Commons  had  already  become 
sensible  of  their  power,  there  were  many  opi- 
nions on  the  way  in  which  it  should  be  exerted, 
and  the  name  to  be  given  to  the  Assembly. 
They  had  not  as  yet  all  the  audacity  which 
they  have  since  evinced ;  but  the  men  Avho 
looked  into  futurity  clearly  saw  that  this  de- 
tennination  would  have  been  of  the  most  im- 
portant consequences.  To  declare  themselves 
theNational  Assembly  was  to  count  for  nothing 
the  king,  the  noblesse,  and  the  clergy;  it  was 
equivalent  to  a  declaration  of  civil  war,  if  the 
government  had  had  sufficient  vigour  to  make 
any  resistance.  To  declare  themselves  the 
Assembly  of  the  Commons,  was  to  express 
what  undoubtedly  was  the  fact,  but  what  would 
not  have  answered  the  purpose  of  compelling 
the  clergy  and  nobles  to  join  them.  Many  de- 
nominations were  proposed  which  were  neither 
the  one  nor  the  other  of  these  ;  for  every  one  as 
yet  was  desirous  to  conceal  his  ultimate  pre- 

•  In  debate  on  Reform  Bill,  Oct.  8,  1831. 


tensions;  and  even  Sieyes,  who  rejected  everj 
thing  which  tended  to  preserve  the  distinction 
of  orders,  did  not  venture  to  table  the  expres- 
sion, National  Assemblj'.  It  was  hazarded  for 
the  first  time  by  a  deputy  named  Le  Grand: 
there  was  an  immediate  call  for  the  vote,  and 
it  was  carried  by  a  majority  of  500  to  80 
voices."— Pp.  73,  74. 

This  is  the  never-failing  device  of  the  demo- 
cratic party  in  all  ages.  Trusting  to  the  ma^ 
jority  of  mere  numbers  on  their  side,  thej 
invariably  represent  themselves  as  the  wholt 
nation,  and  the  friends  of  the  constitution  as  a 
mere  fragment,  utterly  unworthy  of  consider- 
ation or  regard.  "Who  are  the  Tiers  Etat?' 
said  the  Abbe  Sieyes.  "They  are  the  French 
nation,  miiws  150,000  privileged  individuals."— 
"  Who  are  the  Reformers  ]"  says  the  Times 
«  They  are  24,000,000  of  men,  minus  200  ba 
roughmongers."  By  such  false  sweeping  as 
sertions  as  these,  are  men's  eyes  blinded  no 
only  to  what  is  honourable,  but  to  what  is  saf< 
and  practicable.  By  this  single  device  of  call 
ing  the  usurping  Commons  the  National  As' 
sembly,  the  friends  of  order  were  deterred  fron 
entering  into  a  struggle  with  vrhat  was  called 
and  therefore  esteemed,  the  national  will;  ant 
many  opportunities  of  stemming  the  torrent 
which,  as  Dumont  shows,  afterwarr's  arose 
irrecoverably  neglected. 

Of  the  fatal  weakness  which  attended  th( 
famous  sitting  of  the  23d  June,  1789,  whei 
Louis  made  such  prodigious  concessions  tt 
his  subjects,  without  taking  at  the  same  timi 
any  steps  to  make  the  royal  authorit}'  respected 
the  opinion  of  Dumont  is  as  follows  : — 

"  Neckar  had  intended  by  these  concession: 
to  put  democracy  into  the  royal  hands  :  but  they  hai 
the  effect  of  putting  the  aristocracy  under  the  dcs 
potism  of  the  people.  We  must  not  consider  tha 
royal  sitting  in  itself  alone.  Viewed  in  thi: 
light,  it  contained  the  7}iost  extensive  concession 
that  ever  monarch  made  to  his  people.  Thev  M"ould 
at  any  other  time,  have  excited  the  most  live'' 
gratitude.  Is  a  prince  powerful]  Every  thi 
that  he  gives  is  a  gift,  every  thing  that  he  doe 
not  resume  is  a  favour.  Is  he  weak  ?  ever 
thing  that  he  concedes  is  considered  as  a  debt 
every  thing  that  he  refuses,  as  an  act  of  in 
justice. 

"The  Commons  had  now  set  their  hear 
upon  being  the  National  Assembl}'.  Ever 
tiling  which  did  not  amount  to  that  was  nothin; 
in  their  estimation.  But  to  hold  a  Bed  of  Jus 
tice,  annul  the  decrees  of  the  Commons,  mat 
a  great  noise  without  having  even  foreseen  an; 
resistance,  or  taken  a  single  precaution  forth- 
morrow,  without  having  taken  any  steps  h 
prepare  a  party  in  the  Assembly,  was  an  ac 
of  madness,  and  from  it  may  be  dated  the  nw 
of  the  monarchy.  Nothing  can  be  more  dan 
gerous  than  to  drive  a  Aveak  prince  to  acts  c 
vigour  M-hich  he  is  unable  to  sustain  ;  for  whei 
he  has  exhausted  the  terrors  of  words  he  ha 
no  other  resource ;  the  authority  of  the  thron' 
has  been  lowered,  and  the  people  have  dis 
covered  the  secret  of  their  monarch's  M'eak 
ncss."— P.  87. 

The  Reformers  in  this  countrj'  say,  that  thcs' 
immense  concessions  of  Louis  failed  in  tliei 
effect  of  calming  the  popular  efferve.icence 


MIRADEAU. 


I  Mcanse  they  came  too  hUt.    It  is  tliiricult  to 
■  say  wh.1t   they  call   toon  enouzh,   when    it   is 
rcc  '  that  these  concessions  were  made 

!  b(i  .itliai  li'id  cfcnvtrificd  their  jinirem  ;  he- 

I  fore  a  single  decreeof  the  Assembly  had  passed, 
I  at  the  very  opening  of  their  sittings ;  and  when 

>  all  their  proceedings  up  to  that  hour  had  been 
1  an  ille;:;.il  alt'-nipt  to  centre  in  themselves  all 
I  the  pi'wiM^  t  i^Mvernment.  But,  in  truth,  what 
I  rendered  that  solitarj'  act  of  vigour  so  disas- 
;  trous  was,  that  it  was  totally  unsupported;  that 
I  no  measures   were  simultaneously  taken   to 

make  the  royal  authority  respected;  that  the 
throne  was  worsted  from  its  own  want  of  fore- 
sisht  in  the  very  first  contest  with  the  Com- 
mons, and  above  all,  that  the  army  betrayed  their 

>  .sovereign  and  rendered  resistance  impossible, 
by  joining  the  rebels  to  his  government. 

The  National  Assembly,  like  every  other 
body  which  commits  itself  to  the  gale  of  popu- 
lar applause,  experienced  the  utmost  disquie- 
tude at  the  thoughts  of  punishing  any  of  the 
excesses  of  thefr  popular  supporters.  How 
exactly  is  the  following  description  applicable 
to  all  times  and  nations  ! 

"  The  disorders  which  were  prolonged  in  the 
[provinces,  the  massacres  which  stained  the 
streets  of  Paris,  induced  many  estimable  per- 
sons to  propose  an  address  of  the  Assembly, 
condemnatory  of  such  proceedings  to  the  peo- 
Iplc.  The  Assembly,  however,  was  so  appre- 
jhcnsive  of  offending  the  multitude,  that  they 
[regarded  as  a  snare  every  motion  tending  to  rc- 
prtu  the  disorders,  or  centure  the  popular  excesses. 
Secret  distrust  and  disquietude  was  at  the 
bottom  of  every  heart.  They  had  triumphed 
by  means  of  the  people,  and  they  could  not 
venture  to  show  themselves  severe  towards 
iihem;  on  the  contrar)',  though  they  frequently 
pcclared,  in  the  preambles  of  their  decrees, 
Lhat  th<'y  wpro  profoundly  afflicted  at  the  burn- 

'  of  ih'-  '  \  and  the  insults  to  the  no- 

•'y,  ''"■!/  '  .  '  heart  at  the  propagation  of 

I  terror  irhith  thry  rci^ardcd  ai  indifptnnabk  to  thrir 

•' They  had  reduced  themselves  to  the 

v  of  fearine   the   noblesse,  or  being 

■y  ..       .      .    ■  I  - 


•icn's  on  the   constituted    authorities,  and 
.,c  <■•.-.  nn-^mpnt  to  license.     Respect  for 
jhe  ex'  wcr  was  nothint;  butwordn  of 

'.:e;  ;i!.  1  ;:i  iriilh,  whf^n   the  ni^ 
wn   rev.ili'il   ih'*  si-rrct  of  lii 

c  Assembly,  which  rememherfil  well  its  uw 
error?",  was    not    displcas'-d    •'■ 't    f'-ar    h.i  I 
baogrd  sides.    If  you  arc  ly  powrr- 

ul  to  ran=;f    V"  :       '         '     '  '  ' 

•♦"ople,  V'lM  u   . . 

7ith  <lri'n.l  ;  thai  wa-<  ilic  ruling  tecling  «if  the 
;oln  (;auche."— p.  134. 

This  is  preeisrly  a  picture  of  what  always 
lUst  be  the  frcling  in  retrard  to  tumult  and 
isorders  of  nil  who  hav  rommiited  thnr 
olitiral    e-  to   the    " 

upport.     II  much,  • 

Jcjr  may  d^  improve  of  act<t  of  violence,  yet 
'hen  they  (••••I  that  intimidation  of  their  nppo- 
ents  in  their  shfft-.inchor,  they  cannot  have 
n  insii     1  .      •       ^      •     • 

•bich  .  I 

ulecd.  il'  It  terror  should  answer  their  pur* 


|h 


poses  without  the  ncrrssity  of  blows  being 
actually  inflicted;  but  if  mere  threats  are  in- 
suthcicnt,  they  never  fail  to  derive  a  secret 
satisfaction  from  the  recurrence  of  exanr-ples 
calculated  to  show  what  risks  the  enemy  runs. 
The  burning  of  castles,  the  sacking  of  towns, 
may  indeed  alienate  the  wise  and  the  good; 
but  alas !  the  wise  and  the  pood  f.>rm  but  a 
small  proportion  of  mankind;  and  for  one 
whose  eyes  are  opened  by  the  commencement 
of  such  deeds  of  horror,  ten  will  be  so  much 
overawed,  as  to  lose  all  power  of  actir.g  in 
obedience  to  the  newly  awakened  and  better 
feelings  of  his  mind. 

"Intimidation,"  as  Lord  Brougham  has  well 
observed,  "is  the  never-failing  resource  of  the 
partisans  of  revolution  in  all  ages.  Merc  popw 
larity  is  atjirst  the  instniwcnt  hy  which  this  unsteady 
legislature  is  governed :  but  when  it  becomes  ap- 
parent that  whoever  can  obtain  the  direction  or 
command  of  it  must  possess  the  whole  author- 
ity of  the  state,  parties  become  less  scrupulous 
about  the  means  they  employ  for  that  purpose,  and 
soon  find  out  that  violence  and  terror  arc  infinitely 
more  effectual  and  erpcdilious  than  persuasion  and 
eloquence.  Encouraged  by  this  state  of  affairs, 
the  most  daring,  unprincipled,  and  profligate, 
proceed  to  seize  upon  the  defenceless  legisla- 
ture, and,  driving  all  their  antagonists  before 
them  by  violence  or  intimidation,  enter  without 
opposition  upon  the  supreme  functions  of  go 
vernment.  The  arms,  however,  by  which  they 
had  been  victorious,  are  speedily  turned  against 
themselves,  and  those  who  are  envious  of  their 
success,  or  ambitious  of  their  distinction,  easily 
find  means  to  excite  discontents  among  the 
multitude,  and  to  employ  them  in  pulling  down 
the  very  individuals  whom  they  had  so  recently 
elevated.  This  disposal  of  the  legislature  then 
becomes  a  prize  to  be  fought  for  in  the  clubs 
and  societies  of  a  corrupted  mi^tropoljl:,  and  the 
institution  of  a  national  r'  has  no 

other  effect  than  that  of  la\  rnment 

open  to  lawless  force  and  flagitious  audacity. 

It  was  in  this  manner  that,  from  th ■  'f  a 

natural    and   rfficienl    ari.ilocracif   to  Iht 

nal 

I  ra- 

vagance,  and  tell   a  prey  lolaciion;  lhat  the 

Institution  itself  became  a   source  of  public 

misery  and  disorder,  and  converted  a  civilized 

'  ■        'craey, 

How 

,  here  so  weil  ilescribed, 

,,       1        ;  ..:.ie8!     "Take  this  bill  or 

anarchy,"  says  Mr.  Macnuley. — "  Lonl  (iny," 

'     'f       s,  "has  t  '      '  -iv  into 

.    that  h'  rv  the 

luionn  liiil  or   iiiriir  tip  >   r>f  a 

revolution."}-     Hdw  exacii.    .  rcer  of 

democratic  insanity  and  revoluii>>narv  ainbi* 

tion  t'l "     -    ' r 

Dii  .1  lead- 


He  gives  the  following  iir 
the  icvolt  of  ac.indid  an<l 
the  absurdities  which  a 


r''k'.ii 


I  u 


1  al 

I'.Af 


t  Time*,  March  37,  IMS. 


234 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


"  Durovprai,  Claviere,  and  myself,  were 
named  by  Mirabcau  to  draw  up  that  celebrated 
declaration.  During  the  course  of  that  mourn- 
ful compilation,  reflections  entered  my  mind 
•which  had  never  before  found  a  place  there. 
I  soon  perceived  the  ridiculous  namre  of  the 
undertaking.  A  declaration  of  rights,  I  im- 
mediately saw,  may  be  made  after  the  procla- 
mation of  a  constitution,  but  not  before  it;  for 
it  is  laws  which  give  birth  to  rights — they  do 
not  follow  them.  Such  general  maxims  are 
highly  dangerous ;  )'ou  should  never  bind  a 
legislature  by  general  propositions,  which  it 
afterwards  becomes  necessary  to  restrain  or 
modify.  '  Men,'  saj's  the  declaration, '  are  born 
free  and  equal ;'  that  is  not  true ;  they  are  so 
far  from  being  born  free,  that  they  are  born  in 
a  state  of  unavoidable  weakness  and  depend- 
ence: Equal — where  are  theyl  where  can  they 
be  ?  It  is  in  vain  to  talk  of  equality,  when 
such  extreme  difference  exists,  and  ever  must 
exist,  between  the  talents,  fortune,  virtues,  iu- 
dustr)',  and  condition  of  men.  In  a  word,  I 
was  so  strongly  impressed  with  the  absurdity 
of  the  declaration  oi  the  Rights  of  Man,  that  for 
once  I  carried  along  with  me  the  opinions  of 
our  little  committee;  and  Mirabcau  himself, 
when  presenting  the  report  to  the  Assembly, 
ventured  to  suggest  difficulties,  and  to  propose 
that  the  declaration  of  rights  should  be  delayed 
till  the  constitution  was  completed.  'I  tell 
you,'  said  he,  in  his  forcible  style,  'that  any 
declaration  of  rights  you  may  make  before  the 
constitution  is  framed,  will  never  be  but  a  one 
year's  almanac'  Mirabeau,  always  satisfied 
with  a  happy  expression,  never  gave  himself 
the  trouble  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  any  subject, 
and  never  would  go  through  the  toil  to  put 
bimself  in  possession  of  facts  sufficient  to  de- 
fend what  he  advanced.  On  this  occasion  he 
suffered  under  this:  this  sudden  change  be- 
came the  subject  of  bitter  reproach.  '  Who  is 
"•■is,'  said  the  Jacobins,  '  who  seeks  to  employ 
Ms  ascendant  over  the  Assembly,  to  make  us 
say  yes  and  no  alternately  7  Shall  we  be  for 
ever  the  puppets  of  his  contradictions  V  There 
was  so  much  reason  in  what  he  had  newly 
advanced,  that  he  would  have  triumphed  if  he 
had  been  able  to  bring  it  out;  but  he  aban- 
doned the  attempt  at  the  very  time  when  seve- 
ral deputies  were  beginning  to  unite  themselves 
to  him.  The  deplorable  nonsense  M-ent  tri- 
umphantly on,  and  generated  that  unhappy 
declaration  of  the  Rights  of  Man  which  subse- 
quently produced  such  incredible  mischief.  I 
am  in  possession  at  this  moment  of  a  complete 
refutation  of  it,  article  by  article,  by  the  hand 
of  a  great  master,  and  it  proves  to  demonstra- 
tion the  contradictions,  the  absurdities,  the 
dangers  of  that  seditious  composition,  which 
of  itself  was  suflicient  to  overturn  the  consti- 
tution of  which  it  formed  a  part;  like  a  pow- 
der magazine  placed  below  an  edifice,  which 
the  first  spark  will  blow  into  the  air." — Pp. 
141,  142. 

These  are  the  words  of  sober  and  expe- 
rienced wisdom;  and  coming,  as  they  do,  from 
one  of  the  authors  of  this  celebrated  declara- 
tion, are  of  tlie  very  highest  importance.  They 
prove,  that  at  the  very  time  when  Mirabeau  and 
.he  popular  party  in  the  Assembly  were  draw- 


ing up  their  perilous  and  highly  inflammatory 
declaration,  they  were  aware  of  its  absurdity, 
and  wished  to  suppress  the  work  of  their  own 
hands.  They  could  not  do  so,  however,  and 
were  constrained,  by  the  dread  of  losing  theii 
popularity,  to  throw  into  the  liosom  of  an  ex. 
cited  people  a  firebrand,  which  they  themselve; 
foresaw  would  speedily  lead  to  a  conflagration, 
Such  is  the  desperate,  the  hopeless  state  of 
slavery,  in  which,  during  periods  of  excite- 
ment, the  representatives  of  the  mob  are  helc 
by  their  constituents.  The  Avhole  purpose? 
of  a  representative  form  of  government  are  a 
once  destro)'ed ;  the  wisdom,  experience,  study 
and  reflection  of  the  superior  class  of  states- 
men are  trodden  under  foot ;  and  the  enlight 
ened  have  no  chance  of  keeping  possession  oi 
the  reins  of  power,  or  even  influencing  th( 
legislature,  but  by  bending  to  the  passions  o)( 
the  ignorant.  J 

This  consideration  afibrds  a  decisive  argu- 
ment in  favour  of  the  close,  aye,  the  nominatior 
boroughs.    Their  existence,  and   their   exist 
ence  in  considerable  numbers,  is  indispensablr 
towards  the  voice  of  truth  being  heard  in  tht 
national  councils  in  periods  of  excitement,  an( 
the  resistance  to  those  measures  of  innovation 
which  threaten  to   destroy  the   liberties,  anc 
terminate  the  prosperity,  of  the  people.    Fron 
the  popular  representatives  during  such  pe 
riods  it  is  in  vain  to  expect  the  language  of 
truth;  for  it  would  be  as  unpalatable  to  thi 
sovereign  multitude  as  to  a  sovereign  despot 
Members  of  the  legislature,  therefore,  are  in' 
dispensably  necessary  in  considerable  num 
bers,  who,  by  having  no  popular  constituents,  cat 
venture  to  speak  out  the  truth  in  periods  o: 
agitation,   innovation,   and   alarm.     The   Re 
formers  ask,  what  is  the  use  of  a  representa 
live  of  a  green  mound,  or  a  ruined  tower,  in  : 
popular  parliament]     We  answer,  that  he  i 
more  indispensable  in  such  a  parliament  tha' 
in  an}^  other.     Nay,  that  without  svich  a  clas 
the  liberties  of  the  nation  cannot  exist  for  an , 
long  period.     Representatives  constantly  act 
ing  under  the  influence  or  dread  of  popula 
constituents,  never  will  venture,  either  in  thei 
speeches  to  give  vent  to  the  language  of  truti 
nor  in  their  conduct  to  support  the  cause  o 
real  freedom,  if  it  interferes  with  the  real  i 
supposed  interests  of  their  constituents.     Tht 
will  always  be  as  much  under  the  influence  ( 
their  tyrannical  task-masters,  as  Mirabeau  an 
Dumont  were   in  drawing   up,  against  thei 
better  judgment,  the  Rights  of  Man.    It  is  a 
absurd  to  expect  rational  or  independent  mc; 
sures  from  such  a  class,  in  opposition  to  tli 
wishes  or  injunctions  of  those  who  retumc 
them  to  parliament,  as  it  is  to  look  for  frecdoi 
of  conduct  from  the  senate  of  Tiberius  or  th 
council  of  Napoleon.     We  do  not  expect  th 
truth  to  be  spoken  by  the  representative  of 
mound,  in  a  question  with  its  owner,  or  h 
class  in  society,  nor  by  the  representatives  > 
the  people,  in  a  question  which  interests  ' 
excites  the  public  ambition.     But  we  exfci 
that  truth  will  be  spoken  by  the  represein 
tives  of  the  people,  as  against  the  interests  i 
the  owner  of  the  mound ;  and  by  the  repr 
sentatives  of  the  mound,  as  against  the  pa 
sions  of  the  people ;  and  that  thus,  between  ll 


MIRAUEAU. 


inn 


two,  the  language  of  reason  will  be  raised  on 

every  subject,  aiul   that  fatal   bias  \he  public 

raind  prevented,  which  arises  from  one  set  of 

idoctrines  and  principles  bein?  alone  presented 

|to  ihcir  consideration.     In  the  superior  fear- 

ness  and  vigour  of  the  language  of  the 

1     i.servative  party  in  the  House  of  Lords,  to 

juiiat  is  exhibited  in  the  House  of  Commons, 

.11  the  Reform  question,  is  to  be  found  decisive 

■ence  of  the  truth  of  these  principles,  and 

.in  ir  application  to  this  country  and  this  age. 

[    Of  the  fatal  4ih  August,  "  the'  St.  Barihelemy 

of  properties,"  as  it  was  well  styled  by  Kivaroj, 

and  its  ruinous  consequences  upon  the  puldic 

uelfarc.  we  have  the  following  striking  and 

graphic  account: — 

"Never  was  such  an  undertaking  accom- 

'  ~'ied  in  so  short  a  time.     That  which  would 

.■i  required  a  year  of  care,  meditation,  and 

jiebatc,  was  proposed,  deliberated  on,  and  voted 

py  acclamation.     I  know  not  how  many  laws 

lorere  decreed  in  that  one  sitting;  the  abolition 

jjf  feudal  rights,  of  the  tithes,  of  provincial  pri- 

j.-ilcges;    three  articles,  which  of  themselves 

[•mbraced  a  complete  system  of  jurisprudence 

ind  politics,  with  ten  or  twelve  others,  were 

ecided  in  less  time  than  would  be  required  in 

England  for  the  first  reading  of  a  bill  of  ordi- 

lar)'  importance.     They  began  with  a  report 

m  the  disorders  of  the  provinces,  chateaux 

iurot,  troops  of  banditti  Avho  attacked  the 
obles  and  ravaged  the  fields.  The  Duke 
".\guillon,  the  Duke  de  Noailles,  and  several 
[thers  of  the  democratic  part  of  the  nobilit)', 
fter  the  most  disastrous  pictures  of  these 
alamities,  exclaimed  that  nothing  but  a  great 
ct  of  generosity  could  calm  the  people,  and 
lat  it  was  high  time  to  abandon  their  odious 
rivileges,  and  let  the  people  taste  the  full 
cnefits  of  the  Revolution.  An  indescribable 
tfervescence  seized  upon  the  Assembly. 
Iverj'  one  proposed  sacrifice:  every  one  laid 
jme  offering  on  the  altar  of  their  country, 
reposing  either  to  denude  themselves  or  de- 
ade  others;  no  time  was  allowed  for  rertec- 
on,  objection,  or  argument;  a  sentimental 
intagion  seized  every  heart.  That  rennncia- 
on  of  privileges,  that  abandonni<'nl  of  so 
lany  rights  burdensome  to  the  people,  these 
luUiplied  sacrifices,  had  an  air  of  magnaniin- 
y  which  withdrew  the  attention  from  the  fatal 
ecipilance  with  which  they  were  inaile.  I 
iw  on  that  night  many  good  and  worthy 
'itics  who  literally  wept  for  joy  at  .seeing 
'  work  of  regeneration  advance  so  rapidly, 
ImI  at  feeling  themselves  every  instant  carried 
of  enthusiasm  so  far  Ixyond  their 
hopes.  The  renuneiatinn  of  the 
•  lieges  of  provinces  was  made  by  their  re- 
II  v..  representatives ;  those  of  IJriitany  had 
I  1  to  defend  them,  and   therefore  they 

•   more    embarrassed    than   the    rest;  but 
,   nrd  away  by  the  general  enthusiasm,  they 
jivanred  in  a  body,  and  deelan-d  in  n  Imdy, 
ht  ihey  would  use  their  utmost  r|f<>rls  with 
;  T  constituents  to  obtain  the  rrniincintion 
their  privileges.     That  great   and   yi;-     ' 
,   raiion  was    necessary  to  confer  pii 
j.ity  upon  a  monarchy  which  had  I 
l^siveiy  farmed  by  the  unmn  of  in  i 
<lent  states,  every  one  of  which  had  certain 


rights  of  its  own  anterior  to  their  being  blended 
together. 

"On  the  following  day,  every  one  began  to 
reflect  on  what  bad  been  done,  and  sinister 
presentiments  arose  on  all  sides.  jMirabean 
and  Sieyes,  in  particular,  who  had  not  been 
present  at  that  famous  siltinc:,  condemned  in 
loud  terms  its  eiilluisiasiic  follies.  Tiiis  is  ,t 
true  pieture  of  France,  said  ihey;  we  spind  a 
month  in  disputing  about  words,  and  we  make 
sacrifices  in  a  night  which  overturn  every 
thing  that  is  venerable  in  the  monarchy.  In 
the  subsequent  meetings,  they  tried  to  retract 
or  modify  some  of  these  enormmis  conces- 
sions, but  it  was  too  late;  it  was  impossible  to 
withdraw  what  the  people  already  looked  upon 
as  their  rights.  The  Abbe  Sieyes,  in  particn 
lar,  made  a  discourse  full  of  reason  and  jiisticf 
against  the  rrliuriinn  of  liilicK,  which  he  looked 
upon  with  the  utmost  aversion.  Ho  demon- 
strated, that  to  extinguish  the  tiihe.s,  was  to 
spoliate  the  clergy  of  its  property,  solely  to 
enrich  the  proprietors  of  the  lands ;  for  every 
one  having  bought  or  inherited  his  estate 
iniiius  the  value  of  the  tithe,  frmiid  himself 
suddenly  enriched  by  a  tenth,  which  was  given 
to  him  as  a  pure  and  uncalled  for  gratuity.  It 
was  this  speech,  »c/)it7t  ■HfCfrrnn  be  refuted,  which 
terminated  with  the  well-known  expression : — 
'They  would  be  free,  and  they  know  not  how 
to  be  just.'  The  prejudice  was  so  strong 
that  Sieyes  himself  was  not  listened  to;  h» 
was  regarded  merely  as  an  ecclesiastic,  wh< 
could  not  get  the  better  of  his  personal  interest 
and  paid  that  tribute  of  error  to  his  robe.  A 
little  more  would  have  made  him  be  hooted  and 
hissed.  I  saw  him  the  next  day,  full  of  bitter 
indignation  against  the  injustice  and  bnitality 
of  the  Assembly,  which  in  truth  he  never  after- 
wards forgave.  He  gave  vent  to  his  indigna- 
tion, in  a  conversation  with  Miralieau.  who 
replied, 'iVi/  dear  Jlhbi,   yon  htivc  v  fht 

bull ;  do  yon  e.rjicct  he  is  not  to  f;ore  iritii 

"  These  decrees  of  Aug.  4  were  so  far  from 
putting  a  period  to  the  robbery  and  violence 
which  desolated  the  country,  that  tliey  only 
tended  to  make  the  people  ac>iii:iiiit'>l  with 
their  own  strength,  ami  iiiii)ress  them  with  the 
conviction  that  all  their  outrai;<'s  against  the 
nobility  would  not  only  not  bo  punished,  but 
actually  rewardeil.  .\gain  I  sny,  everv  thing 
which  is  done  from  fear  fails  in  .i  i^h- 

ing  its  object;  Iboie  irhont  ymt  r.rpni  i  by 

rnnrtiitumn,  only  rrdniililt  Hi  confulenrt  nnii  auda- 
city."—V  p.  IKi— l'J9. 

Huch  is  the  conclusion  of  this  enlightened 
French  Uefurmer,  as  to  the  eonse(|uences  of 
the  iiinovalioiis  and  concessions,  in  |Momoiing 
which  he  took  so  large  a  share,  and  which 
it  was  then  confitlently  expected,  would  not 
only  pacify  the  people  but  rcpenernle  the  mon- 
archy, and  commence  a  new  era  in  the  history 
of  the  world.  These  opinions  rnmmg  from 
the  author  «d"lhe  l{ii,'hts  of  Man,  (b  'oi 

of  Mirabeaii,  the  fellow-labomer  <  m, 

.ihoiild,  if  any  thing  can,  open  the  •  nr 

■     ■    :  rnthusiasis,  who  nr-    -■■  «■  in 

•  the   necessity  of  C'  "Y 

lloiii  '•» 

"let  1 

It  IS  on  this  question  of  the  cUecu  to  be  cs 


226 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


pected  from  concession  to  public  clamour,  thai 
the  wliole  question  of  Keform  hinges.  The 
supportefs  of  the  bill  in  both  Houses  have 
abandoned  every  other  argument.  "Pass  this 
bill,  or  anarchy  will  ensue,"  is  their  sole  princi- 
ple of  action.  IJut  what  says  Dumont,  taught  by 
the  errors  of  the  Constituent  Assembly  ?  "Pass 
this  bill,  and  anarchy  tcnll  ensue."  "  Whatever- 
is  done,"  says  he,  "  from  fear,  fails  in  its  object ; 
those  whom  you  expect  to  disarm  by  conces- 
sion, redouble  in  confidence  and  audacity." 
This  is  the  true  principle;  the  principle  con- 
firmed by  universal  experience,  and  yet  the 
Reformers  shut  their  e}'es  to  its  application. 
The  events  wl^icli  have  occurred  in  this  age 
are  so  decisive  on  this  subject,  that  nothing 
more  convincing  could  be  imagined,  if  a  voice 
from  the  dead  were  to  proclaim  its  truth. 

Concession,  as  Dumont  tells  us,  and  as  every 
one  acquainted  with  history  knows,  was  tried 
by  the  French  government  and  Assembly,  in 
the  hope  of  calming  the  people,  and  arresting 
the  Revolution.  The  monarch,  at  the  opening 
of  the  States-General,  made  "  greater  conces- 
sions than  ever  king  made  to  his  people  ;"  the 
nobles  abandoned,  on  their  own  motion,  in  one 
night,  all  their  rights ;  and  what  was  the  con- 
sequence ■?  The  revolutionary  fervour  was 
urged  into  a  fury  ;  the  torrent  became  a  cata- 
ract, and  horrors  unparalleled  in  the  history  of 
the  world  ensued. 

Resistance  to  popular  ambition,  a  firm  op- 
position to  the  cry  for  reform,  was  at  the  same 
period,  under  a  lion-hearted  king  and  an  in- 
trepid minister,  adopted  in  the  midst  of  the 
greatest  dangers  by  the  British  government. 
What  was  the  consequence  1  Universal  tran- 
quillity— forty  years  of  unexampled  prosperity 
— the  triumph  of  Trafalgar — the  conquest  of 
Waterloo. 

Conciliation  and  concession,  in  obedience, 
and  with  the  professed  design  of  healing  the 
disturbances  of  that  unhappy  land,  were  next 
tried  in  Ireland.  Universal  tranquillity,  con- 
tentment, and  happiness,  were  promised  from 
the  great  healing  measure  of  emancipation. 
What  has  been  the  consequence]  Disturb- 
ances, massacres,  discord,  practised  sedition, 
threatened  rebellion,  which  have  made  the  old 
times  of  Protestant   rule  be  regretted. 

Conciliation  and  concession  were  again  put 
in  practice  by  the  Whig  Administration  of 
England.  What  was  the  result  1  Perils  great- 
er than  assailed  the  monarchy  from  all  the 
might  of  Napoleon;  dissension,  conflagration, 
and  popular  violence,  unexampled  since  the 
great  rebellion;  a  falling  income  and  an  in- 
creasing expenditure;  the  (lames  of  a  servile 
war  in  Jamaica ;  and  general  distress  unequal- 
led since  the  accession  of  the  House  of  Bruns- 
wick. 

The  character  of  Mirabeau,  both  as  a  writer 
and  orator,  and  an  individual,  is  sketched  with 
no  ordinary  power  by  tiiis  author,  probably 
better  qualified  than  any  man  in  existence  to 
portray  it  with  accuracy : — 

"Mirabeau  had  witJiin  his  breast  a  sense  of 
the  force  of  his  mind,  which  sustained  his 
courage  in  situations  which  would  have  crush- 
ed a  person  of  ordinary  character:  his  imagi- 
natior.   loved   the  vast;  his  mind  seized  the 


gigantic;  his  taste  wis  natural,  and  had  beci 
cultivated  by  the  study  ol'  the  classical  authors 
He  knew  little ;  but  no  one  could  make  a  bet 
ter  use  of  what  he  had  acquired.  During  thi 
whirlwind  of  his  stormy  life  he  had  little  lei 
sure  for  study;  but  in  his  prison  of  Vincenne; 
he  had  read  extensively,  and  improved  his  styli 
by  translations,  as  well  as  extensive  collection, 
from  the  writings  of  great  orators.  He  ha 
little  confidence  in  the  extent  of  his  eruditicti 
but  his  eloquent  and  impassioned  soul  animal 
ed  every  feature  of  his  countenance  when  h 
was  moved,  and  nothing  was  easier  than  i 
inflame  his  imagination.  From  his  youth  up 
wards  he  had  accustomed  himself  to  the  dis 
cussion  of  the  great  questions  of  erudition  an 
government,  but  he  was  not  calculated  to  got 
the  bottom  of  them.  The  labour  of  investiga 
tion  was  not  adapted  to  his  powers ;  he  had  to 
much  warmth  and  vehemence  of  dispositio: 
for  laborious  application  ;  his  mind  proceede 
by  leaps  and  bounds,  but  sometimes  they  wer 
prodigious.  His  style  abounded  in  vigorou 
expressions,  of  which  he  had  made  a  partici 
lar  study. 

"  If  we  consider  him  as  an  author,  we  mu; 
recollect  that  all  his  Avritings,  without  on 
single  exception,  were  pieces  of  Mosaic,  i 
which  his  fellow-labourers  had  at  least  as  larg. 
a  share  as  himself,  but  he  had  the  faculty  o: 
giving  additional  eclat  to  their  labours,  b 
throwing  in  here  and  there  original  expre;.' 
sions,  or  apostrophes,  full  of  fire  and  eli 
quencc.  It  is  a  peculiar  talent,  to  be  ablei: 
this  manner  to  disinter  obscure  ability,  intrui: 
to  each  the  department  for  which  he  is  fitteo 
and  induce  them  all  to  labour  at  the  work  o' 
which  he  alone  is  to  reap  the  glory. 

"  As  a  political  orator,  he  was  in  some  n 
spects  gifted  with  the  very  highest  talents- 
quick  eye,  a  sure  tact,  the  art  of  discovering; 
once  the  true  disposition  of  the  assembly  b 
Avas  addressing,  and  applying  all  the  force  o 
his  mind  to  overcome  the  point  of  resistant 
without  weakening  it  by  the  discussion 
minor  topics.  No  one  knew  better  how  . 
strike  with  a  single  word,  or  hit  his  mark  wit 
perfect  precision;  and  frequently  he  thi 
carried  ivith  him  the  general  opinion,  eith( 
by  a  happy  insinuation,  or  a  stroke  which  ii 
timidated  his  adversaries.  In  the  tribune  b 
was  immovable.  The  waves  of  faction  rolle 
around  Avithout  shaking  him,  and  he  wa 
master  of  his  passions  in  the  midst  of  the  u 
most  vehemence  of  opposition.  But  what  h 
wanted  as  a  political  orator,  M'as  the  art  of  di 
cussion  on  the  topics  on  which  he  enlarge 
He  could  jiot  embrace  a  long  series  of  pre 
and  reasonings,  and  was  unable  to  refute  i 
logical  or  convincing  manner.  He  was,  i 
consequence,  often  obliged  to  abandon  il 
most  important  motions,  when  hard  pre^ 
by  his  adversaries,  from  pure  inability  to  i 
fute  their  arguments.  He  embraced  too  miif 
and  reflected  loo  little.  He  plunged  into  a  di 
course  made  for  him  on  a  subject  on  which  1 
had  never  reflected,  and  on  which  he  had  bee 
at  no  pains  to  master  the  facts  ;  and  he  wa 
in  consequence,  greatl}'^  inferior  in  that  partici 
lar  to  the  alhletrc  who  exhibit  their  powers  1 
the  British  parliament."— P.  277. 


MIRADEAU. 


m 


'  What  Ifd  to  the  French  Revolution  !  This 
Uneslion  will  be  asked  and  discussed,  with  all 
rhe  anxiety  it  deserves,  to  the  end  of  the  world. 
—Let  us  hear  Dumnnton  the  subject. 

"No  event  ever  interested  Europe  so  much 

—  the  meeting  of  the  Stales-General.     There 

no  enlightened  man  who  did  not  found  the 

'   hopes  upon  that  public  slrugsle  of 

•s  with  the  lights  of  the  age,  and  who 

jlid  not  believe  that  a  new  moral  and  political 

*-orld  was  about  to  issue  from  the  chaos.    The 

>tu)in  of  hope  was  so  strong,  that  all  faults 

vere  pardoned,  all  misfortunes  were  represent- 

•d  only  as  accident ;  in  spile  of  all  the  calami- 

les  which  it  induced,  the  balance  leaned  always 

owards  the  Constituent  Assembly. — It  was  the 

truffgle  of  humanity  with  despotism. 

"The  States-General,  six  weeks  afler  their 

onvocation,  was  no  longer  the  S^lates-General, 

>ut  the  National  Assembly.     Its  first  calamity 

ras  to  have  owed  its  new  title  to  a  revolution ; 

hat  is  to  say,  to  a  vita!  change  in  its  power, 

;s  essence,  its  name,  and  its  means  of  authority. 

kccording  to  the  constitution,   the  commons 

lid   have  acted  in   conjunction  with   the 

OS,  the  clergy,  and  the  king.    But  the  com- 

lons,  in  the  very  outset,  subjugated  the  noblen. 

If  rlersy,  and  the  king.     It  was  in  that,  that  the 

'(tvhitioii  consisted. 

"  Reasoning  without  end  has  taken  place  on 
le  causes  of  the  Revohilion  ;  there  is  but  one, 
1  my  opinion,  to  which  the  whole  is  to  be  as- 
ribed;  and  that  is,  the  rharactcr  of  the  king. 
ut  a  king  of  character  and  firmness  in  the  place 
'  Lfiuis  XVI.,  and  no  revolution  would  have  en- 
itd.  His  whole  reign  was  a  preparation  for 
.  There  was  not  a  single  epoch,  during  the 
hole  Constituent  Assembly,  in  which  the 
mg,  if  he  could  only  have  changed  his  f;ha- 
ictcr,  mit'ht  not  have  re-established  his  au- 
lorily,  and  created  a  mixed  constitution  far 
ore  solid  and  stable  than  its  ancient  mon- 
•'  hy.  His  indecision,  his  weakness,  his  half 
scls,  his  want  of  foresight,  ruined  every 
•ig.  The  inferior  causes  which  have  con- 
irr«»(1  were  nolhinir  hut  the  neressarv  consc- 

^'        1  the 

l).«- 

'•    mtriguers,    the   factious    insoleni.   the 

;  "  -■•"•••-:  ■' 1  men  are  inii"  •  ' ' 

!»•  •  CO  unrewai 


itwans, 


ir.iwn  I 
;  th"  T 
the 


I. 


would    never 


r    li.ivi:   a|>|>«ai«'<l  the  name   incii."-^ 

:Ui. 
Th''.''  observntions  are  of  the  very  highest  I 
ipnrtince.     Th-     '  -     ■  •       '    '        - '       -    • 
111,  and  nnnrrli 

f..t 

ini'itr.itKin,  raise  them  into 

ir  pro:'r''\<;  n{  •...,..    -...  i  li  . 

th*"  aiici'-iit  '  I 

•T  V    Ul     ll 

■i  kina.  1: 

•bility  and  clcrg)*,  which  convened  it  into  a  . 


revolution.  All  the  miseries  of  that  country 
sprung  from  the  very  principle  which  is  in- 
cessantly  urgrd  ns  the  ruling  consideration  in 
favour  of  the  Reform  Bill. 

No  body  of  men  ever  inflicted  such  disasters 
on  France,  as  the  Constituent  Assembly,  ty 
their  headlong  innovations  and  sweipmg  de- 
molitions. Not  the  sword  of  Marlboronirh  nor 
the  victories  of  Wellington — not  the  rout  of 
Agincourt  nor  the  carnage  of  Waterloo — not 
the  arms  of  .Alexander  nor  the  ambition  of  Na- 
poleon, have  proved  so  fatal  to  its  prosperity. 
From  the  wounds  they  inflicted,  the  social  sys- 
tem may  revive — from  those  of  their  own  in- 
novators, recovery  is  impossible.  They  not 
only  destroyed  freedom  in  its  cradle — they  not 
only  induced  the  most  cruel  and  revolting 
tyranny;  but  they  totally  destroyed  the  mate- 
rials from  which  it  was  to  be  reconstructed  in 
future, — they  bequeathed  slavery  to  their  chil- 
dren, and  thej'  prevented  it  from  ever  being 
shaken  oflfby  their  descendants.  It  matters  no* 
under  what  name  arbitrary  power  is  adminis 
tered :  it  can  be  dealt  out  as  rudely  by  a  reform 
ing  assembly,  a  dictatorial  mob,  a  committee 
of  Public  Safely,  a  tyrannical  Directory,  a  mili- 
tary despot,  or  a  citizen  King,  as  by  an  abso- 
lute monarch  or  a  haughty  nobility.  By  destroy- 
ing the  whole  ancient  institutions  of  France — 
by  annihilating  the  nobles  and  middling  ranks, 
who  stood  between  the  people  and  the  throne 
— by  subverting  all  the  laws  and  customs  of 
antiquity — by  extirpating  religion,  and  induc- 
ing general  profligac}',  they  have  inflicted 
wounds  upon  their  country  which  can  never 
be  healed.  Called  upon  to  revive  the  social 
system,  they  destroyed  it:  instead  of  pouring 
into  the  decayed  limbs  the  warm  blood  of  youih, 
they  severed  the  head  from  the  body,  and  all 
subsequent  efl!'(>rts  have  been  unavailing  to  re- 
store animation.  It  is  now  as  impossible  to 
give  genuine  freedom,  that  is  complete  protec- 
tion to  all  classes,  to  France,  as  it  is  to  restore 
the  vital  spark  to  a  lifeless  body  by  the  convul- 
sions of  electricity.  The  balance  of  interests, 
the  protecting  classes,  arc  destroyed  :  nothing 
remains  but  the  populace  and  the  cnveniment: 
.\siatic  has  Micrredi-tl  it)  Eiimpi-au  civiliza- 
tion :  and,  instead  of  the  long  life  of  modern 

' '  m,  the  brief  tempests  of  anarchy,  and 'he 

v'ht  of  despotism,  arc  its  fate. 

I  Iw    '"  ^  'ily,  however,   had 

ibf  e.\.  .on:  they  were  en- 

ing  on  ail  untrodden  In-ld:  the  consequence 

ii..;r    K-tioris  were  unknown:  enthusiasm 

!>l«»  as  that  of  the  theatre  urged  on 

Great  n-forms  requiretl  to  be  ma<le 

'i'Vil  .system  ;  they  mistook   the  ex- 

i-r.ilir  ambition  for  the  diclntes 

..g  wisdom:  the  corrupiion  of  a 

guilty  court,  and  the  vices  of  a  degr.ided  no- 

'   '■         "d  loudly  for  amendment.     Hut  what 

iv  to  those  who  !idvf'nitir<'il  nn  the 

sr.  with'  "le 

.    HI    a    Coir  -0 

loti  In  popular  power,  tyrannic  'f 

ii>>  ii.niirhly  nobiliiy,  con.sumed  hy  i  il 

vires,    weakened    by    no    foreisn  ■> ' 

^'-  > 

'• 
long  reformers  ot  ihe  ncighlwuring  kingdnn 


228 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


who  roused  passions  as  impetuous,  proposed 
changes  as  sweeping,  were  actuated  by  ambi- 
tion as  perilous,  as  that  which,  under  their  own 
eyes,  had  torn  civilization  to  pieces  in  its  bleed- 
ing dominion  1  What  shall  we  say  to  those 
who  did  this  in  the  state  where  freedom  had 
existed  longer,  and  was  at  their  accession  more 
unfettered  than  in  any  other  country  that  ever 
existed ;  where  prosperity  unexampled  existed, 


and  virtue  uncorrupted  was  to  be  found,  and 
glory  unparalleled  had  been  won  ?  Who  ad 
A^entured  on  a  course  which  threatened  to  tear 
in  pieces  the  country  of  Milton  and  Bacon,  of 
Scott  and  Newton,  of  Nelson  and  Wellington! 
History  will  judge  their  conduct :  no  tumultu- 
ous mobs  will  drown  it5  voice  :  from  its  deci- 
sion there  will  be  no  appeal,  and  its  will  be  the 
voice  of  ages. 


BULWER'S  ATHENS.* 


It  is  a  remarkable  fact,  that  so  numerous 
and  pregnant  are  the  proofs  afforded  by  history 
in  all  ages,  of  the  universal  and  irremediable 
evils  of  democratic  ascendency,  that  there  is 
hardly  an  historical  writer  of  any  note,  in  any 
country  or  period  of  the  world,  who  has  not 
concurred  in  condemning  it  as  the  most  dan- 
gerous form  of  government,  and  the  most  fatal 
enemy  of  that  freedom  which  it  professes  to 
support.  In  the  classical  writers,  indeed,  are 
to  be  found  numerous  and  impassioned,  as 
well  as  perfectly  just  eulogies  on  the  ennobling 
effects  of  civil  liberty ;  but  it  is  liberty,  as  con- 
tradistinguished from  slavery,  which  is  the  ob- 
ject of  their  encomium :  and  none  felt  so  strong- 
ly, or  have  expressed  so  forcibly,  the  pernicious 
tendency  of  unbridled  democracy  to  undermine 
and  destroy  the  civil  freedom  and  general  pro- 
tection of  all  classes,  which  is  unquestionably 
the  first  of  human  blessings.  Thucydides, 
whose  profound  mind  was  forcibly  attracted 
by  the  varied  operations  of  the  aristocratic  and 
democratic  factions,  which  in  his  age  distract- 
ed Greece,  and  whose  conflict  forms  the  sub- 
ject of  his  immortal  work,  has  told  us,  that "  in- 
variably in  civil  contests  it  was  found  at 
Athens  that  the  worst  and  most  abandoned 
public  characters  obtained  the  ascendency." 
Aristotle  has  condensed  in  six  words  the  ever- 
lasting characteristic  of  democratic  govern- 
ment  Tt/TT^l/    TCeV    TU^AVVlSuV  TiKiUTAlii  il  S>l/U!>y.PU.TIa. 

Sallust  has  pointed  to  the  "  Egestas  cupida  no- 
varum  rerum,"  as  the  most  prolific  source  of 
the  evils  which  first  undermined,  and  at  last 
overthrew  the  solid  foundations  of  Roman 
liberty;  and  left  in  his  Catiline  conspiracy  a 
picture  of  the  demagogue,  so  just  and  true  in 
all  its  touches,  that  in  every  age  it  has  the  air 
of  having  been  drawn  from  the  existing  popu- 
lar idol;  and  the  phrase  "Alieni  appetens,  sui 
profusus,"  has  passed  into  a  proverbial  charac- 
teristic of  that  mixture  of  rapacity  and  insol- 
vency which  ever  forms  the  basis  of  the  cha- 
racters who  attain  to  democratic  ascendency. 
Livy,  amidst  the  majestic  and  heart-stirring 
narrative  of  Roman  victories,  never  loses  an 
opportunity  of  throwing  in  a  reflection  on  the 
mingled  instability  and  tyranny  of  popular  as- 
semblies; and  all  the  experience  of  the  woful 
tyranny  which  the  triumph  of  democracy  under 
Cassar  brought  upon  the   Roman    common- 

♦  Athens,  its  Rise  and  Fall.  By  E.  L.  Bulwer,  Esq. 
Baunders  and  OUev :  London,  1837.  Blackwood's  Maga- 
iine,  July,  18.37. 


wealth,  and  the  leaden  chains  of  the  centralized 
government  of  his  successors,  has  not  blinded 
the  far-seeing  sagacity  of  Tacitus  to  the  origin 
of  all  these  evils  in  the  wide-spread  force  of 
popular  wickedness  and  folly,  and  the  fatal 
overthrow  of  the  long  established  sway  of  the 
Senate  by  the  military  talents  and  consummate 
address  of  the  first  emperor  of  the  world. 

In  modern  times  the  same  striking  charac- 
teristic of  all  the  greatest  observers  of  human 
events  is  equally  conspicuous.  Five  hundred 
years  ago  Machiavel  deduced  from  a  careful 
retrospect  of  Roman  history,  not  less  than  the 
experience  of  the  Republican  States  with  which 
he  was  surrounded,  the  clearest  views  of  the 
enormous  perils  of  unbridled  democracy:  and 
he  has  left  in  his  Discourses  on  Livy  and 
"  Principe,"  maxims  of  government  essentially 
adverse  to  democratic  establishments,  which, 
in  depth  of  thought  and  justice  of  observation, 
have  never  been  surpassed.  Bacon  clearly 
perc&ived,  even  amidst  all  the  servility  of  the 
nation,  and  tyranny  of  the  government  of  Eng- 
land under  the  Tudor  princes,  the  opposite 
dangers  of  republican  rule,  and  his  celebrated 
apophthegm,  that  political  changes,  to  be  safe, 
"  should  resemble  those  of  nature,  which  albeit 
the  greatest  in  the  end,  are  imperceptible  in 
their  progress,"  has  passed  into  a  consuetudi- 
nary maxim,  to  which,  to  the  end  of  the  world, 
the  wise  will  never  cease  to  refer,  and  against 
which  the  rash  and  reckless  Avill  never  cease 
to  chafe.  The  profound  mind  of  Hume,  it  is 
well  known,  beheld  the  long  and  varied  story 
of  England's  existence  with  perhaps  too  great 
a  bias  in  favour  of  monarchical  institutions  ; 
and  Gibbon,  even  amidst  the  long  series  of 
calamities  which  accumulated  round  the  sink- 
ing fortunes  of  the  empire,  has  sufficiently 
evinced  his  strong  sense  of  the  impracticable 
nature,  and  tyrannic  tendency  of  democratic 
institutions.*  Sir  James  Mackintosh,  in  his 
maturer  years,  strongly  supported  the  same 
sound  and  rational  principles ;  and  all  the  fer- 
vour and  energy  of  the  youthful  author  of  the 
Vindicia  GalUccE  could  not  blind  his  better  in- 
formed judgment  later  in  life,  to  the  frightful 
dangers  of  democratic  ascendency,  and  the  ul- 
timate conclusion  "that  the  only  government 
which  offers  a  rational  prospect  of  establishing 
or  preserving  freedom,  is  that  where  the  power 

*In  his  letters  and    and  miscellaneous  works,  hii 
opinions  on  this  subject  are  clearly  e.\pressed. , 


BULWER'S  ATHENS. 


2i9 


cf  directing  affairs  is  vested  in  the  aristocratic 
interests,  under  the  perpetual  safeguard  of  po- 
pular watchfulness."*  Burke,  almost  forgot- 
ten as  a  champion  of  Whig  doctrines  in  the 
earlier  part  of  his  career,  stands  forth  in  im- 
perishable lustre  as  the  giant  supporter  of 
conservative  principles  in  the  zenith  of  his  in- 
tellect. Pitt  has  told  us  that  "democracy  is 
not  the  government  of  the  few  by  the  many, 
but  the  many  by  the  few,  with  this  addition, 
that  the  few  who  are  thus  raised  to  power  are 
the  most  dangerous  and  worthless  of  tiie  com- 
munity;" and  Fox,  who  spent  his  life  in  sup- 
porting liberal  principles,  with  his  dying  breath 
bequeathed  to  his  successors  a  perpetual  strug- 
gle with  the  gigantic  power  which  had  risen 
out  of  its  spirit,  and  imbodied  its  desires. 

Nor  is  France  behind  England  in  the  same 
profound  and  far-seeing  views  of  human  af- 
fairs. Napoleon,  elevated  on  the  wave,  and 
supported  by  the  passions  of  the  Revolution, 
conceived  himself,  as  he  himself  told,  to  be  the 
commissioned  hand  of  Heaven  lo  chastise  its 
crimes  and  extinguish  its  atrocity.  Madam  de 
Stael,  albeit  passionately  devoted  to  the  me- 
mory of  her  father,  the  parent  of  the  Revolution, 
and  the  author  of  the  French  Reform  Bill,  has 
yet  devoted  the  maturity  of  her  intellect  to  il- 
lustrate the  superior  advantages  which  the 
mixed  form,  of  government  established  in  Eng- 
land afforded ;  and  in  her  Treatise  on  the 
French  Revolution,  supported  with  equal  wis- 
dom and  eloquence  the  conservative  princi- 
ples, in  which  all  minds  of  a  certain  elevation 
in  ev-'ery  age  have  concurred  :  while  Chateau- 
briand, the  illustrious  relic  of  feudal  grandeur, 
and  the  graphic  painter  of  modern  suffering, 
has  arrived,  from  the  experience  of  his  varied 
and  interesting  existence,  at  the  same  lofty  and 
ennobling  conclusions  ;  and  M.  de  Toqueville, 
the  worthy  conclusion  to  such  a  line  of  great- 
ness, has  portrayed,  amidst  the  most  impartial 
survey  of  American  equality,  seeds  in  the  un- 
disguised "  tyranny  of  the  majority,"  of  the 
eventual  and  speedy  destruction  of  civil  li- 
berty. 

These  enemies  of  democracy  in  every  age. 
have  been  led  to  these  conclusions, /wsi  because 
they  were  the  steeidicst  friends  of  freedom.  They 
deprecated  and  resisted  the  unbridled  sway  of 
the  people,  because  they  saw  clearly  that  it 
was  utterly  destructive  to  their  real  and  dura- 
ble interests;  that  it  permitted  that  sacred  fire 
which,  duly  restrained  and  repressed,  is  the 
fountain  of  all  greatness,  whether  in  nations 
or  individuals,  to  waste  itself  in  pernicious 
flames,  or  expand  into  ruinous  conflagration. 
They  supported  the  establishment  of  Conser- 
vative checks  on  popular  extravagance,  be- 
cause they  perceived  from  experience,  and  had 
learned  from  history,  that  the  gift  of  unbridled 
power  is  fatal  to  its  possessors,  and  that  least 
of  all  is  it  tolerable  where  the  responsibility, 
the  sole  check  upon  its  excesses,  is  destroyed 
by  the  number  among  whom  it  is  divided. 
They  advocated  a  mixed  form  of  government, 
because  they  saw  clearly,  lliat  under  such,  and 
such  only,  had  the  blessings  of  freedom  in  any 
»ge  been  enjoyed  for  any  length  of  time  by  the 

•  Mackintosh's  Memoirs,  I.  17L 


people.  They  were  fully  aware  that  demo- 
cratic energy  has,  in  every  age,  been  th« 
mainspring  of  human  improvement;  but  they 
were  not  less  aware,  that  this  spring  is  one  of 
such  strength  and  power,  that  if  not  duly 
loaded,  it  immediately  tears  the  machine  to 
pieces.  They  admired  and  cherished  the 
warmth  of  the  fire,  but  they  were  not  so 
blinded  by  its  advantages,  as  to  permit  it  to 
escape  its  iron  bars,  and  wrap  the  house  in 
flames;  they  enjoyed  the  vigour  of  the  horses 
which  whirled  the  chariot  along;  but  they 
were  not  so  insane  as  to  cast  the  charioteer 
from  his  seat,  and  allow  their  strength  and 
energy  to  overturn  and  destroy  the  vehicle : 
they  acknowledged  with  gratitude  the  genial 
w^armth  of  the  central  heat,  which  clothed  the 
sides  of  the  volcano  with  luxuriant  fruits;  but 
they  looked  to  either  hand,  and  beheld  in  the 
black  furrow  of  desolation  the  track  of  the 
burning  lava  which  had  issued  from  its  sum- 
mit when  it  escaped  its  barriers,  and  filled  the 
heavens  with  an  eruption. 

Nothing  daunted  by  this  long  and  majestic 
array  of  authority  against  him,  Mr.  Bulwer 
has  taken  the  field  in  two  octavo  volumes,  in 
order  to  illustrate  the  beneficial  effect  of  re- 
publican institutions  upon  social  greatness 
and  national  prosperity.  He  has  selected  for 
his  subject  the  Athenian  democracy — the  eye 
of  Greece — the  cradle  of  history,  tragedy,  and 
the  fine  arts ;  the  spot  in  the  world  where,  in 
the  narrowest  limits,  achievements  the  most 
mighty  have  been  won,  and  genius  the  most 
immortal  has  been  developed.  He  con- 
ceived, doubtless,  that  in  Attica  at  least  the 
extraordinary  results  of  democratic  agency 
could  not  be  disputed;  the  Roman  victories 
might  be  traced  to  the  wisdom  of  the  senate ; 
the  Swiss  patriotism  to  the  simplicity  of  its 
mountains ;  the  prosperity  of  Holland  lo  the 
protection  of  canals,  or  the  prudence  of  its 
burgomasters;  the  endurance  of  America  to 
the  boundless  vent  afforded  by  its  back  settle- 
ments ;  but  in  Athens  none  of  these  peculiari- 
ties existed,  and  there  the  brilliant  results  of 
J)opular  rule  and  long  established  self-govern- 
ment were  set  forth  in  imperishable  colours. 
We  rejoice  he  has  made  the  attempt;  we  anti- 
cipate nothing  but  good  to  tlie  conservative 
cause  from  his  efforts.  It  is  a  common  saying 
among  lawyers,  that  falsehood  may  be  exposed 
in  a  witness  by  cross-examination;  but  that 
truth  only  comes  out  the  more  clearly  from  all 
the  efforts  which  are  made  for  its  confusion. 
It  is  a  fortunate  day  for  ihe  cause  of  historic 
truth  when  the  leaders  of  the  democratic  party 
leave  the  declamalion  of  the  Inistings  and  the 
base  flattery  of  popular  adulation,  and  betake 
themselves  lo  the  arena  of  real  nrgiimcni. 
We  feel  the  same  joy  at  beholdini,'  Mr.  Hiilwer 
arm  himself  in  tlie  panoply  of  the  fu-M,  and 
court  the  assaults  of  hisiorical  invcsliicaiion, 
with  which  the  knights  of  old  saw  iheniM-lvrs 
extricated  from  the  mob  of  plebeian  insurrec- 
tion, and  led  forth  to  ihe  combat  of  highborn 
chivalry. 

Mr.  Bulwer  is,  in  every  point  of  virw.  .idi:i 
tingui.shed  writer.     His  work  on   Kn^iand  and 
the  English  is  a  brilliant  performance,  abound- 
ing with  sparkling,  containing  some  profound 


230 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


Hi  I 


Dbservations,  and  particularly  imercsting  to 
ihe  mulliludc  of  persons  to  vhom  foreiirn  tra- 
velling has  rendered  the  comparison  of  Eng- 
lish and  French  character  and  institutions  an 
object  of  interest.  His  novels  in  profound 
knowledge  of  the  human  heart,  brilliancy  of 
description,  pathos  of  incident,  and  eloquence 
of  language,  are  second  to  none  in  the  English 
language.  The  great  defects  of  his  writings, 
in  a  political  point  of  view,  are  the  total  ab- 
sence of  any  reference  to  a  superintending 
power  and  the  moral  government  of  the  world ; 
and  the  continual  and  laboured  attempt  to  ex- 
culpate the  errors,  and  screen  the  vices,  and 
draw  a  veil  over  the  perils  of  democratic  go- 
vernment. The  want  of  the  first,  in  an  inves- 
tigation into  human  aflairs,  is  like  the  absence 
of  the  character  of  Hamlet  in  the  play  bearing 
his  name:  the  presence  of  the  second  a  con- 
tinued drawback  on  the  pleasures  which  an 
impartial  mind  derives  from  his  otherwise 
able  and  interesting  observations.  More  espe- 
cially is  a  constant  sense  of  the  corruption 
and  weakness  of  human  nature  an  indispen- 
sable element  in  every  inquiry  or  observation 
which  has  for  its  object  the  weighing  the  capa- 
bility of  mankind  to  bear  the  excitements,  and 
wield  the  powers,  and  exercise  the  responsi- 
bility of  self-government.  We  are  not  going 
to  enter  into  any  theological  argument  on 
original  sin,  how  intimately  soever  it  may  be 
blended  with  the  foundation  of  all  in\  estiga- 
tions  into  the  right  principles  of  government; 
we  assert  only  a  fad,  demonstrated  by  the  ex- 
perience of  every  age,  and  acquiesced  in  by 
the  wise  of  every  country,  that  there  is  an 
universal  tendency  to  cori'uption  and  license 
in  human  nature — that  religion  is  the  only 
effectual  bridle  on  its  excesses,  and  that  the 
moment  that  a  community  is  established,  with- 
out the  eflective  agency  of  that  powerful  curb 
on  human  passion,  the  progress  of  national 
affairs  becomes  nothing  but  the  career  of  the 
prodigal,  brilliant  and  alluring  in  the  outset, 
dismal  and  degrading  in  the  end.  It  is  on  this 
account  that  the  friends  of -freedom  have  in 
every  age  been  the  most  resolute  and  perse- 
vering enemies  of  democracy;  because  that 
fervent  and  searching  element,  essential  to  the 
highest  national  greatness,  and  the  best  ingre- 
dient in  its  prosperit)',  if  duly  coerced  and 
tempered,  becomes  its  most  devouring  and 
fatal  enemy  the  instant  that  it  breaks  through 
its  barriers,  and  obtains  the  unrestrained  di- 
rection of  the  public  destinies. 

The  views  of  the  republican  and  the  demo- 
crat are  the  very  reverse  of  all  this.  Accord- 
ing to  them,  wickedness  and  corruption  are  the 
inheritance  of  the  oligarchy  alone;  aristocra- 
cies are  always  selfish,  grasping,  rapacious  ; 
democracies  invariably  energetic,  generous, 
confiding.  Nobles,  they  argue,  never  act  but 
from  designing  or  selfif^li  views ;  their  constant 
agent  is  human  corruption ;  their  incessant 
afipeal  to  the  basest  and  most  degrading  prin- 
ciples of  our  nature.  Republicans  alone  are 
really  philanthropic  in  their  views;  they  alone 
Httend  to  the  interests  of  the  masses;  they  alone 
lay  the  fuuiidalioiis  of  the  social  system  on  Ihe 
broad  basis  of  general  well-being.  Monarchi- 
cal governments  are  founded  on  the  caprice  of 


a  single  t3Tant;  aristocratic  on  the  wants  0| 
rapacious  oligarchy;  democratic  alone  on  \\ 
consulted  desires  and  grateful  experience  1 
the  whole  community.  If  these  propositici 
were  all  true,  they  would  be  decisive  in  favc 
of  popular,  and  highly  popular  institutioij 
but  unfortunately,  though  it  is  perfectly  con.' 
that  monarchies  and  aristocracies  are  maii' 
directed,  if  uncontrolled  by  the  people,  to  si- 
port  the  interests  of  a  single  or  an  oligarchiil 
government,  it  is  no  less  true,  that  the  rapac 
of  a  democracy  is  just  as  great;  that  the  . 
sponsibility  of  its  leaders,  from  the  numb< 
those  invested  with  power,  is  infinitely  li-, 
and  that  the  calamities  which,  in  its  unm. 
gated  form  it  in  consequence  lets  loose  on  l> 
community,  are  such  as  in  every  age  have  \ 
to  its  speedy  subversion.  ■ 

The  Conservative  principle  of  govemme, 
on  the  other  hand,  is,  that  mankind  are  ra- 
cally  and  universally  corrupt;  that  when  • 
vested  with  power,  in  whatever  form  of  gove . 
ment,  and  from  whatever  class  of  society,  tbr 
are  immediately  inclined  to  apply  it  to  thr 
own  selfish  ends  ;  that  the  diffusion  of  educatii 
and  knowledge  has  no  tendency  whatever) 
eradicate  this  universal  propensity,  but  oir 
gives  it  a  difierent,  less  violent,  but  not  Id 
interested  direction  ; — that  the  diffusion  of  - 
preme  power  among  a  multitude  of  han  : 
minishes  to  nothing  the  responsibility  of  ea 
individual,  while  it  augments  in  a  proportion  5 
degree  the  rapacity  and  selfishness  whicls 
brought  to  bear  on  public  afiairs; — that  wli 
the  multitude  are  the  spectators  of  govcmnK , 
they  are  inclined  to  check  or  restrain  its  abm', 
because  others  profit,  and  they  sufier  by  the ; 
but  when  tliey  become  government  itself,  tlf 
instantly  support  them,  because  they  profit,  :1 
others  suffer  from  their  continuance; — tt 
democratic  institutions  thus,  when  once  fi^ 
and  really  established,  rapidly  deprave  B 
public  mind,  and  engender  an  universal  spt 
of  selfishness  in  the  majority  of  the  peojf, 
which  speedily  subverts  the  foundations  f 
national  prosperity;  and  that  it  is  only  wla 
property.is  the  directing,  and  numbers  the  c- 
trolling  power,  that  the  inherent  vices  and  s  • 
ishness  of  the  depositaries  of  authority  cane 
effectually  coerced  by  the  opinion  of  the  gi-t 
majority  who  are  likely  to  sufltr  by  its  > 
cesses,  or  a  lasting  foundation  be  laid  in  e 
adherence  of  national  opinion  to  the  princijs 
of  virtue  for  any  lengthened  enjoyment  of  e 
blessings  of  prosperity,  or  any  durable  i- 
charge  of  the  commands  of  duty. 

These  are  the  opposite  and  conflicting  p  ■ 
ciples  of  government  which  are  now  at  is  e 
in  the  world:  and  it  is  to  support  the  fonf 
that  Mr.  Uulwcr  has  brought  the  power  ca 
cultivated  mind  and  the  vigour  of  an  enlarid 
intellect.  Athens  was  a  favourable  grouniO 
take,  ill  order  to  enforce  the  incalculable  ; 
ers  of  the  democratic  spring  in  societ}'. 
where  else  is  to  be  found  a  state  so  smal  •» 
its  origin,  and  yet  so  great  in  its  progress :  o 
contracted  in  its  territory,  and  yet  so  gigaiO 
in  its  achievements:  so  limited  in  numb »i 
and  yet  so  immortal  in  genius.  Its  domini  s 
(in  the  continent  of  Greece  did  not  exceedn 
English   county;    its   free   inhabitants  nef 


i 


BULWER'.S  ATHENS. 


231 


■moontcd  to  thirty  thousand  citizens — j-ct  these 
I  inconsiderable  numbers  have  filled  the  world 
with  their  renown;  poetry,  phi'         '       :  -  ',  - 
lecture,  sculpture,  trai^ody,  con 
physic^,    hi-tory.    pontics,   alu 
origin  from   Athiniui  genius; 
ments  of  art  with  which  they  have  overspread 
the  world  still  form  the  standard  of  taste  in 
every  civilized  Utttion  on  carih.     It  is  not  sur- 
prisin?   thai    so    brilliant   and'  c.t]  -    a 

spectacle  should  in  every  a^c  have  ■  md 

transported  maiikin<I;  and  that  seeing  demo* 
cratic  institutions  co-cxisiing  with  so  extrsi- 
ordinary  a  development  of  the  intellectual 
f.'.  '         '  have  come  to  1'.  illy 

in.  really  were  cauM  .t, 

and  thai  the  only  M-curc  foundation  winch  could 
be  laid  for  the  attainment  of  the  highest  hon- 
oars  of  our  being  was  in  the  extension  of  the 
powers  of  government  to  the  great  body  of  the 

poopl**. 

\  tiowcvor.  has  its  dark  as  well  as  its 

br..  .  ic  ;  and  if  the  perfection  of  its  sci- 
ence, the  delicacy  of  its  taste,  and  the  refine- 
ment of  its  arts,  furnish  a  plausible,  and,  in  a 
certain  de£rrce.  a  just  ground  for  representing 
d'  ions  as  the  greatest  stimu- 

la:  mind,  the  brevity  of  its  ex- 

istence, the  injustice  of  its  decisions,  the  insta- 
bility of  its  councils,  and  the  cruelty  of  its  de- 
crees, aflord  too  fair  a  reason  for  doubting  the 
w     '  "ating,  on  a  larger  scale,  any  of 

it-  .     Its  rise  was  rapid  and  glori- 

ous; but  the  era  of  its  prosperity  was  brief; 
and  it  sunk,  after  a  short  space  of  existence, 
into  an  obscure,  and,  politically  speaking,  in- 
sii-  '  The  sway  of  the  multitude, 

»;.  iincil  of  last  resort  in  the 

coram  ■ii«'-.i;'ii.  v.i  i-.ipricious  and  tyrannical; 
and  such  a-  rtv  rou^luy  disgusted  all  the  states 
in  the  rMiii.  ,i.racy  of  which  it  was  the  head. 

Th  '  '  Icness.     Instead 

of  '•  tribiilarv  aiul 

al 

ai 

iU".  til  1;  and 

ti;  •  " ■ '■ 

«■  of  the  •• 

r'i 

t'. 

til 
CV 

h 

f)i 
»- 

a' 
r 

n\ 

It! 

I'l 

I):.  ■! 

in- 

ai  '    !■ 
n-.i; 
ni,'- 
R 

tt^  ' 

R 
f 

»uini:i''iit  io  fiam  ui''  i-iurr  a!ii«'<i  riiif?  m  iiir 


(,• 


i  I  >     ."M  I  •  1 1 ;_  .  1 1    I '  I 


j  Roman  confederacy,  or  reclaim  such  as.  from 
I  the  presence  of  the  Punic  arms,  had  passed 
over  to  their  enemies.  Wli. 
on  the  very  liist  rfvrrsr,  ih<- 
colonies  mi  . 
the  LaociliMi 

the  power  of  Athens  was  r< 
by  the  periodical  reduction  <i 
the  resources  of  its  own  territory.     H.id  the 
Athenian   mullitudi-  'd  the    ■ 

fortitude  and   benrii  of  th' 

aristocracy,  they  might,  like  them,  have  i        i 
superior  to  every  reverse,  and  graii'r.n 
by  the  willing  incorporation  of 
with  their  dominions,  into  a  va-i  >.: 
tending  over  the  whole  shores  of  tin 
ranean,  and  giving  law,  like  the  mi^hiy  ii: 
which  succeeded  them,  for  a  thousand  }-^._ 
to  the  whole  civilized  world- 
Mr.  Bulwcr  appears  to  be  aware  of  the  brief 
tenure  of  existence  which  .\thens  enjoyed  ;  but 
he  erroneously  ascribes  to  general  causes  or 
inevitable  necessity  what  in  its  case  was  Uie 
result  merely  of  the  fever  of  democratic  ac- 
tivity. 

"  In  that  restless  and  unpausing  energy, 
which  is  the  characteristic  of  an  intellectual 
republic,  there  seems,  as  it  were,  a  kind  of 
destiny:  a  power  impossible  to  resist  urges  the 
state  from  action  to  action,  from  progress  to 
progress,  with  a  rapidity  dangerous  while  it 
dazzles;  resembling  in  this  the  career  of  indi- 
viduals impelled  onward,  first  to  attain,  and 
thence  to  preserve  power,  and  who  cannot 
struggle  against  the  fate  which  necessitates 
them  to  soar,  until,  by  the  moral  gravitation 
of  human  things,  the  point  which  has  no  bfyond 
is  attained;  and  the  next  etfort  to  rise  is  bm  the 
prelude  of  their  fall.  In  such  stati's  I 
deed,  moves  with  gigantic  stridfs  ;  }• 
cenirate  what  would  l^  the  epochs  of  centuries 
in  the  march  of  less  popular  institutions.  Th« 
plani-t  of  thrir  foriun:-s  rolls  with  an  equal 
•  le  of  in'' 
'I'he  . 
Iilc  IS  ■  iiec  of  rcposf.  The 
...1  ,-,,.■  ill,.    l.I t  !  .    iMt.r'i.'s 

.  ■  \  i^'-'Ui,  t'CC'-'iucs  a 


or  C. 


nn 

the 
•   of 


w>'iii'ii,  iiic  ii.iri>  iiii'i 


and 
i..ia  w 


S3S 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


poverty,  sickness,  and  premature  dissolution. 
And  ancient  liistory  affords  a  memorable  con- 
trast in  this  particular;  for  while  Athens,  w-orn 
out  and  exhausted  by  the  fever  of  democratic 
activit}',  rose  like  a  brilliant  meteor  only  to 
fall  after  a  life  as  short  as  that  of  a  single 
individual,  Home,  in  whom  this  superabundant 
energy  was  for  centuries  coerced  and  restrained 
by  the  solidity  of  Patrician  institutions  and  the 
steadiness  of  Patrician  rule,  continued  steadily 
to  rise  and  advance  through  a  succession  of 
ages,  and  at  length  succeeded  in  subjecting 
the  whole  civilized  earth  to  its  dominion. 

It  has  long  been  a  matter  of  reproach  to 
Athens,  that  she  behaved  with  the  blackest  in- 
graf.itude  to  her  greatest  citizens ;  and  that 
Miltiades,  Themistocles,  Aristides,  Cimon,  So- 
crates, Thucydides,  and  a  host  of  other  illus- 
trious men,  received  exile,  confiscation,  or  death 
as  the  reward  for  the  inestimable  benefits  they 
had  conferred  upon  their  fellow-citizens.  Mr. 
Bulwer  is  much  puzzled  how  to  explain  away 
these  av/kward  facts ;  but  as  the  banishment 
of  these  illustrious  citizens,  and  the  death  of 
this  illustrious  sage,  from  the  effects  of  popu- 
lar jealousjr,  cannot  be  denied,  he  boldly  en- 
deavours to  justify  these  atrocious  acts  of  the 
Athenian  democracy.  In  regard  to  Miltiades 
he  observes : — 

"  The  case  was  simply  this, — Miltiades  was 
accused — whether  justly  or  unjustly  no  matter 
— it  was  clearly  as  impossible  not  to  receive 
the  accusation,  and  to  try  the  cause,  as  it 
would  be  for  an  English  court  of  justice  to 
refuse  to  admit  a  criminal  action  against  Lord 
Grey  or  the  Duke  of  Wellington.  Was  Mil- 
tiades guilty  or  not]  This  we  cannot  tell. 
We  know  that  he  was  tried  according  to  the 
law,  and  that  the  Athenians  thought  him  guilty, 
for  they  condemned  him.  So  far  this  is  not 
ingratitude — it  is  the  course  of  law.  A  man 
is  tried  and  found  guilty — if  past  services 
and  renown  were  to  save  the  great  from  pun- 
ishment when  convicted  of  a  state  offence, 
societj'^  would,  perhaps,  be  disorganized,  and 
certainly  a  free  stale  would  cease  to  exist. 
The  question,  therefore,  shrinks  to  this — was 
it,  or  was  it  not  ungrateful  in  the  people  to 
relax  the  penalty  of  death,  legally  incurred, 
and  commute  it  to  a  heavy  fine  1  I  fear  we 
shall  find  few  instances  of  greater  clemency  in 
monarchies,  however  mild.  Miltiades  unhap- 
pily died.  But  nature  slew  him,  not  the  Athe- 
nian people.  And  it  cannot  be  said  with 
greater  justice  of  the  Athenians,  than  of  a 
people  no  less  illustrious,  and  who  are  now 
their  judges,  that  it  was  their  custom,  'dc  iucr 
un  Amiral  pour  cncoitragcr  Ics  aulrcs.'  " 

This  passage  affords  an  example  of  the 
determination  which  Mr.  Bulwer  generally 
evinces  to  justify  and  support  the  acts  of  his 
darling  democracy,  however  extravagant  or 
monstrous  they  may  have  been.  Doubtless, 
we  are  not  informed  very  specifically  as  to  the 
nature  of  the  evidence  adduced  in  support  of 
the  charge  of  bribery  brought  against  Miltiades. 
Doubtless,  also,  it  was  necessary  to  receive  the 
charge  when  once  preferred ;  but  was  it  neces- 
sary to  roiivict  him,  and  send  the  hero  of  Mara- 
•hon,  the  saviour  of  his  country,  into  a  painful 
exile,   which   ultimately   proved    his    death  1 


That  is  the  point,  and,  as  the  evidence  is  no 
laid  before  us,  what  right  has  Mr.  Bulwer  to 
assume  that  the  Athenian  multitude  were  not 
ungrateful  or  unjust  in  their  decision]  For 
their  conduct,  in  this  instance,  they  received 
the  unanimous  condemnation  of  the  nistorian 
of  antiquity,  and  yet  Mr.  Bulwer  alhrms  thai 
never  Avas  complaint  more  unjust.  The  fact 
is  certain,  that  all  the  greatest  benefactors  of 
Athens  were  banished  by  the  ostracism,  or  vole 
of  all  the  citizens,  though  the  evidence  adduced 
in  support  of  the  charges  is,  for  the  most  part; 
unknown  ;  but  as  these  deeds  were  the  acts  of 
democratic  assemblies,  Mr.  Bulwer,  without 
any  grounds  for  his  opinion,  in  opposition  to 
the  unanimous  voice  of  antiquity,  vindicates 
and  approves  them. 

It  is  clear,  from  Mr.  Bulwer's  own  admission, 
that  the  banishment  of  almost  all  these  illus- 
trious benefactors  of  Athens  was  owing  to  their 
resisting  democratic  innovations,  or  striving 
to  restore  the  constitution  to  the  mixed  condi- 
tion in  which  it  existed  previous  to  the  great 
democratic  innovations  of  Solon  and  Themis 
tocles  :  but  such  resistance,  or  attempts  even 
by  the  most  constitutional  means  to  restore,  he 
seems  to  consider  as  amply  sufficient  to  justify 
their  exile  !  In  regard  to  the  banishment  of 
Cimon  he  observes  : — 

"  Without  calling  into  question  the  integrity 
and  the  patriotism  of  Cimon,  without  sup- 
posing that  he  would  have  entered  into  any 
intrigue  against  the  Athenian  independence 
of  foreign  powers — a  supposition  his  subse- 
quent conduct  effectually  refutes — he  might, 
as  a  sincere  and  warm  partisan  of  the  nobles, 
and  a  resolute  opposer  of  the  popular  parly, 
have  sought  to  restore  at  home  the  aristocratic 
balance  of  power,  by  whatever  means  his 
great  rank,  and  influence,  and  connection  with 
the  Lacedemonian  party  could  afford  him. 
We  are  told,  at  least,  that  he  not  only  op- 
posed all  the  advances  of  the  more  liberal 
party — that  he  not  only  stood  resolutely  by  the 
interests  and  dignities  of  the  Areopagus,  which 
had  ceased  to  harmonize  with  the  more  modern 
institutions,  but  that  he  expressly  sovight  to 
restore  certain  prerogatives  which  that  assem- 
bly had  formally  lost  during  his  foreign  expe- 
ditions, and  that  he  earnestly  endeavoured  to 
bring  back  the  whole  constitution  to  the  more 
aristocratic  government  established  hy  Clis- 
thenes.  It  is  one  thing  to  preserve,  it  is 
another  to  restore.  A  people  may  be  deluded, 
under  popular  pretexts,  out  of  the  rights  they 
have  newly  acquired,  but  they  never  submit 
to  be  openly  despoiled  of  them.  Nor  can  we 
call  that  ingratitude  which  is  but  the  refusal 
to  surrender  to  the  merits  of  an  individual  the 
acquisitions  of  a  nation. 

"All  things  considered,  then,  I  believe,  that 
if  ever  ostracism  was  justifiable,  it  was  so  in 
the  case  of  Cimon — nay,  it  was,  perhaps, 
absolutely  essential  to  the  preservation  of  the 
constitution.  His  very  honesty  made  him  re- 
solute in  his  attempts  against  that  constitution. 
His  talents,  his  rank,  his  fame,  his  services, 
only  rendered  those  attempts  more  dangerous. 

"  Could  the  reader  be  induced  to  view,  with 
an  examination  equally  dispassionate,  the  seve- 
ral ostracisms  of  Aristides  and  Themistocles, 


BULWER'S  ATHEXS. 


233 


he  might  see  equal  causes  of  justification,  both 
in  the  motives  and  in  the  results.  The  first 
was  absolutely  necessary  for  the  defeat  of  the 
aristocratic  party,  and  the  removal  of  restric- 
tions on  those  energies  which  instantly  found 
the  most  glorious  vents  for  action  ;  the  second 
■was  justified  by  a  similar  nccessit}',  that  pro- 
duced similar  effects.  To  impartial  eyes  a 
people  may  be  vindicated  ■without  traducing 
those  whom  a  people  are  driven  to  oppose. 
In  such  august  and  complicated  trials  tlie  ac- 
cuser and  defendant  may  be  both  innocent." 

Here  then  is  the  key  to  the  hideous  ingrati- 
tude of  the  Athenian  people  to  their  two  most 
illustrious  benefactors,  Aristides  and  Cimon. 
They  okstructcd  tlie  Movcimnt  Parly :  \\\c\  held 
by  the  constitution,  and  endeavoured  to  bring 
back  a  mixed  form  of  government.  This 
heinous  offence  was,  in  the  e3'es  of  the  Athe- 
nian democracy,  and  their  apologist,  Mr.  Bul- 
■wer,  amply  sufficient  to  justify  their  banish- 
ment: a  proceeding,  he  says,  which  was  right, 
even  although  they  were  innoccm  of  the  charges 
laid  against  them — as  if  injustice  can  in  any 
case  be  vindicated  by  state  necessity,  or  the 
form  of  government  is  to  be  approved  ^\hich 
requires  for  its  maintenance  the  periodical 
sacrifice  of  its  noblest  and  most  illustrious 
citizens ! 

In  another  place,  Mr.  Bulwer  observes — 

"Themistocles  was  summoned  to  the  ordeal 
of  the  ostracism,  and  condemned  by  the  majo- 
rity of  suffrages.  Thus,  like  Aristides,  not 
punished  for  offences,  but  paying  the  honourable 
penally  of  rising  by  genius  to  that  state  of  eminence, 
which  threatens  danger  to  the  equality  of  republics. 

"He  departed  from  Athens,  and  ch'.^se  his 
refuge  at  Argos,  whose  hatred  to  Sparta,  his 
deadliest  fee,  pronaised  him  the  securest  pro- 
tection. 

"  Death  soon  afterwards  removed  Aristides 
from  all  competitorship  with  Cimon  ;  accord- 
ing to  the  most  probable  accounts  he  died  at 
Athens ;  and  at  the  time  of  Plutarch  his  monu- 
ment was  still  to  be  seen  at  Phalerum.  His 
countrymen,  who,  despite  all  plausible  charges, 
were  never  ungrateful  except  where  their  lib- 
erties appeared  imperilled,  (whether  rightly  or 
erroneously  our  documents  are  too  scantj^  to 
prove,)  erected  his  monument  at  the  public 
charge,  portioned  his  three  daughters,  and 
awarded  to  his  son  Lysimachus  a  grant  of  one 
hundred  minns  of  silver,  a  plantation  of  one 
hundred  plethra  of  land,  and  a  pension  of  four 
drachma;  a  day,  (double  the  allowance  of  an 
Athenian  ambassador.") 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  admission 
here  candidly  made  by  Mr.  Bulwer  is  well- 
founded;  and  that  jealousy  of  the  eminence  of 
their  great  national  benefactors,  or  anxiety  to 
remove  aristocratic  barriers  to  further  popular 
innovations,  was  the  real  cause  of  that  ingra- 
titude to  their  most  illustrious  benefactors, 
which  has  left  so  dark  a  slain  on  the  Allien  fan 
character.  But  can  it  seriously  be  argued  that 
that  constitution  is  to  be  approved,  and  licld 
up  for  imitation,  which  in  this  manner  re- 
quires that  national  services  should  almost 
invariably  be  fillowod  by  confiscalion  and  ex- 
ile ;  and  anticipates  the  overthrow  of  the  pulilin 
Uberties  from  the  ascendency  of  everv  illus- 


trious man,  if  he  is  not  spccuily  sent  into  ban. 
ishment?  Is  this  the  boasted  intelligence  of 
the  masses  1  Is  this  the  wisdom  which  demo- 
cratic institutions  bring  to  bear  upon  public 
affairs  1  Is  this  the  reward  which,  by  a  perma- 
nent law  of  nature,  freedom  must  ever  provide 
for  the  most  illustrious  of  its  champions  1  Wliy 
is  it  necessary  that  great  men  ami  beneficent 
statesmen  or  commanders  should  invariably 
be  exiled  ■?  The  English  constitution  required 
for  its  continuance  the  exile  neither  of  Pitl  nof 
Fox,  of  Nelson  nor  Wellington.  The  Roman 
republic,  until  the  fatal  period  when  the  au- 
thority of  the  aristocracy  was  overthrown  liy 
the  growing  encroachments  of  the  plebeians, 
retained  all  its  illustrious  citizens,  with  a  few 
well-known  excrptions,  in  its  own  bosom:  and 
the  tomb  of  the  Scipios  still  attests  the  num- 
ber of  that  heroic  race,  who,  with  the  exception 
of  the  illustrious  conqueror  of  Hannibal,  the 
victim,  like  Themistocles,  of  democratic  jea- 
lousy, were  gathered  to  the  tomb  of  their  fa 
thers.  There  is  no  necessity  in  a  well-reg\ilaled 
state,  where  the  different  powers  are  duly  ba- 
lanced, of  subjecting  the  illustrious  to  the  os- 
tracism: good  government  provides  against 
danger  without  committing  injustice. 

Mr.  Bulwer  has  candidly  stated  the  perni- 
cious effect  of  those  most  vicious  of  the  many 
vicious  institutions  of  Athens — the  exacting 
tribute  from  their  conquered  and  allied  stales 
to  the  relief  of  the  dominant  multitude  in  the 
ruling  city;  and  the  fatal  devolution  to  the 
whole  citizens  of  the  duties  and  responsibility 
of  judicial  power.  On  the  first  subject  he  ob- 
serves : 

"  Thus  at  home  and  abroad,  time  and  for- 
tune, the  occurrence  of  events,  and  the  happy 
accident  of  great  men,  not  only  maintained  the 
present  eminence  of  Athens,  but  promised,  to 
ordinary  foresight,  a  long  duration  of  her  glory 
and  her  power.  To  deeper  observers,  the  pic- 
ture might  have  presented  dim,  but  prophetic 
shadows.  It  was  clear  that  the  command 
Athens  had  obtained  was  utterly  dispropor- 
tioned  to  her  natural  resources — that  her  great- 
ness was  altogether  artificial,  and  rested  partly 
upon  moral  rather  than  physical  causes,  and 
partly  upon  the  fears  and  the  weakness  of  her 
neighbours.  A  sterile  soil,  a  limited  terrilorj', 
a  scant}'  population — all  these — the  drawbacks 
and  disadvantages  of  nature — the  wonderful 
energy  and  confident  daring  of  a  free  state 
might  conceal  in  prosperity  ;  but  the  first  ca- 
lamity could  not  fail  to  expose  thein  to  jeal.nis 
and  hostile  eyes.  The  empire  delegated  tc  the 
Athenians,  they  must  naturally  desire  lo  retain 
and  to  increase;  and  there  was  every  reason 
to  forebode  that  their  ambiliim  woul;'.  soon  ex- 
ceed their  capaeilies  to  sustain  it.  As  the  state 
become  accustomed  lo  its  power,  it  would  N-arn 
to  abuse  it.  Increasing  civilization,  Uixiiry,  and 
art,  brought  with  them  new  expenses,  and 
Athens  had  already  been  peririitled  to  indulije 
with  im]iunily  the  dangerous  pa-  •  t- 

aclingtributefromherneighliours.  1'  ,  ice 

upon  other  resources  than  those  of  the  n.ilive 
population  has  ever  been  a  main  cause  of  the 
destruction  of  despotisms,  and  it  cannot  fail, 
sooner  or  later,  lo  be  equally  pernicious  to  thd 
republics  that  trust  to  it.    The  rcsourcci  o( 


S84 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


taxation  confined  to  freemen  and  natives,  are 
aimo.st  incalculable:  the  resources  of  tribute 
wrunu:  from  foreigners  and  dependents,  are 
sternly  limited  and  terribly  precarious — they 
rot  away  the  true  spirit  of  industry  in  the 
people  that  demand  the  impost — they  implant 
ineradicable  hatred  in  the  states  that  concede 
it." 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  these  observa- 
tions are  well-founded;  and  let  us  beware 
lest  they  become  applicable  to  ourselves.  Al- 
ready in  the  policy  of  England  has  been  evinced 
a  sufficient  inclination  to  load  colonial  industry 
with  oppressive  duties,  to  the  relief  of  the  do- 
minant island,  as  the  enoi'mous  burdens  im- 
posed on  West  India  produce,  to  the  entire  re- 
lief of  the  corresponding  agricultural  produce  at 
home,  sutnciently  demonstrates.  And  if  the  pre- 
sent democratic  ascendcnc)'^  in  this  country 
should  continue  unabated  for  any  considerable 
time,  we  venture  to  prophesy,  that  if  no  other  and 
more  immediate  cause  of  ruin  sends  the  com- 
monwealih  to  perdition,  it  will  infallibly  see 
its  colonial  empire  break  off,  and  consequently 
its  maritime  power  destroyed,  by  the  injustice 
done  to,  or  the  burdens  imposed  on,  its  colo- 
nial possessions,  by  the  impatient  ruling  mul- 
titude at  home,  who,  in  any  measure  calculated 
to  diminish  present  burdens  on  themselves,  at 
whatever  cost  to  their  colonial  dependencies, 
will  ever  see  the  most  expedient  and  popular 
course  of  polic}'.' 

The  other  enormous  evil  of  the  Athenian 
constitution — viz.,  the  exercise  of  judicial 
powers  of  the  highest  description  by  a  mob 
of  several  thousand  citizens,  is  thus  described 
by  our  author: 

"A  yet  more  pernicious  evil  in  the  social 
state  of  the  Athenians  was  radical  in  their  con- 
stitution,— it  was  their  courts  of  justice.  Pro- 
ceeding upon  a  theory  that  must  have  seemed 
specious  and  plausible  to  an  inexperienced  and 
infant  republic,  Solon  had  laid  it  down  as  a 
principle  of  his  code,  that  as  all  men  were  in- 
terested in  the  preservation  of  law,  so  all  men 
might  exert  the  privilege  of  the  plaintiff  and 
accuser.  As  society  grew  more  complicated, 
the  door  was  thus  opened  to  every  species  of 
vexatious  charge  and  frivolous  litigation.  The 
common  informer  became  a  most  harassing 
and  powerful  personage,  and  made  one  of  a 
fruitful  and  crowded  profession:  and  in  the 
very  capital  of  liberty  there  existed  the  worst 
species  of  espionage.  But  justice  was  not 
thereby  facilitated.  The  informer  was  regarded 
with  universal  hatred  and  contempt;  and  it  is 
easy  to  perceive,  from  the  writings  of  the 
great  comic  poet,  that  the  sympathies  of  the 
Atlienian  audience  were,  as  those  of  the  Eng- 
lish public  at  this  day,  enlisted  against  the 
man  who  brought  the  inquisition  of  the  law  to 
the  hearth  of  his  neighbour. 

"Solon  committed  a  yet  more  fatal  and  in- 
curable error  when  he  carried  the^emocralic 
principle  into  judicial  tribunals.  lie  evidently 
considered  that  the  very  strength  and  life  of 
his  constitution  rested  in  the  Helia^a — a  court 
the  numbers  and  nature  of  which  have  been 
already  described.     Perhaps,  at  a  time  when 

*  llbw  iint^n  hai  tbia  prophecy  been  accomplished  1 
8«pt.  5,  1841. 


the  old  olisarcliy  was  yet  so  formidable, 
might  have  been  diflicult  to  secure  justice 
the  poorer  classes,  while  the  judges  were  ;■ 
lected  from  the  wealthier.  But  justice  to  . 
classes  became  a  yet  more  capricious  unci 
tainty  when  a  court  of  law  resembled  a  pop. 
lar  hustings. 

"If  we  intrust  a  wide  political  suffrage 
the  people,  the  people  at  least  hold  no  trust  f 
others  than  themselves  and  their  posterity 
they  are  not  responsible  to  the  public,  for  lb 
are  the  public.    But  in  law,  where  there  are  tv 
parties  concerned,  the  plaintiff  and  defenda, 
the  judge  should  not  only  be  incorruptible,  b: 
strictly  responsible.     In  Athens  the  people  !■ 
came  the  judge ;  and,  in  offences  punishable  ■ 
fine,  were  the  very  party  interested  in  procuri- 
condemnation ;  thenumbersof  the  jury  preveiv/ 
ed  all  responsibility,  excused  all  abuses,  a 
made  them  susceptible  of  the  same  shamele 
excesses  that  characterize  self-elected  corpoi. 
tions — from   which  appeal  is  idle,  and   ov 
which  public   opinion   exercises   no   conu 
These  numerous,  ignorant,  and  passionate  ; 
semblies,  were  liable  at  all  times  to  the  he? 
of  party,  to   the  eloquence   of  individuals, 
to  the  whims,  and  caprices,  the  prejudices,  t^ 
impatience,  and  the  turbulence,  which   mi; 
ever  be  the  characteristics  of  a  multitude  ora' 
addressed.    It  was  evident  also  that  from  si 
vice  in  such  a  court,  the  wealthy,  the  cmine 
and    the    learned,   M'ilh    other   occupation 
amusement,  would  soon  seek  to  absent  the 
selves.     And  the  final  blow  to   the   integr. 
and  respectability  of  the   popular  judicatui 
was  given  at  a  later  period  by  Pericles,  wh. 
he  instituted  a  salary,  just  suliicient  to  ten 
the  poor  and  to  be  disdained  by  the  afflue 
to  every  dicast  or  juryman  in  the  ten  ordina 
courts.     Legal  science  became  not   the   pi 
fessiou  of  the  erudite   and  the  laborious  fe 
but  the  livelihood  of  the  ignorant  and  idle  m' 
titude.      The    canvassing — the   cajoling — t 
bribery — that    resulted    from   this,   the   m( 
vicious,  institution  of  the  Athenian  democra 
— are  but  too  evident  and  melancholy  toke 
of  the  imperfection  of  human  wisdom.    Li 
properly,  and  character,  were  at  the  hazard 
a   popular  election.    These  evils  must  ha 
been  long^  in  progressive  operation  ;  but  p' 
haps  they  were  scarcely  visible  till  the  fa 
innovation   of  Pericles,  and  the  "flagrant  ( 
cesses  that  ensued  allowed  the  people  the 
selves  to  listen  to  the  branding  and   lerril 
satire  upon  the  popular  judicature,  which 
still  preserved  to  us  in  the  comedy  of  Aris' 
phanes. 

"At  the  same  time,  certain  critics  and  h 
torians  have  widelj'  and  grossly  erred  in  si 
posing  that  these  courts  of  '  the  soverei 
multitude'  were  partial  to  the  poor,  and  host 
to  the  rich.  All  testimony  proves  that  the  I; 
was  lamentably  the  reverse,  'i'he  defendr 
was  accustomed  to  engage  the  persons  of  ra 
or  influence  whom  he  might  number  as  1 
friends,  to  appear  in  court  on  his  behalf.  A 
pro|)crty  was  employed  to  procure  at  the  1 
of  justice  the  suffrages  it  could  command  a 
political  election.  The  greatest  vice  of  t 
democratic  Helin?a  was,  that  by  a  fine  i 
wealthy  could  purchase   pardon — by  inter 


BILW  I:KS   ATHENS. 


3^6 


tfce  rreat  could  soAcn  law.     But  the  r! 
w«TC  neaiiist  the  poor  man.     To  him  li; 
was  indeed  cheap,  but  justice  dear.     He  h 
much  the  same  inequality  to  strusjulc  agaiu 
in  a  suit  with  a  powerful  antagonist,  that  he 
would  have  had  in  contesting  with  him  for  an 
office  in  the  .idministration.     In  all  trials  rest- 
ing on  the  voice  of  popular  assomMir?,  it  ever 
has  l)een  and  ever  will  be  found,  that,  iirJtrif 
paribtis,lhc  aristocrat  will  defeat  Ihc  plebeian." 
These  observations  are  eiiually  just  and  lu- 
minous;  and  the  concluding  one  in  particular, 
35  to  til"  !"i!''ncy  of  a  corrupt  or  corruptible 
judicial  iniiintude  to  decnle  in  favour  of  the 
rich  aristocrat  in  preference  to  the  poor  ple- 
beian, in  an  author  of  .Mr.  Bulwer's  prepos- 
sessions, highly  creditable.    The  only  surpris- 
in  •    '  -;  how  an  author,  who  could  see  so 

c!  1  express  so  well,  the  total  incapa- 

city of  a  multitude  to  exercise  the  functions 
of  a  judge,  should  not  have  perceived,  that,  for 
the  same  reason,  they  are  disqualified  from 
taking  an  active  part  to  any  good  or  useful 
purpose  ill  the  formation  of  laws  or  practical 
•dminisiraiion  of  government,  except  by  pre- 
sen-ing  a  vigilant  eye  on  the  conduct  of  others. 
In  fact,  the  temptations  to  the  poor  to  swerve 
from  the  path  of  rectitude,  or  conscience,  in 
the  case  of  government  appointments  or  mca- 
s^re-^.  ar'-  just  as  much  the  stronger  than  in 
the  jiiilL'mcnt  of  individuals,  as  the  subjects 
requiring  investigation  are  more  intricate  or 
didicult,  the  objects  of  contention  more  import- 
ant and  i;littering,  and  the  wealth  which  will 
be  pxp'-tiled  in  corruption  more  abundant. 
And  III-  r  •  in  truth  lies  the  eternal  objection  to 
dem"<  ri:  ''  institutions,  that,  by  withdrawing 
the  pr-i.pl'-  from  their  right  province — that  of 
the  ceii-.p-  rir  controllers  of  government — and 
r*"  '  ■    :>  powers  (>f  actual 

a^i  .  of  ali'airs,  they  nc- 

C-  t  I  .Mich  ad<'liise  of  llat- 

t»-i  .  the  eloqiKMit  or  wealthy 

c.i  1  not  merely  unfits  them 

f,,.  '   '      ' 'if any  pub- 

I:  ■  I  d<'priiv«'» 


I  thoii  h 
r..ll.-.l 


■]• 


(  h- 


lutely  o  .  .  ,...  . 

bly  with  CT  !  u,  that  • 

wholly  cscajxu  m--  Miock.     Tin- 
mity  did  not  cease  suddenly  as 
concussions   were    r 
men  and  treasure  :  < 
no  less  than  twenty  thousanil  ; 
in  the  shock.  Thusdepopn'  ■■ 
and  distressed,  the  cneiii, 
of  Sparta  nursed  within  hi    In.     i.i, 
to   seize    the    moment  to   execute    tii 
geance.and  con-.uininate  her  destnirti  ,ii 
der  Pausanias,  we  have  seen  before,  '" 
Helots  were  already  ripe  for  revolt.    T  i 

of  that  fierce  conspirator  checked,  but  >\  a  nut 
crush,  their  designs   of  freedom.     Now  was 
the    moment,   when    Sparta    lay    in    ruins — 
now  was  the  moment  to  realize  their  dreams. 
From  field  to  field,  from  village  to  village,  the 
news  of  the  earthquake  became  the  watchword 
of  revolt.     Up  rose  the   Helots — thcv  armed 
themsel'.  I'ouredon — a' 

ing  and  :  -  multiiiide  !•  , 

by  the  wrath  ol  man,  all  whom  that  of  nature 
had  yet  spared.    The  earthquake  that  levelled 
Sparta,  rent  her  chains;   nor  did  the  shock 
create  one  chasm  so  dark  and  wide  as  that  be- 
tween the  master  and  the  slave. 

"  It  is  one  of  the  sublimest  and  ir.  I 

spectacles  in  history — thai  city  in  ru... 
earth  still  trembling — the  grim  and  dauntless 
soldiery  collected  amidst  piles  of  d  .    '  ! 

ruin ;  and  in  such  a  time,  ami  •sii^h 
the  multitude  sensible,  not  i  '  •         of 

wrong,  and  rising,  not  to  su 
venge: — all  that  should  have  di>. 
bier  enmity,  giving  fire  to  theirs ; 
calamity  their  blessing — dismavii 
was  as  if  the  C«r<*at  Mother  ) 
iiioiH'd    her   children    to    vin 
abused,   the   all-inalienable    1  1 

from  her;  and  il;-    "■   ■■(  the  ........  ■> 

was  but  the  ann  ut  of  an  ar;  t 

union   bttwcLU  Nature   and  the   i>,>- 


or  of  the  enrthqu.iKe,  n 


vers  il  corruption  ol  opinion 

ai'T-  ■  ■     •   ■  ■  ''•  -  test   to  i>"' 
«'i  men  I" 

Ci  "       " 

of 

\Sr     I. 
BuU.-[    I; 

cipl«"t  1. 1   v  ,  i-h  we  diflrr.     I*el  o»  i 

jn   • 

r! 

c 

ihr  IT  I  nrm.*",  i 

rr-  ' 

I' 

■  l>  i 

Hrrri,  ..!    - 

".\n  ... 
ence,  IT' 
Ihr  : 

hull/  the  city,  and  on  which  the  wotuea  of  ,  tucl  lu   rcbcliuni,  audt  *«m^»(  i<^-u«:U  v,M  lUo 


inr 
tn 


In  many 


I' 
•r  and  ' 


236 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


Messenians,  kindred  to  them  by  blood  and  an- 
cient remiiuscenccs  of  heroic  strntjgles,  they 
seized  that  same  Ilhomo  which  tlieir  hereditary 
Aristodeiniis  had  before  occupied  with  unfor- 
gottcn  valour.  This  they  fortified ;  and  occu- 
pying also  the  neighbouring  lands,  declared 
open  war  upon  their  lords.  As  the  Messe- 
nians were  the  more  worthy  enemy,  so  the 
general  insurrection  is  known  by  the  name  of 
the  Third  Messenian  War." 

The  incident  here  narrated  of  the  King  of 
Sparta,  amidst  the  yawning  of  the  earthquake 
and  the  ruin  of  his  ca])ital,  sounding  the  trum- 
pets to  arms,  and  the  Lacedaemonians  assem- 
bling in  disciplined  array  around  him,  is  one 
of  the  sublimest  recorded  in  history.  The 
pencil  of  Martin  would  there  find  a  fit  subject 
ibr  its  noblest  eflbrts.  We  need  not  wonder 
that  a  people,  capable  of  such  conduct  in  such 
a  moment,  and  trained  by  discipline  and  habit 
to  such  docility  in  danger,  should  acquire  and 
maintain  supreme  dominion  in  Greece. 

The  next  passage  with  which  we  shall  gra- 
tify our  readers,  is  an  eloquent  eulogium  on  a 
marvellous  topic — the  unrivalled  grace  and 
beauty  of  the  Athenian  edifices,  erected  in  the 
time  of  Pericles. 

"Then  rapidly  progressed  those  glorious  fa- 
brics which  seemed,  as  Plutarch  gracefully 
expresses  it,  endowed  with  the  bloom  of  a 
perennial  youth.  Still  the  houses  of  private 
citizens  remained  simple  and  unadorned;  still 
were  the  streets  narrow  and  irregular;  and 
even  centuries  afterwards,  a  stranger  entering 
Athens  would  not  at  first  have  recognised  the 
claims  of  the  mistress  of  Grecian  art.  But  to 
the  homeliness  of  her  common  thoroughfares 
and  private  mansions,  the  magnificence  of  her 
public  edifices  now  made  a  dazzling  contrast. 
The  Acropolis  that  towered  above  the  homes 
and  thoroughfares  of  men — a  spot  too  sacred 
for  human  habitation — became,  to  use  a  pro- 
verbial phrase,  'a  city  of  the  gods.'  The  citi- 
zen was  everywhere  to  be  reminded  of  the 
majesty  of  the  State — his  patriotism  was  to 
be  increased  by  the  pride  in  her  beauty — his 
taste  to  be  elevated  by  the  spectacle  of  her 
splendoar.  Thus  flocked  to  Athens  all  \vho 
throughout  Greece  were  eminent  in  art.  Sculp- 
tors ani  architects  vied  with  each  other  in 
adorniii  g  the  young  Empress  of  the  Seas  ;  then 
rose  the  masterpieces  of  Phidias,  of  Callicrates, 
of  Mencsicles,  which,  even  either  in  their 
broken  remains,  or  in  the  feeble  copies  of  imi- 
tators less  inspired,  still  command  so  intense 
a  wonder,  and  furnish  models  so  immortal. 
And  if,  so  to  speak,  their  bones  and  relics  ex- 
cite our  awe  and  envy,  as  testifying  of  a  love- 
lier and  grainier  race,  which  the  deluge  of  time 
has  sw(  pt  away,  what,  in  that  day,  must  have 
been  their  brilliant  effect — unmutilated  in  their 
fair  proportions — fresh  in  all  tlieir  lineaments 
and  hues?  P\)r  their  beauty  was  not  limited 
toth*  symmetry  of  arch  and  eohinin,  nor  their 
materials  confined  to  the  marbles  of  Pcntelli- 
cus  and  I'aros.  Even  the  exterior  of  the 
temples  glowed  M'ith  the  richest  harmony  of 
colours,  and  was  deroratod  with  the  purest 
goiil;  an  atmosphere  peculiarl}''  favourable 
both  to  the  display  and  the  preservation  of  art, 
permitted  to  external  pediments  aiid  friezes  all 


the  minuteness  of  ornament — all  the  brillianc 

of  colours; — such  as  in  the  interior  of  Italia 

churches  may  yet  be  seen — vitiated,  in  the  las 

by  a  gaudy  and  barbarous  taste.     Nor  did  th 

Athenians  spare  any  cost  upon  the  works  th; 

were,  like  the  tombs  and  tripods  of  their  ht, 

roes,  to  be  the  monuments  of  a  nation  to  dii, 

tant  ages,  and  to  transmit  the  most  irrefragabl 

proof  'that  the  power  of  ancient  Greece  W£ 

not  an  idle  legend.'     The  whole   democrac 

were  animated  with  the  passion  of  Pericles 

and  when  Phidias  recommended  marble  as 

cheaper  material  than  ivory  for  the  great  st; 

tue  of  Minerva,  it  was  for  that  reason   th; 

ivory  was  preferred  by  the  unanimous  voice  c 

the  assembly.     Thus,  whether  it  were  extrav. 

gance  or  magnificence,  the  blame  in  one  cas 

the  admiration  in  another,  rests  not  more  wil' 

the  minister  than  the  populace.     It  was,  i: 

deed,  the  great  characteristic  of  those  work 

that  they  were  entirely  the  creations  of  tl 

people :  without  the  people,  Pericles  could  ni 

have  built  a  temple,  or  engaged   a  sculpto': 

The  miracles  of  that  day  resulted  from  tl' 

enthusiasm  of  a  population  yet  young — full  ( 

the  first  ardour  for  the  beautiful — dcdicatii; 

to  the  state,  as  to  a  mistress,  the  trophies  h 

nourably   won,  or   the   treasures   injurious 

extorted — and  uniting  the  resources  of  a  D: 

tion  with  the  energy  of  an  individual,  becan:: 

the  toil,  the  cost,  were   borne  by  those  wl 

succeeded  to  the  enjoyment  and  arrogated  tl 

glory."  : 

This  is  eloquently  said:  but  m  searchir! 

for  the  causes  of  the  Athenian  supremacy  : 

taste  and  art,  especially  sculpture  and  archite 

ture,  we  suspect  the  historic  observer  mu 

look  for  higher  and  more  spiritual  causes  thi 

the  mere  energy  and  feverish  excitement  ( 

democratic  institutions.     For,  admitting  th 

energy  and  universal  exertion    are  in  eve: 

age  the  characteristic  of  republican  states,  ho 

did  it  happen  that,  in  Athens  alone,  it  took  : 

early  and  decidedly  the  direction  of  taste  ai 

art?     That  is  the  point  which  constitutes  tl 

marvel,  as  well  as  the  extraordinary  perfectii 

which  it  at  once  acquired.     Many  other  natioi 

in  ancient  and  modern  times  have  been  r 

publican,— Corinth,   Tyre,    Carthage,    Siiln 

Sardis,  Syracuse,  Marseilles,  Holland,  Swii 

land,  America, — but  where  shall  we  find  oi 

which  produced  the  Parthenon  or  the  Apol 

Belvidere,  the  Tragedies  of  ^Eschylus  or  tl 

wisdom  of  Socrates,  the  thought  of  Thucydidi 

or  the  visions  of  Plato  ]  How  has  it  happenc 

that  those  democratic  institutions,  which 

modern  times   are  found  to  be  generally  a 

sociated  only  with  vulgar  manners,  urban  di 

cord,  or  commercial  desires,  should  there  ha\ 

elevated  the  nation  in  a  few  years  to  the  higl 

est  pinnacle  of  intellectual  glory — that,  insteji 

of  Dutch  ponderosity,  or  Swiss  slowness,  ( 

American  ambition,  or  Florentine  discord,! 

publicaiiism  on  the  shores  of  Attica  produce 

the  fire  of  Demosthenes,  the  grace  of  Euripide 

the  narrative  ofXenophon,the  taste  of  Phidiasj 

After  the  most  attentive  consideration,  w6  fin 

it  impossible  to  explain  this  marveT  of  marve 

by  the  agency  merely  of  human  causes;  ar 

are  constrained  to  ascribe  the  placing  of  tl 

eye  of  Greece  on  the  shores  of  Attica  to  tl 


BILWHRS  ATIIKNS. 


237 


■ame  invisible  hand  wlucli  has  fixcil  the  won- 
'  ders  of  vision  in  the  huniau  I'crchcail.  There 
[  are  certain  starts  in  human  progress,  and  more 
especially  in  the  advance  of  art,  which  it  is 
utterly  hopeless  to  refer  to  any  other  cause  but 
I  the  imnndiate  dcsii^n  and  acmcy  of  the  Al- 
!  mightv.  Democratic  institutions  all'ord  no  sort 

I  of  explanation  of  them  :  we  sec  no  Parlhcnons, 
nor  fckiphucles,  nor  I'latos  in  embryo,  either  in 
America  since  its  independence,  or  France 
[  durint;  the  Revolution,  nor  England  since  the 
I  passing  of  the  Reform  Bill.  When  we  reflect 
that  taste,  in  Athens,  in  thirty  years  after  the 
Persian  invasion,  had  risen  up  from  the  in- 
fantine rudeness  of  the  -Egina  Marbles  to  the 
faultless  peristyle  and  matchless  sculpture  of 
the  Parthenon;  that  in  modern  Italy, the  art  of 
paintincr  rose  in  the  lifetime  of  a  single  in- 
dividual, who  died  at  the  a?e  of  thirtj--eight. 
from  the  slifl'  outline  and  hard  colouring  of 
Pictro  Perru^ino  to  the  exquisite  grace  of 
Raphael:  and  that  it  was  during  an  age  when 
the  barons  to  the  north  of  the  Alps  could  nei- 
ther read  nor  write,  and  when  rushes  were 
ttrewed  on  the  floors  instead  of  carpets,  that 
the  unrivalled  sublimity  of  Gothic  Cathedrals 
was  conceived,  and  the  hitherto  unequalled 
skill  of  their  stnicture  attained :  we  are  con- 
strained to  admit  that  a  greater  power  than 
that  of  man  superintends  human  atTairs,  and 
Aat,  from  the  rudest  and  most  unpromising 
materials.  Providence  can,  at  the  appointed 
season,  bring  forth  the  greatest  and  most  ex- 
alted efforts  of  human  intellect. 

As  a  favourable  specimen  of  our  author's 
powers  of  military  description,  no  unimport- 
ant quality  in  an  historian,  we  shall  gratify  our 
readers  by  his  account  of  the  battle  of  Platca; 
the  most  vital  conflict  to  the  fortunes  of  the 
spccics  which  occurred  in  all  antiquity,  and 
which  we  have  never  elsewhere  nad  in  so 
graphic  and  animat<'d  a  firm — 

"  .\s  the  troops  of  .Mardonius  advanced,  the 

rest  of  the  Persian  armament,  deeming  the 

'       •     •'•';■  •    '  ;r-ue,  raisrd 

1  tumultu- 

■  r. 

Persian   line, 

and  if  not  of  a  timorous,  at  IcnsI  of  an  irre- 

s< '■■•.-  ■- '     •  •  <  lime  in  ^o- ••••••■  •>■■• 

A  But  ^ 

u  • 

■I 

e,  and  cut  oil  from 


>'>msclvrs  ihas 

11 


bucklers,  waiir.l  with  a  stern  patifiicc  me 
time  of  thi'ir  leader  and  of  Heaven.  'I'li-  n  I'U 
C'allicrates,  the  stateliest  and  strongest  soldier 
in  the  whole  army,  lamcDl.^gt  not  death,  but 
that  his  sword  was  as  yel  undrawn  against 
the  invader. 

"And  still  sacrifice  after  inerifir*  s«<«»m»*d  to 
forbid   llio    battle,  when    I' 

eyes    that  sireained  with  ,  ,    •• 

of  Juno,  that  stood  hard  by,  su;  the 

tutelary  goddess  of  Cithitron,  thai  u   m,.   i.iics 
forbade  the  Greeks  to  conquer,  they  mieht  al 
least  fall   like  warriors.    And  while 
this   prayer,    the    tokens    waited    fur 
suddenly  visible  in  the  victims,  and  the  augurs 
announced  the  promise  of  coming  victory. 

"Therewith,  the  order  of  battle  rang  instant- 
ly through  the  anny,  and,  to  u^c  the  t 
comparison  of  Plutarch,  the  iSp.nrian 
suddenly  stood  forth  in  its  strength,  like  Mune 
fierce  animals-erecting  its  bristles  and  pre- 
paring its  vengeance  for  the  foe.  The  ground 
broken  in  many  steep  and'precipitoi:  "  '  — . 
and  intersected  by  the  .\sopus,  wlinsc  i 
stream  winds  over  a  broad  and  ru.-.liy 
unfavourable  to  the  movements  of  , 
and  the  Persian  foot  advanced  therefore  on 
the  Greeks. 

"Drawn  up  in  their  massive  phalanx,  the 
Lacedaemonians  presented  an  aliin'^t  impene- 
trable bod}' — sweeping  slowly  on,  compact  and 
serried — while  the  hot  and  undisciplined  va- 
lour of  the  Persians,  more  fortunate  in  the 
skirmish  than  the  battle,  broke  itself  in  a 
thousand  waves  upon  that  moving  rock.  Pour- 
ing on  in  small  numbers  at  a  time,  they  fell 
fast  round  the  progress  of  the  (Jreeks — their 
armour  slight  against  the  strong  pikes  of 
•Sparta — their  courage  without  skill — their 
numbers  without  discipline;  '  "  '  "  '^l 
irallanily,  even  when  on  tli' 
the  pikes  with  thfir  naki-d  hai 
woiidirful  agility  which  still  <  i- 

Oriental  swordsmen,  springing  to  their   feet, 

:  ■   '  - ■ '■ -iranns,  when -'•     •  -r- 

■  wav  their eu"'  '. 

graj- 

"  I  A 

r  n   by  his  white 

1  ,.  .'i,..  V  il.  ,,r    1  •;..., 

vcr 


I  fame,  ami.'^vrii  m  laliinclhi: 

r.it.ti  ^         \  r  Iiii-ili    ilii-    lib  1 


ni 
th 

hi::. 

Motrin 

rr- 

r 
r 

fi.  •• 

lans  •  icir  cha: 

di<icipliii  —  M'l    o""    • 

ranks   until   thr    . 

mor*" 

•ome 

ret,  seeking  protection  only  beneath  ihcir  broad  i 


iind 


by  their  lonR  rolx*.-!.  t 

-   rs,  the  J' 'J 

r  rnmp.  whu-h   waa 


II 
they  best  n: 
■•■'■I    with    ..    • 
•ins,  who  wn-^ 


AUlt 


';      .while,  the    Athenia'  ^1    "ht 

Tictory  on  the  plains  ornr  lbs  Uic<l.i  of  Mar 


A 


238 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


donius — finding  their  most  resolute  enemy  in 
the  Thebans — (ihrcc  hundred  of  whose  princi- 
pal warriors  fell  in  the  field) — and  now  joinrd 
the  Spartans  at  the  Persian  camp.  The  Athe- 
nians are  said  to  have  been  better  skilled  in 
the  art  of  siege  than  the  Spartans;  yet  at  that 
time  their  experience  could  scarcely  have  been 
greater.  Tlic  Athenians  were  at  all  limes, 
however,  of  a  more  impetuous  temper;  and 
the  men  who  had  '  run  to  the  charge'  at  Mar- 
athon, were  not  to  be  baffled  by  the  desperate 
remnant  of  their  ancient  foe.  They  scaled  the 
walls — ihey  cfTectcd  a  breach  through  which 
the  Tegeans  were  the  first  to  rush — the  Greeks 
poured  fast  ai^d  fierce  into  the  camp.  Appalled, 
dismayed,  stupified,  by  the  suddenness  and 
greatness  of  their  loss,  the  Persians  no  longer 
sustained  their  fame — ihey  dispersed  them- 
selves in  all  directions,  falling,  as  they  fled, 
with  a  prodigious  slaughter,  so  that  out  of  that 
mighty  armament  scarce  three  thousand  eflfect- 
ed  an  escape."      ^ 

Our  limits  wall  admit  of  only  one  extract 
more,  but  it  is  on  a  difl^erent  subject,  and  ex- 
hibits Mr.  Bulwer's  powers  of  criticism  in  the 
fields  of  poetry  and  romance,  with  which  he 
has  long  been  familiar: — 

"  Summoning  before  us  the  eternal  character 
of  the  Athenian  drama,  the  vast  audience,  the 
unroofed  and  enormous  theatre,  the  actors 
themselves  enlarged  by  art  above  the  ordinary 
proportions  of  men,  the  solemn  and  sacred 
subjects  from  which  its  form  and  spirit  were 
derived,  we  turn  to  ^schylus,  and  behold  at 
once  the  fitting  creator  of  its  grand  and  ideal 
personifications.  I  have  said  that  Homer  was 
his  original ;  but  a  more  intellectual  age  than 
that  of  the  Grecian  epic  had  arrived,  and  with 
.^schylus,  philosophy  passed  into  poetry. 
The  dark  doctrine  of  Fatality  imparted  its 
stern  and  awful  interest  to  the  narration  of 
events — men  were  delineated,  not  as  mere  self- 
acting  and  self-willed  mortals,  but  as  the  agents 
of  a  destiny  inevitable  and  unseen — the  gods 
themselves  are  no  longer  the  gods  of  Homer, 
entering  into  the  sphere  of  human  action  for 
pettj'  motives,  and  for  individual  purposes — 
drawing  their  grandeur,  not  from  the  part  they 
perform,  but  from  the  descriptions  of  the  poet; 
— they  appear  now  as  the  oracles  or  the  agents 
of  fate — they  arc  visitors  from  another  world, 
terril)le  and  ominous  from  the  warnings  which 
they  conve}'.  Homer  is  the  creator  of  the  ma- 
terial poetr}',  -Eschylus  of  the  intellectual. 
The  corporeal  and  animal  sufferings  of  the 
Titan  in  the  epic  hell  become  exalted  by  tragedy 
into  the  portrait  of  moral  fortitude  defying 
physical  anguish.  The  Promelhcus  of  .^Eschy- 
las  is  the  spirit  of  a  god  disdainfully  subjected 
to  the  misfortunes  of  a  man.  In  reading  this 
wonderful  performance,  which  in  pure  and 
sustained  sublimity  is  perhaps  unrivalled  in 
the  literature  of  the  world,  we  lose  sight 
entirely  of  the  cheerful  Hellenic  worship;  and 
yet  it  is  in  vain  that  the  learned  attempt  to 
trace  its  vague  and  mysterious  metaphysics  to 
any  old  symbolical  religion  of  the  east.  More 
probably,  whatever  theological  system  it 
'hadows  forth,  was  rather  the  gigantic  con- 
repiion  of  the  poet  himself,  than  the  imperfect 
ipvival  of  any  forgotten  creed,  or  the  poetical 


disguise  of  any  existent  philosophy.  Ho 
ever  this  be,  it  would  certainly  seem,  that 
this  majestic  picture  of  the  dauntless  ener 
of  Jupiter,  punished  only  for  his  benefits 
man,  and  attracting  all  our  sympathies  by  1 
courage  and  his  benevolence,  is  convey! 
something  of  disbelief  or  defiance  of  the  ere 
of  the  populace — a  suspicion  from  whi 
^schylus  was  not  free  in  the  judgment  of  1, 
contemporaries,  and  which  is  b3'no  means  . 
consonant  with  the  doctrines  of  Pythagoras. 
Mr.  Buhver  justifies  this  warm  e^dlogium  ' 
some  beautiful  translations.  We  select  1; 
animated  version  of  the  exquisite  passage  p 
well  known  to  scholars,  where  Clytemnestra  >■ 
scribes  to  the  chorus  the  progress  of  the  wat(. 
fires  which  announced  to  expecting  Greece  t! 
fall  of  Troy — a  passage  perhaps  unrivalledi 
the  classical  authors  in  picturesque  and  vi'l 
images,  and  which  approaches  more  neai, 
though  it  has  surpassed  in  sublimity.  Sir  W. 
ter  Scott's  description  of  the  bale-fires  wh  i 
announced  to  the  Lothians  a  warden  inroad" 
the  English  forces  : — 

"  A  gleam — a  gleam— from  Ida's  height, 

By  the  Fire-god  sent,  it  came  ; — 
Froin  watch  to  watch  it  leapt  that  light, 

As  a  rider  rode  the  Flame  ! 
It  shot  throuiih  the  startled  sky. 

And  the  torch  of  that  blazing  glory 
Old  Leninos  caught  on  high, 

On  its  holy  promontory. 
And  sent  it  on,  the  jocund  sisn. 
To  Athos,  Mount  of  Jove  divine. 

Wildly  the  while,  it  rose  from  the  isle, 
So  that  the  niinht  of  the  journeying  light 

Skimmed  over  the  back  of  the  gleaming  brine 
Farther  and  faster  speeds  it  on. 

Till  the  watch  that  keep  Macistus  steep- 
See  it  burst  like  a  blazing  sun ! 
Doth  Macistus  sleep 
On  his  tower-clad  steep  1 
No  :  rapid  and  red  doth  the  wild  fire  sweep; 

It  flashes  afar,  on  the  wayward  stream 

Of  the  wild  Euripus,  the  rushing  beam  t 
It  rouses  the  light  on  Messapion's  heii'lit. 
And  they  feed  its  breath  with  the  withered  heat 
But  it  may  not  stay  ! 
And  away — away — 
It  bounds  in  its  freshening  might. 

Silent  and  soon. 

Like  a  broadened  moon. 

It  passes  in  sheen,  Asopus  green, 
And  bursts  on  Cithtcron  gray  : 

The  warder  wakes  to  the  signal-ravf. 

And  it  swoops  from  the  hill  with  a  broader  bin 
On — on  the  liery  glory  rode — 
Thy  lonely  lake,  Gorgopis,  glowed — 
To  Megara's  mount  it  came  ; 
They  feed  it  again. 
And  it  streams  amain — 

A  giant  beard  of  llame  ! 
The  headland  cliffs  that  darkly  down 
O'er  the  Sarnnic  waters  frown, 
Are  pass'd  with  the  swift  one's  lurid  stride, 
And  the  huge  rock  glares  on  the  glaring  tide, 
With  might icr  march  and  fiercer  power 
It  gained  Arachne's  ncighbonring  tower — 
Thence  on  our  Argivc  roof  its  rest  it  won, 
Of  Ida's  lire  the  Ions-descended  .'*on ! 

Bright  harbinger  of  glory  and  of  joy ! 
So  first  and  last  with  equal  honour  crown'd, 
In  sol('mn  feasts  the  race-torch  circles  round  — 
And  these  my  heralds  :— this  my  Sign  ok  1'Eaci 
Lo  !  while  we  breathe,  the  victor  lords  of  Greec< 

Stalk,  ill  stern  tumult,  through  the  halls  of  Trt' 

We  have  noTV  discharged  the  pleasing  ij 
of  quoting  some  of  the  gems,  and  pointinir 
some  of  the  merits  of  th  s  remarkable  ^'. 
It  remains  with  equal  impartiality,  and  in  " 
unfriendly  spirit,  to  glance  at  some  of  its  fai« 
— faults  which,  we  fear,  will  permanently  p 
vent  it  from  taking  the  place  to  which  it  is  i 


BLLNVi:iis  ATin:\s. 


titled,  from  its  brilliancy  ami  research,  in  the 
I  archives  of  lit<Tatiire. 

(      The   first   of  ilicsc  fl>f.rts    is   tl;  mt 

I  effort  which  i>  made  to  jiixtify  thi'  pi  j:s, 

and  extenuate  the  faults,  and  Ina^nlly  the 
I  merits  of  democratic  societies ;  and  the  e(|ually 
(  uniform  attempt  to  underrate  the  value  of 
anstorratic  institutions,  and  blacken  the  pro- 
ceedings of  aristocratic  states.  This,  as 
Fouche  would  say,  is  worse  than  an  offence — 
it  is  a  fault.  Its  unfairness  and  absurdity  is 
90  obvious,  that  it  neutralizes  and  obliterates 
the  elTiTt  wliiih  otherwise  ini£;ht  be  produced 
by  the  bri  liaiit  picture  which  Mr.  Buhver's 
:ranscrih!cnt  subject,  as  well  as  his  own  ro- 
markabli'  powers  of  narrative  and  description, 
afford.  By  the  common'calculation  of  chances, 
it  is  impossible  to  suppose  that  the  aristocra- 
cies are  always  in  the  wron^,  and  the  demo- 
cracies always  in  the  riijht;  that  the  former 
are  for  ever  actuated  by  selfish,  corrupt,  and 
di-screditable  motives,  and  the  latter  everlast- 
ingly intlii'Mired  by  generous,  ennobling,  and 
upright  foiliir^s.  We  may  predicate  with  per- 
fect certainty  of  any  author,  be  he  aristocratic, 
monarchical,  or  republican,  who  indulges  in 
such  a  strain  of  thoushl  and  expression,  ex- 
travaijant  eulog;iums  from  his  own  party  in 
the  outset,  and  possibly  undeserved  but  certain 
neglect  from  posterity  in  the  end.  Mankind, 
in  f^iiture  times,  when  present  objects  and  party 
excitement  have  ceased,  will  never  read — or, 
at  least,  never  attach  faith  to — any  works 
which  place  all  the  praise  on  the  one  side  and 
all  thf  Mame  to  the  other  of  any  of  the  child- 
ren of  .Atiam.  Rely  upon  it,  virtue  and  vice 
are  ver)' equally  divided  in  the  world  :  praise 
and  blame  require  to  be  very  equally  bestowed. 
Different  institutions  produce  a  widely  different 
:  society  and  the  progress  of  human 
•  It  i<!  n"l  b<>cause  the  one  makes 
ui:  ■  all  m'-n  bad ;  but  be- 

ta ;  ,  le  bad  or  selfish  qiiali- 

liet  of  one  class  to  exercise  an  unrestrained 


will,  to 


than  ail  iinj'r< >pr: 
playing  siirh  <-,\ 
siibjecl,  Mr.  Hiilw.  1  , 
the  weight  of  th'-  .Mr 


nciitra- 

,  1  ,...i  . 


Bydi.* 
'■n  the 
'eel.i 
de- 
livered have  been  so  heavy  that  Ibcy  have 
been  felt.  Nothing  r  ■  '■  '  - 
than  this,  even  for  1 
which  he  sn                  \ 

attacking  an  .1  r 

inaccuracies  that  you  are  to  > 
lize  the  impression  he  hn^  ■ 
it  is  by  stating  facts,  and  1 

inconsistent  with  his  opiiunii  . 
"  ars  fsl  cclarr  nriciii,"    nowbeio   .;  « 

clearly  than  here:  Lingard  is  the  model  of  a 
skilful  controversialist,  whose  whole  work, 
sedulously  devoted  to  the  upholding  of  the 
Catholic  cause  through  the  v  '  '  '  ;  •.•  of 
Enc;land,  hardly  contains  a  sii  en^ 

venomed  passage  against  a  proi«  ori- 

an.     Mr.  Bulwer  would  be  much  !  r  of 

the  habits  of  the  bar,  before  he  ventured  into 
the  arena  of  political  conflict.  It  is  not  by  his 
waspish  notes  that  the  vast  influence  of  Mit- 
ford's  Greece  on  public  f 
ated:  their  only  effect  is  1 
of  his  attempted  and  otherwise  able  refutation. 
The  future  historian,  who  is  to  demolish  the 
influence  of  Colonel  Napier's  eloquent  and 
able,  but  prejudiced  and,  in  political  affairs, 
partial  history  of  the  Peninsular  war,  will 
hanlly  once  mention  his  name. 

The  last  and  by  far  the  most  scrioas  objec- 
tion  to  Mr.  Bulwer's  work   is  the  complete 
oblivion  which  it  evinces  of  a  superi 
Providence,  either   in   dealing  out    i  i 

retribution  to  public  actions,  wIkiIh-i  oy  na- 
tions or  individuals  in  this  world,  or  in  di  duc- 
inp  from  the  .agency  of  human  virtue  or  vice, 
and  the  shock  of  confl'  '  ■ 
means  of  progressive  im; 
not  say  that  Mr.  B' 
from  it.  From  the  1 
;is  well  as  many  exquisite  1 
■  -Is,  wc  should  infer  the  1 
vet  to  sec  his  irrcat  p< 


.     We   V 

n  in  hiii 

•icy.    This   is  I 


assions. 

the 

..».     We 

do 

r 

in 

his 

,.  .1 

wo 

in 

he 

as 

■■•  a 

su- 

ind 

It  . 


Th' 


111  of  the  water.    The  conviiNmns 


poIitir.ll   p.,'.v-rs  thm  ' 


the  lrnul>lc  lu 

......      I.. . 


nil    II      II      IS   I    ■ 

:..  r.  |r  I 

■i 

jf  those  u  Ii  .    lilt'T  1    in    p<  I 

ftion.     M ■•'•-'  ■ 

n  hM  .1 

nil  -  'Pl 

Circciao  commonwealiii.     Here,  too,  is  morvi  ni  ol  the  age;  and  wc  give  a  wwrd  iw  the  «im 


S40 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


As  an  example  of  the  defect  of  which  we 
complain,  and  to  avoid  the  suspicion  of  injns- 
lice  in  the  estimate  we  have  formed  of  the 
tendcnry  in  this  particular  of  his  writings,  we 
shall  pive  an  extract.  Perhaps  there  is  no 
event  in  the  history  of  the  world  which  has 
been  so  momentous  in  its  consequences,  so 
vital  in  its  eflects,  as  the  repulse  of  the  Per- 
sian invasion  of  Greece  by  Xerxes,  and  none 
in  which  the  superintending  agency  of  an 
overruling  Providence  was  so  clearly  evinced. 
Observe  the  reilections  which  Mr.  IJuhver  de- 
duces from  this  memorable  event. 

"  When  the  deluge  of  the  Persian  arms  rolled 
back  to  its  eastern  bed,  and  the  world  was  once 
more  comparatively  at  rest,  the  continent  of 
Greece  rose  visibly  and  majestically  above  the 
rest  of  the  civilized  earth.  Afar  in  the  Latian 
plains,  the  infant  state  of  Rome  was  silently 
and  obscurely  struggling  into  strength  against 
the  neighbouring  and  petty  states  in  which  the 
old  Etrurian  civilization  was  rapidly  passing 
to  deca}'.  The  genius  of  Gaul  and  Germany, 
yet  unredeemed  from  barbarism,  lay  scarce 
known,  save  where  colonized  by  Greeks,  in  the 
gloom  of  its  woods  and  wastes.  The  pride  of 
Carthage  had  been  broken  by  a  signal  defeat 
in  Sicily;  and  Gelo,  the  able  and  astute  tyrant 
of  Syracuse,  maintained,  in  a  Grecian  colon}-, 
the  splendour  of  the  Grecian  name. 

"The  ambition  of  Persia,  still  the  great  mo- 
narchy of  the  world,  was  permanently  checked 
and  crippled;  the  strength  of  generations  had 
been  wasted,  and  the  immense  extent  of  the 
rmpire  only  served  yet  more  to  sustain  the 
general  peace,  from  the  exhaustion  of  its 
forces.  The  defeat  of  Xerxes  paralyzed  the 
East. 

"  Thus,  Greece  was  left  secure,  and  at  liberty 
to  enjoy  the  tranquillity  it  had  acquired,  and 
to  direct  to  the  arts  of  peace  the  novel  and 
amazing  energies  which  had  been  prompted 
by  the  dangers,  and  exalted  by  the  victories, 
of  war. 

"The  Athenians,  now  returned  to  their  city, 
saw  before  them  the  arduous  task  of  rebuild- 
ing its  ruins,  and  restoring  its  wasted  lands. 
The  vicissitudes  of  the  war  had  produced  many 
silent  and  internal, as  well  as  exterior,  changes. 
Many  great  fortunes  had  been  broken  ;  and  the 
ancient  spirit  of  the  aristocracy  had  received 
no  inconsiderable  shock  in  the  power  of  new 
families  ;  the  fame  of  the  base-born  and  demo- 
cratic Themistocles — and  the  victories  which 
a  whole  people  had  ])articipated — broke  up 
much  of  the  prescriptive  and  venerable  sanc- 
tity attached  to  ancestral  names,  and  to  parti- 
cular families.  This  was  salutary  to  the  spirit 
of  enterprise  in  all  classes.  The  ambition  of 
the  great  was  excited  to  restore,  by  some  active 
means,  their  broken  fortunes  and  decaying  in- 
fluence— the  energies  of  the  humbler  ranks, 
already  aroused  by  their  new  importance,  were 
stimulated  to  maintain  and  to  increase  it.  It 
was  the  very  crisis  in  which  a  new  direction 
might  be  given  to  the  habits  and  the  character 
of  a  whole  people;  and  to  seize  all  the  advan- 
tages of  that  crisis.  Fate,  in  Themistocles,  had 
allotted  to  Athens,  a  man  whose  qualities  were 


not  only  pre-eminently  great  in  themselves,  tu 
peculiarly  adapted  to  the  circumstances  of  the 
time.  And,  as  I  have  elsewhere  remarked,  it 
is  indeed  the  nature  and  prerogative  of  free 
states,  to  concentrate  the  popular  will  into 
something  of  the  unity  of  despotism,  by  pro- 
ducing, one  after  another,  a  series  of  repre- 
sentatives of  the  wants  and  exigencies  of  The 
Hour — each  leading  his  generation,  but  only 
while  he  sympathizes  with  its  will ; — and  either 
bafiling  or  succeeded  by  his  rivals,  not  in  pro- 
portion as  he  excels  or  he  is  outshone  in  ge- 
nius, but  as  he  gives,  or  ceases  to  give,  to  the 
widest  range  of  the  legislative  power,  the  most 
concentrated  force  of  the  executive  ;  thus  unit-  ; 
ing  the  desires  of  the  greatest  number,  under 
the  administration  of  the  narrowest  possible 
control ; — the  constitution  popular — the  go-  i 
vernment  absolute  but  responsible." 

Now,  in  this  splendid  passage  is  to  be  seen 
a  luminous  specimen  of  the  view  taken  of  the 
most  memorable  events  in  history  by  the  libe- 
ral writers.  In  his  reflections  on  this  heart- 
stirring  event,  in  his  observations  on  the  ' 
glorious  defeat  of  the  arms  of  Eastern  despot- 
ism by  the  infant  efforts  of  European  freedom, 
there  is  nothing  said  of  the  incalculable  con- 
sequences dependent  on  the  struggle — nothing 
on  the  evident  protection  afforded  by  a  super- 
intending Providence  to  the  arms  of  an  incon- 
siderable Republic — nothing  on  the  marvellous 
adaptation  of  the  character  of  Themistocles  to  ' 
the  mighty  duty  with  Avhich  he  was  charged, 
that  of  rolling  back  from  the  cradle  of  civil-  ■ 
ization,  freedom  and  knowledge,  the  wave  of 
barbaric  conquests.  It  was  fate  which  raised  ■ 
him  up  !  Against  such  a  view  of  human  at  • 
fairs  we  enter  our  solemn  protest.  We  allow 
nothing  to  fate, unless  that  is  meant  as  another 
way  of  expressing  the  decrees  of  an  overml*  i 
ing,  all-seeing,  and  beneficent  intelligence. 
We  see  in  the  defeat  of  the  mighty  armament 
by  the  arms  of  a  small  city  on  the  Attic  shore 
— in  the  character  of  its  leaders — in  the  efforts 
which  it  made — in  the  triumphs  which  it 
achieved,  and  the  glories  which  it  won— the 
clearest  evidence  of  the  agency  of  a  superin- 
tending power,  which  elicited,  from  the  collision  ■ 
of  Asiatic  ambition  with  European  freedom, 
the  wonders  of  Grecian  civilization,  and  the 
marvels  of  Athenian  genius.  And  it  is  just 
because  we  are  fully  alive  to  the  important 
agency  of  the  democratic  element  in  this  me* 
morable  conflict;  because  we  see  clearly  what 
inestimable  blessings,  Avhcn  duly  restrained, it 
is  capable  of  bestowing  on  mankind  ;  because 
we  trace  in  its  energy  in  every  succeeding 
age  the  expansive  force  which  has  driven  the 
blessings  of  civilization  into  the  recesses  of 
the  earth,  that  we  are  the  determined  enemies 
of  those  democratic  concessions  which  entire- 
ly destroy  the  beneficent  agency  of  this  power- 
ful element,  which  permit  the  vital  heat  of 
society  to  burst  forth  in  ruinous  explosions, or 
tear  to  atoms  the  necessary  superincumbent 
masses,  and  instead  of  the  smiling  aspect  of 
early  and  cherished  vegetation,  leave  only  in 
its  traces  the  blackness  of  desolation  and  the 
ruin  of  nature. 


THE  REIGX  OF  TEKROR. 


THE  EETCN  OF  TEIUIOR.* 


Ml 


,TiiK  French  Revolution  is  a  subject  on  which 

|ither  history  nor  public  opinion  have  been 

lie  as  yet  to  pronounce  an  impartial  verdict; 

r  is  it  perhaps  possible  that  the  opinions  of 

.jinkind  should  ever  be  unanimous,  upon  the 

ried  events  Avhich  marked  its  course.    The 

ssions  excited  were  so  fierce,  the  dangers 

nirred  so  tremendous,  the  sacrifices  made 

rrreat,  that  the  judgment  not  only  of  con- 

iipnrary  but  of  future  generations  must  be 

VP<?d  in  forming  an  opinion  concerning  it; 

i  as  long  as  men  are  divided  into  liberal  and 

iservative  parties,  so  long  will  they  be  at 

ice  in  the  views  they  entertain  in  regard 

great  strife  which  they  first  maintained 

aiinst  each  other. 

jPhere  are  some  of  the  great  events  of  this 
ible  drama,  however,  concerning  which 
re  appears  now  to  be  scarcely  any  discre- 
icy  of  opinion.  The  execution  of  the  king 
I  the  royal  family — the  massacre  of  the 
ondists — the  slaughter  in  the  prisons,  are 
erally  admitted  to  have  been, using  Fouche's 
•ds,  not  only  crimes  but  faults;  great  errors 
Jolicy,  as  well  as  outrageous  violations  of 
principles  of  humanity.  These  cruel  and 
recedented  actions,  by  drawing  the  sword 
throwing  away  the  scabbard,  are  allowed 
tiave  dyed  with  unnecessary  blood  the 
;er  of  the  Revolution;  to  have  needlessly 
Operated  parties  against  each  other ;  and 
)lacing  the  leaders  of  the  movement  in  the 
ible  alternative  of  victorj'or  death,  rendered 
r  subsequent  career  one  incessant  scene 
rime  and  butchery.  With  the  exception  of 
asseur  de  la  8arthe,  the  most  sturdy  and 
momf  1  of  the  republican  writers,  there  is 
uihor  with  whom  we  are  acquainted,  who 
openly  defends  these  atrocities;  who  prc- 
:,  in  Barn-re's  words,  that  "  the  tree  of 
ty  ■  "  red  by 

I"  I  iously 

es  that  the   regeneration  of  society  must 
receded  by  the  massacre  of  the  innocent 
the  tears  of  the  orphan. 
It  althi>ii'_'h  the  mimls  of  men 
ed  on  till'  true  character  of  th' 
proceedings,  there  is  a  great  diversity  of 
ion  as  to  the  necessity  under  which  the 
lutisnists  acted,  and  the  effects  with  which 
vr  ■■     ■■      •    <       •'  ■•  •-       •  .,„_ 

r...  ..f 

Uonvciitioii  wiT»;  as  n 

atrocious  ;  that  the-y  p! 

cial  amelioration  into  .  1; 

stateil   France   for    yc.u^    unn   lu"-    and 

d;  brought  to  an  tinlim'-ly  fnil  above  a 

on  of  m<'n  ;  and   finally  n  ut  thf 

of  the  nation  an  iron  <!>    ,  .  as  the 

table  result  and  merited  puni'>hment  of 

criminal  excesses.    The  revolutionists, 


■  ilrn  (1c  Ii  ronvontlon  Nallnnnlr.  P.ir  M.  I. — , 
lonFl.  Tarln,  f.Xl.  Foreign  Quarterly  Review, 
v.,  February,  IS3I. 

IG 


on  the  other  hand,  allege  that  these  severities, 
however  much  to  be  deplored,  wfrc  unavoid- 
able in  the  peculiar  circumstances  m  which 
France  was  then  placed:  they  contend  that  the 
obstinate  resistance  of  the  privileged  classes  to 
all  attempts  at  pacific  amelioration,  their  im- 
placable resentment  for  the  deprivation  of  their 
privileges,  and  their  recourse  to  foreign  bayo- 
nets to  aid  in  their  recovery,  left  to  their  an- 
tagonists no  alternative  but  their  extirpation ; 
that  in  this  "  mortal  strife  "  the  royalists  showed 
themselves  as  unscrupulous  in  their'means, 
and  would,  had  they  triumphed,  been  as  un- 
sparing in  their  vengeance,  as  their  adver- 
saries ;  and  they  maintain,  that  notwithstanding 
all  the  disasters  with  which  it  has  been  at- 
tended, the  triumph  of  the  Revolution  has  pro- 
digiously increased  the  productive  powers  and 
public  happiness  of  France,  and  poured  a  flood 
of  youthful  blood 'into  her  veins. 

The  historians  of  the  Revolution,  as  might 
have  been  expected,  incline  to  one  or  other  of 
these  two  parties.     Of  these  the  latest  and  most 
distinguished  are  Bertrand  de  Molleville  and 
Lacretelle  on  the  royalist  side,  and  Mignetand 
Thiers  on  that  of  the  Revolution,  the  reputation 
of  whose  works  is  now  too  well  established  to 
require  us  to  enter  here  into  an  appreciation 
of  their  merits  or  defects,  or  to  be  afiected  by 
our  praise  or  our  censure.     The  work  now 
before  us,  which  is  confined  to  the  most  stormy 
and  stirring  period  of  the  Revolution,  does  not 
aspire,  by  its  form,  to  a  rivalry  with  all  or  any 
of  those  we  have  just  mentioned.     It  consists 
of  a  series  of  grapliic  sketches  of  the  Nationa' 
Convention,  drawn  evidently  by  one  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  actors  in  its  terrific  annals 
and  interspersed  with  a  narrative  composed  a) 
a  subsequent  period,  with  the  aids  which  the 
memoirs  and  historians  of  later  limes  afTord 
.\s  such,  it  pos-scsses  a  degree  of  inti-rest  < 
to  any  work  on  the  same  subject  wi'h  ■i*  \ 
we  are  acquainted.     Not  only  th<' 

the  altitudes,  the  manner,  the  apjH 

very  dress  of  the  actors   in   the  drama  are 
r;hl  before  our  eyes.     The  author  seems, 
iieral,  to  spi'ak  in  the  delineation  of  clia- 
la'Mi'r  from  his  own  recollections  ;thespeechi"s 
which  he  has  reported  arc  chielly  transcribed 
from  the  columns  of  the  Monitcur;  but  in  some 
instances,    especially    the    conversations    of 
Daiiion,  Robespierre,  Barrere,  n\\<\   \hf  oih>'r 
r  th''  .lacobins,  we  sm 
his  historical  remini 
sequent  acquisitions,  and  put  into  the  mouths 
of  the  leading  characters  of  the  day.  prophecies 
too  accurate  in  their  fulfilment  to  hur'  hrrn 
the   product  of  human  ' 

spraking,  however,  the  W" 
of  intimate  acfpiaintance  with  ih  md 

persons  who  are  described;  and  .'i  'roni 

being  published  without  a  name,  r  ;  tho 

Kuaranfe  for  it  i-iown 

character  and  r'  '■  '"  ^o 

far  as  internal  evidence  is  concerned,  we  arf 


242 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


inclined  to  rank  it  with  the  most  faithful  nar- 
ralives  of  the  events  it  records  Avhich  have 
vssued  from  the  press.  Its  general  accuracy, 
we  are  enabled,  from  a  pretty  extensive  com- 
parison of  the  latest  authorities,  to  confirm. 
We  shall  give  some  extracts,  wiiich,  if  we  arc 
not  greatly  mistaken,  will  justify  the  tone  of 
commendation  in  which  we  have  spoken  of  it. 

The  period  at  which  the  work  commences 
is  the  opening  of  the  Convention,  immediately 
after  the  revolt  on  the  10th  of  August  had  over- 
turned the  throne,  and  when  a  legislature, 
elected  by  almost  universal  suffrage,  in  a  state 
of  unprecedented  exasperation,  was  assembled 
to  regenerate  the  state. 

Robespierre  and  Marat,  the  Agamemnon 
and  Ajax  of  the  democracy,  are  thus  ably 
sketched : 

"  Robespierre  and  Marat — enemies  in  secret, 
to  external  appearance  friends — were  early 
distinguished  in  the  Convention  ;  both  dear  to 
the  mob,  but  with  different  shades  of  character. 
The  latter  paid  his  court  to  the  lowest  of  the 
low,  to  the  men  of  straw  or  in  rags,  who  were 
then  of  so  much  weight  in  the  political'  sys- 
tem. The  needy,  the  thieves,  the  cut-throats — 
in  a  word,  the  dregs  of  the  people,  the  caput 
inortunm  of  the  human  race,  to  a  man  supported 
Marat. 

"  Robespierre,  albeit  dependent  on  the  same 
class  to  which  his  rival  was  assimilated  by  his 
ugliness,  his  filth,  his  vulgar  manners,  and 
disgusting  habits,  was  nevertheless  allied  to  a 
more  elevated  division  of  it:  to  the  shopkeep- 
ers and  scribes,  small  traders,  and  the  inferior 
rank  of  lawyers.  These  admired  in  him  the 
politcssc  bourgeoise ;  his  well-combed  and  pow- 
dered head,  the  richness  of  his  waistcoats,  the 
whiteness  of  his  linen,  the  elegant  cut  of  his 
coats,  his  breeches,  silk  stockings  carefully 
drawn  on,  bright  knee  and  shoe  buckles  ;  every 
thing,  in  short,  bespoke  the  gentlemanly  preten- 
sions of  Robespierre,  in  opposition  to  the  sans- 
culottism  of  Marat. 

"  The  shopkeepers  and  the  lower  ranks  of 
the  legal  profession  never  identify  themselves 
with  the  populace,  even  during  the  fervour  of 
a  revolution.  There  is  in  them  an  innate 
spirit  of  feudalitjr,  which  leads  them  to  despise 
the  canaille  and  envy  the  noblesse :  they  de- 
sire equalit}'-,  but  only  with  such  as  are  above 
themselves,  not  such  as  would  confound  them 
•with  their  workmen.  The  latter  class  is 
odious  to  them  ;  they  envy  the  great,  but  they 
have  a  perfect  horror  for  those  to  whom  they 
give  employment;  never  perceiving  that  the 
democratic  principle  can  admit  of  no  such 
distinction.  This  is  the  reason  which  made 
the  aristocralie  bourgeoise  prefer  Robespierre ; 
they  thought  they  saw  in  his  manners,  his 
dress,  his  air,  a  certain  pledge  that  he  would 
never  degrade  them  to  the  multitude;  never 
associate  them  with  those  whose  trade  was 
tarried  on  in  the  mud,  like  Marat's  supporters. 
Ariiiisl  these  divisions,  one  fixed  idea  alone 
unitea  these  opposite  leaders;  and  that  was, 
to  give  such  a  pledge  to  the  Revolution,  as 
would  render  it  impossible  to  doubt  their  sin- 
ceritv,  and  that  pledge  was  to  be  tlie  blood  of 
LouisXVI"— Vol.  i.  p.  28. 


Roland  and  his  wife,  the  beautiful  victim 
Jacoljin  vengeance,  are  thus  portrayed  : 

"  Roland  Avas  a  man  of  ordinary  capacii 
but  he  obtained  the  reputation  of  genius 
means  of  his  wife,  who  thought,  wrote,  a 
spoke  fur  him.  She  was  a  woman  of  a  uk 
superior  mind;  with  as  much  virtue  as  prir 
as  much  ambition  as  domestic  virtue.  Dauj 
ter  of  an  engraver,  she  commenced  her  can' 
by  wishing  to  contend  with  a  queen  ;  and  • 
sooner  had  Marie  Antoinette  fallen,  than  S' 
seemed  resolute  to  maintain  the  combat, ' 
longer  against  a  person  of  her  own  sex,  1; 
with  the  men  who  pretended  to  rival  the  rej 
tation  of  her  husband. 

"  Madame  Roland  had  great  talent,  but  s 
wanted  tact  and  moderation.     She  belonged' 
that  class  in  the  middling  ranks  that  scarce 
knows  what  good  breeding  is;  her  mann(' 
were  too  brusque;   she  trusted  implicitly; 
her  good  intentions,  and  was  quite  indiffen", 
in  regard  to  external  appearances,  which,  af; 
all,  are  almost  every  thing  in  this  world.  Li 
Marie  Antoinette,  she  was  master  in  her  oi| 
family ;  the  former  was  king,  the  latter  m] 
minister;  her  husband,  whom  she  constan 
put  forward,  as  often  disappeared  in  her  p 
sence,  which  gave  rise  to  the  bon  mot  of  C(; 
dorcet:  'When  I  wish  to  see  the  minister 
the  interior,  I  never  can  see  any  thing  but  i 
petticoat  of  his  wife.'     This  was  strictly  tn, 
persons  on  business  uniformly  applied  to  Ai 
dame    Roland   instead   of  the   minister;   a;, 
whatever  she  may  have  said  in  her  memoi; 
it  is  certain  that  unconsciousljr  she  opened  ij 
portfolio  with  her  own  hand.     She  was  to  " 
last  degree  impatient  under  the  attacks  of 
tribune,  to  which  she  had  no  means  of  rep, 
and  took  her  revenge  b}-  means  of  pamphf 
and  articles  in  the  public  journals.     In  tin' 
she  kept  up  an  incessant  warfare,  which  1 
land  sanctioned  with  his  name,  but  in  wl: 
it  was  easy  to  discover  the  warm  and  brilh; 
style  of  his  wife."— i.  38. 

These  observations  exhibit  a  fair  speciirl 
of  the  author's  manner.     It  is  nervous,  br,  .; 
and  sen  tentious,  rather  than  eloquent  or  impr*  ; 
sive.     The  work  is  calculated  to  dispel  ma'  » 
illusions  under  which  we,  living  at  this  c* 
tance,  labour,  in  regard  to  the  characters  of  i! 
Revolution.     They  are  here  exhibited  in  th"   i 
genuine  colours,  alike  free  from  the  dark  shat' 
in  which  they  have  been  enveloped  by  onepait 
and  the  brilliant  hues  in  which  they  are  arr- 
cd  by  the  other.     In   the  descriptions,  we  !? 
the  real  springs  of  human  conduct  on  this  c 
vated  stage  ;  the  same  littlenesses,  jealou- 
and  weaknesses  which  are  every  day  coir 
cuous  around  us  in  private  life. 

The  Girondists  in  particular  are  stripp' 
their  magic  halo  by  his  caustic  hand.    lU 
plays  in  a  clear  light  the  weakness  as  well 
brilliant  qualities   of   that  celebrated  par; 
their  ambition,  intrigues,  mob  adulation, wH 
rising  with   the    Revolution;  their  weaknei 
irresolution,  timidity,  when  assailed  by  its  fu> 
Their  character  is  summed  up  in  the  follow:! 
words,  which  are  put  into  the  mouth  of  L' 
juinais,  one  of  the  most  intrepid  and  nol* 
minded  of  the  moderate  party. 


I 


THE  REIGN  OF  TERKOR. 


243 


I    "The  Girondists  are  m  my  mind  a  living 
pxample  of  the  trulh  of  the  maxim  of  Bcaumar- 

•  s:   'My  God!    what  idiots  these  men  of 
■lit  are  !'      All  their  speeches  delivered  at 

hnr  tribune  are  sublime;  their  actions  are  in- 
explicable on  any  principles  of  common  sense. 
They  amuse  themselves  by  exhausting  their 
■iilarity  in  insignificant  attacks,  and  waste 
,•  that  means  in  such  a  manner  that  alrcadj- 
it  IS  almost  annihilated.     They  destroyed  them- 
selves when  tlicy  overturned  the  monarchy ; 
hey  flattered  themselves  that  they  would  reif»n 
ifterwards  by  their  virtue  and  their  brilliant 
inaiilies,  little  foreseeing  how  soon  the  Jaco- 
iins  would  mount  on  their  shoulders.     At  pre- 
;ent,  to  maintain  themselves  in  an  equivocal 
wsition,  they  will  consent  to  the  trial  of  the 
rinsr,  flattering  themselves  that  they  will  decide 
lis  fate — they  are  mistaken ;  it  is  the  Mountain, 
lot  they,  that  will  carry  the  day.  The  Mountain 
s  so  far  advanced  in  the  career  of  crime  that 
t  cannot  recede.     Kcsides,  it  is  indispensable 
nr  it  to  render  the  Gironde  as  guilty  as  itself, 
n  order  to  deprive  it  of  the  possibility  of  treat- 
separatelv  ;    that  motive  will  lead  to  the 
ruction  of  Louis  XVI."— i.  142,  M.3, 
These  observations  are  perfectly  just;  whe- 
ler  they  were  made  by  Lanjuinais  or  not  at  the 
cried  when  they  are  said  to  have  been  spoken, 

•  be  doubtful ;  but  of  this  we  are  convinced, 
they  contain  the  whole  theory  and  true 

L'cret  of  the  causes  which  convert  popular 
lovements  into  guilty  revolutions.  It  is  the 
arly  commission  of  crime  which  renders  sub- 
^V"^nt  atrocities  unavoidable ;  men  engage 
1  the  last  deeds  of  cruelty  to  avoid  the  pun- 
hmont  of  the  first  acts  of  oppression.  The 
n!y  rule  which  can  with  safety  be  followed, 
thcr  in  political  or  private  life,  is  uniformly 
abstain  from  acts  of  injustice ;  never  to  do 
.•il  that  cond  may  come  of  it ;  but  invariably  to 

>ed  measure,  not 

it,  but  whether  it 

■t.     If  any  other  principle  be  adopted — if 

•'■'•  ^'•'■lem  is  introduced  of  committing 

tice  or  deeds  of  crueltv.  from  the 


rommenced,  and  can  s<'idom   l»c 
he  theory  of  public  moraN,  (■.him! 
may  appear,  is  in  reality  n 
r  scale, 


.C     III 

..    ; :en  •• 

lit  a  re- 1  will  su 


idea  alike  ii  a  triumvirate  or  a  dictatorship.— 
If  any  one  is  to  l>!anic  for  having  scaii-ret 
these  ideas  among  the  public,  it  is  myself;  I 
invoke  on  my  own  head  the  tbundcr  of  the  na 
tional  vengeance— but  before  striking,  deign 
to  hear  me. 

"  When  the  constituted  authoriiies  exerted 
their  power  only  to  enchain    ■  le;    to 

murder  the  patriots  under  the  II     .;  le  law, 

can  you  impute  it  to  mc  as  a  crime  that  I  in- 
voked against  the  wicked  the  tempest  of  popu- 
lar vengeance? — No — if  you  call  it  a  crime, 
the  nation  would  give  you  the  lie;  to 

the  law,  they  felt  that  the  method  I  .-d 

was  the  only  one  which  could  save  inein,  and 
assuming  the  rank  of  a  dictator,  they  at  once 
purged  the  land  of  the  traitors  who  infested 
it.— 

"  I  shuddered  at  the  vehement  and  disorderly 
movements  of  the  people,  when  I  saw  them 
prolonged  beyond  the  necessary  point;  in  order 
that  these  movements  should  not  for  ever  fail, 
to  avoid  thenecessitj'of  their  recommencement, 
I  proposed  that  some  wise  and  just  citizen 
should  be  named,  known  for  his  attachment  to 
freedom,  to  take  the  direction  of  them,  and  ren- 
der them  conducive  to  the  great  ends  of  public 
freedom. — If  the  people  could  have  appreciated 
the  wisdom  of  that  proposal,  if  they  had  adopt- 
ed it  in  all  its  plenitude, they  would  have  swept 
off,  on  the  day  the  Bastile  was  taken,  five  hun- 
dred heads  from  the  conspirators.  Every  thing, 
had  this  been  done,  would  now  have  been  tran- 
quil.— For  the  same  reason,  I  have  frequently 
proposed  to  give  instantaneous  authority  to  a 
wise  man,  under  the  name  of  tribune,  or  dicta- 
tor,— the  title  signifies  nothing;  but  the  proof 
that  I  meant  to  chain  him  to  the  public  service 
is,  that  I  insisted  that  he  should  have  a  bullet 
at  his  feet,  and  that  he  should  have  no  power 
but  to  strike  olT  criminal  heads. — Such  was  my 
opinion;  I  have  expressed  it  !>•  :  ivate, 

and   given   it  all   the  currency  i  in  my 

writings ;  I  have  alhxcd  my  name  to  these  com- 
positions; I  am  not  ashamed  of  them  ;  if  you 
cannot  comprehend  them,  so  much  the  worse 

•I-  ■  ■    ■  •  ■  '.T- 

•IS 

massacred  because  vou  would  nol 


). 


,1  III 


•  II •-and  more 
iiction ;  if 

to 


i»o  commit  the  wrong  esrapf  i 

ill  fall  on  th**  M-- '     '   •' 

One  of  the  m.  ■ 


It- 

-  -  :  -     ,  -  --     -'-ir 

:  for  my  own  part,  I  declare  I  would  b« 

l^^l  to  adopt  111' '  ■  '  ■ •  a  sig- 

pronf  of  inv  il  r,  and 

v.-.,  whcuevci  I  uin  ran- 


th**  impearhm'-nt  ol  Mar.it  iiyttini,  \    i  Inreiiscdiii  amlutious  views  !  Iwillnol 

1792.     Marat'      •■••••■"  on  th  ••  '•■ ' ...,.•"•.  -t "ir 

lich  is  here  ;•  n  th**  M  i       '  I 

ni'-  ■  I  it    ll.l\   ■  '\ 

III,  iirt. — W                 " 

"I  am  ar.-iis.- 1  dI    having  rot,                                    .  nid  ban  l)<'rn  my  t.U'' '     I  h                '•I 

ibcspierr'"  and   Danton   for   a ,,..i,     .;    in  .'m. '■••■■•    .    .  .t..!.  mnr  1                 to 

It  accusation  has  not  a  shadow  of  truth,  ex- 1  cver>'  spec  ^rniy 

pt  »o  r  -                                  '•■     !          .,:,,,  .  .-^ 

duty  '.  1 1 

d  Robespierre,  have  constually  rejected  liic  j  laid  on  the  block.     Let  liu-.-'C  who  urc  u*>w  tei 


1 


244 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


rifying  you  with  the  shadow  of  a  dictator,  unite 
with  me;  unite  with  all  true  patriots,  press 
the  Assembly  to  expedite  the  great  measures 
which  will  secure  the  happiness  of  the  people, 
and  I  will  cheerfully  mount  the  scallbld  any 
day  of  my  life."— Vol.  i.  pp.  75,  76. 

We  have  given  this  speech  at  length,  be- 
cause it  contains  a  fair  sample  of  revolutionary 
logic,  and  displays  that  mixture  of  truth  and 
error,  of  generous  sentiments  and  perverted 
ambition,  which  characterized  the  speeches  as 
well  as  the  actions  of  the  leaders.  Marat  was 
well  acquainted  with  his  power  before  he  made 
these  admissions;  he  knew  that  the  armed 
force  of  the  multitude  would  not  permit  a  hair 
of  his  head  to  be  touched;  he  already  saw  his 
adversaries  trembling  under  the  menaces 
which  encircled  the  hall,  and  the  applause  of 
the  galleries  which  followed  his  words;  he  had 
the  air  of  generous  self-devotion,  when  in  truth 
he  incurred  no  real  danger.  The  principles 
here  professed  were  those  on  which  he  and 
his  parly  constantly  acted.  Their  uniform  doc- 
trine was,  that  they  must  destroy  their  enemies, 
or  be  destroyed  by  them ;  that  the  friends  of  the 
Revolution  were  irrevocably  engaged  in  a  strife 
of  life  or  death  with  the  aristocracy ;  that  there 
was  no  alternative  in  the  struggle — it  must  be 
victory  or  death.  Such  were  the  maxims  of 
the  Jacobins,  and  we  should  greatly  err  if  we 
ascribed  them  to  anj^  peculiar  or  extraordinary 
ferocity  or  wickedness  in  their  character.  They 
sprung  entirely  from  their  early  commission 
of  unpardonable  offences,  and  the  recklessness 
with  which  they  perpetrated  acts  of  violence 
and  spoliation,  the  moment  that  they  obtained 
supreme  power.  The  conclusion  to  be  drawn 
from  this  is,  not  that  the  progress  of  innova- 
tion and  social  amelioration  inevitably  leads 
to  wickedness,  but  that  the  commission  of  one 
crime  during  its  progress  necessarily  occa- 
sions another,  because  it  is  in  the  commission 
of  the  second  tliat  impunity  for  the  first  is  alone 
looked  for;  and  therefore,  that  the  only  way 
during  such  trying  times  to  prevent  the  pro- 
gress from  terminating  in  disaster,  is  steadily 
to  adhere  to  tlie  principles  of  justice  and  hu- 
manity; and  if  violence  is  once  vtnavoidable, 
to  revert  to  the  temper  and  moderation  of  hap- 
pier times,  the  moment  that  such  a  return  is 
practicable. 

The  Jacobin  Club,  the  Dom-daniel  where  all 
the  bloody  scenes  of  the  Revolution  were  hatch- 
«d,  must  ever  be  an  object  of  interest  ami  cu- 
riosity to  future  ages.  The  author's  picture  of 
it  is  so  graphic,  that  we  shall  give  it  in  his  own 
words,  for  fear  of  Aveakening  their  force  by 
translation;  it  will  also  serve  as  a  fair  speci- 
men of  his  style. 

"  Le  club  des  Jacobins  etait  veritablemcnt  le 
double  de  la  puissance  souveraine,  et  la  por- 
tion la  plus  cnergique :  on  ne  pouvait  assez 
la  rednuler,  tant  sa  susceptibilile  etait  ex- 
treme et  ses  vengeances  terribles.  II  se  mon- 
trait  inquiet,  pusilianime,  mefiant,  cruel  et 
feroce;  il  ne  conccvait  la  liberie  qu'avec  le 
concours  des  prisons,  des  fers,  et  a  deminoyee 
dans  le  sang.  Tousles  maux,  tous  les crimes, 
'.outes  les  resolutions  funcstcs,qirt  pendant  trois 
annees  desolerent  la  France,  partirent  de  eel 
antre   d'horreur.      Les   Jacobins   dorainerent 


avec  une  tyrannic  <!-paisse,  vaste  et  lourde,  q 
nous  enveloppa  tous  comme  un  cauchem; 
permanent.  Inquisition  terrible,  violente,  i 
neanmoins  cauteleuse,  ilse  nourrissaitd'epo 
vante  calculee,  dc  fureurs,  de  denonciation 
et  de  I'effroi  general  qu'il  inspirait.  Les  ph 
importans  parmi  les  revolutionaires  tirerc: 
de  la  toute  leur  force,  et  en  meme  temps  i 
cesserent  de  flagorner,  d'aduler  ce  club,  et  ce 
avec  autant  de  persistance,  que  de  bassessi 
a  tel  point  la  masse  du  club  abail  du  pouvoi 
et  a  tel  point  celui  qu'obtenaient  des  particul 
ers  devait  remonter  a  lui,  comme  a  son  origii 
uniqtte. 

"Jamais  un  homme  d'honneur,  jamais 
vertu  paree  de  ses  qualites  precieuses  ne  purei 
etre  soufferts  dans  cette  societe:  elle  etait  ai 
tipathique  avec  tout  ce  qui  n'etait  pas  tntacl 
d'une  manicre  quelconque.  Un  voleur,  un  a 
sassin,  y  trouvait  plus  d'afRnite  que  le  vole  c 
le  victime.  Le  propos  celubre,  Qu'iis  iu  fu 
pour  cire  pcndu,  si  I'ancien  regime  revenaii?  pc 
vait  s'applique  egalement  a  la  morale,  qu'. 
politique.  Quiconque  se  presentait  avec  u, 
vie  exempte  de  reproches  devenait  suspect n 
cessairement:  mais  I'impur  inspirait  de  I'ii 
teret,  et  se  trouvait  en  harmonic,  ou  en  poii 
de  contact  avec  les  habitues  de  ce  cloaqui 
Le  club  se  reunissait  a  Taucien  convent  d< 
Jacobins,  dans  la  Rue  St.  Honore,  au  local  i 
la  bibliotheque:  c'etait  une  salle  vaste  deforn 
gothique.  On  orna  le  local  de  drapeaux  tr 
colores,  de  devises  anarchiques,  de  quelqui 
portraits  et  busies  des  revolutionaires  les  pli 
fameux.  J'ai  vu,  bien  anterieurement  r 
meurti-e  de  Louis  XVI.,  deux  portraits,  ceux(. 
Jacques  Clement  et  de  Ravaillac,  environnii 
d'une  guirlande  de  chcne,  en  maniere  de  co; 
ronne  civique :  au-dessous  leur  nom,  accoi: 
pagne  de  la  date  de  leur  regicide,  et  au-de- 
il  3^avoit  ces  mots  lis  furcnt  hcurcux — Us  tuen 
un  roi."— Tom.  i.  pp.  110—112. 

It  may  be  imagined  from  these  and  simil; 
passages  that  the  author  is  a  royalist:  bulsnc 
in  reality  is  not  the  case.  He  is  equally  se\ 
on  the  other  parties,  and  admits  that  he  1: 
self  acquiesced  in  all  the  savage  measure- 
the  Convention.    The  Jacobins  in  fact  hai 
become  equal  objects  of  detestation  to  all.  pa 
ties  in  the  Revolution :  to  the  royalists,  by  tl 
cruellies  which  they  exercised — to  the  repuH 
cans,  by  the  horror  Avhich  they  excited,  and  il 
reaction  against  the  principles  of  popular 
vernment  which  they  produced.     The  c?sc: 
lion  of  them  by  Thiers  and  Mignet  is  Lcarl} 
black  as  that  given  by  our  author. 

It  is  a  curious  speculation  what  il  is  dnrin 
revolutionary  troubles  that  gives  an  inflnenc 
to  men  of  desperate  character.     W.'iy  isitthi 
when  political  institutions   are  undergoing 
change,  the  wicked  and  profligate  should  ai 
quire  so  fearful  an  ascendency  1     That  thir- 
and  robbers  should  emerge  from  their  hau 
when  a  conflagration  is  raging,  is  intellig: 
enough, — but  that  they  should  then  all  at  one 
become  omnipotent,  and  rule  their  fellow  cit 
zens  with  absolute  sway,  is  the  surprising  pin 
nomenon.     In  considering  the  causes  of  i' 
catastrophe  in  France,  much  is  no  doubt  ti' 
ascribed  to  the  corrupt  and  rotten   state  c 
society  under  the  monarchy,  and  the  total  wai 


THE  REir.N  OF  TERROR. 


215 


/  ill  those  habits  of  conihination  for  mutual 
Vfenco  and  support,  which  arise  from  the 
.'-continued  enjoyment  of  freedom.  More 
\  ••ver,  we  arc  persuaded,  is  to  be  ascril>cd 
o  the  general  and  unparalleled  desertion  of 
heir  country  by  the  great  majority  of  the 
lobility  and  landed  proprietors,  and  their  im- 
)rndent — to  give  it  no  severer  name — iinion 
vith  foreign  powers  to  regain  their  pri7."J<'gps 
)y  main  force.  If  this  immense  and  powerful 
lody  of  men  had  remained  at  home,  yielded  to 
he  torrent  when  they  could  not  resist  it,  and 
aken  advantage  of  the  first  pleams  of  return- 
ng  sense  and  moderation,  to  unite  with  tiie 
nends  of  order  of  every  denomination,  it  is 
inpossible  to  doubt  that  a  great  barrier  against 
evolutionary  violence  must  have  been  erected. 
Jut  what  could  be  done  by  the  few  remaining 
riests  and  royalists,  or  by  the  king  on  the 
irone,  when  a  hundred  thousand  proprietors, 
le  strength  and  hope  of  the  monarch)',  de- 
erted  to  the  enemy,  and  appeared  comliating 
gainst  France  under  the  Austrian  eagles? 
hert  was  the  fatal  error.  Every  measure  of 
•rity  directed  against  them  or  their  de- 
.dants,  appeared  justifiable  to  a  people 
ibonring  under  the  terrors  of  foreign  subjuga- 
on;  if  they  had  remained  at  home  and  armed 
gainst  the  stranger,  as  the  worst  mediator  in 
leir  internal  dissensions,  the  public  feeling 
ould  not  have  been  so  strongly  roused  against 
lem,  and  many  of  the  worst  measures  of  the 
evolution  would  have  been  prevented.  The 
.->mparatively  bloodless  character  of  the  Eng- 
sh  civil  war  in  the  time  of  Charles  I.  is  in  a 
real  measure  to  be  ascribed  to  the  courageous 
sidence  of  the  landed  proprietors  at  home, 
I'cn  during  the  hottest  of  the  struggle ;  and  but 
ir  that  intrepid  conduct,  they  might,  like  the 
rench  noblesse,  have  been  for  ever  stript  of 
ifir  r-.int  •<,  and  the  cause  of  freedom  stained 
r  11' 

O  I  Miiiouricr,  when  he  re- 

d  to  Paris,  to  endeavour  to  stem  the  tor- 
Intion. — On  that  occasion,  the 
•d   him  in  these  remarkable 


p. 


mi^n  of  honour  in  th»*  foTintrv  would 
t  a^  \  '!••.  tdf-''   iiu-'T.i!  !'• 

>ccdily  1)0  rc<luc<-d  tn  ilicir  ;..  ■  

mce.   and  France  would  be  d-  but 


;ver  j"  it"  «;xt""inl  llicii  jmw- 

•  over  1...    .  11." 

"  Dumonricr  v  • ;  it  is  the  - 

'hnn'^st  niTi  will'  ri   III  fver"  '' 

t»*d    tlie    sti<:i;^lh    of    the 

Hf  mention?  a  rinrnbr  fnrt.  wrM  known  tn 

I  who  r\x<- 

ry  of  rh"  H- 

atfs  ih'-    •. '•.  '-r    I 

ni'(>Mr  Jii  \ic  jiUccU  4.:i  ih 

ippnri 
"  Thr  ' 

the  pi-  :      .  ..,.  .  .. 

e  popular  cause;    the-. 

f miflvr .   •']    ■     '       ■ 

J.tlllirs  in    . 

ff  taught  them  that  the  jJO'plc,  ever  ungrate- 


ful and  forgetful  of  past  services,  have  neithci 
eyes  nor  ears  but  for  those  who  flatter  ihera 
without  inlcrinJNvion.  They  had  another  rea- 
son for  thfir  conddenre,  in  the  enormous  ma 
jority  which  had  recently  re-elected  Petion 
to  the  important  situation  of  mayor  of  Paris. 
No  less  than  14,000  voices  had  pronounced 
in  his  favour,  while  Robespirrre  had  only  2.1, 
Billaud-Varcnnes  \i,  and  Danton  11.  The 
Girondists  flattered  themselves  that  their  influ- 
ence was  to  be  measun-d  in  the  same  propor- 
tion; that  error  was  their  ruin,  for  they  con- 
tinued to  cling  to  it  down  tc  the  moment  when 
necessity  constrained  them  to  see  that  they 
stood  alone  in  the  commonwealth.  Bailly,  the 
virtuous  Bailly,  that  pure  spirit  who  had  the 
misfortune  to  do  so  much  evil  with  the  best 
intentions,  had  only  two  votes." — Vol.  i.p.  130. 

Thus  the  Girondists,  only  a  few  months  be- 
fore their  final  arrest  and  overthrow  by  the 
mob  of  Paris,  had  fourteen  thousand  votes, 
while  Robespierre  and  Danton,  who  led  them 
out  to  the  slaughter,  had  only  thirty-four. 
Whence  arose  this  prodigious  decline  of  popu- 
larity in  so  short  a  time,  and  when  they  had 
done  nothing  in  the  inter\'ening  period  to  jus- 
tify or  occasion  it?  Simply  from  this,  that 
having  latterly  endeavoured  to  repress  the 
movement,  that  instant  their  popularity  dis- 
solved like  a  rope  of  sand,  and  they  were  con- 
signed in  a  few  months  to  the  scalfold  by  their 
late  noisy  supporters. 

This  respectable  writer  adds  his  testimony 
to  a  fact  now  generally  admitted,  that  the  well- 
known  novel  of  Faublas  gave  a  correct  picture 
of  the  manners  of  France  at  the  outset  of  the 
Revolution.  In  such  a  corrupt  state  of  society, 
it  is  not  surprising  that  political  change  should 
have  led  to  the  most  disastrous  results  :  nor 
can  any  thing  be  imagined  much  worse  than 
the  old  regime. 

"Louvetde  Com  ti  at  Paris  in  1701, 

was  the  son  of  a  jier,  and  mnd"  his 

debut,  not  as  an  advocate,  but  as  ■  m 

in  the  employment  of  Brault,  the  1 ..or. 

He  there  acquired  a  taste  for  literature,  which 

hr  '       '  .....  ^1 

of    I  ij 

n\ 

\ '  -    .    i '^-n 

obtained  a  tinn.     Yon  find  in 

■'    ■  '     '  of  the  manners  of 

.  ;   till-  mode  of  life 
<.I  1; 

ail  ■     J  ,  ise 

It  met  with  a,i  liitic  respect  at  the  period  when 
.1...  I.  .p„  ,,f  ,i,p  jiiory  yifns  supposed  to  1  ■  '  ■- 
-Vol.  i.  p.  115. 
But  we  '  i 

1  he  voted  for  the  death  ol  the  king 

...•,i„..i 

!  with  a  faltering  «iep  and 

Iv 

# 

he  wa^  to  put  the  sr.il  l-  '\- 

ir,    I      ll,,T.-        lltl    l'    !.■      t.l     U!'  '      ill 

down,  he  ntA  ia 

by  mj  dtHr.  an*' 
cuiivuiceJ  that  all  tli.'i»«  who  hare  re*i!«tH  ib 


248 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


Bovereignty  of  the  people  deserve  death,  my 
vote  is  for  Death  !' 

" '  Oh,  the  monster !'  broke  forth  from  all 
sides;  'how  infamous!'  and  general  hisses 
and  imprecations  attended  Egalite  as  he  re- 
turned to  his  seat.  His  conduct  appeared  so 
atrocious,  that  of  all  the  assassins  of  Septem- 
ber, of  all  the  wretches  of  every  description 
who  were  there  assembled,  and  truly  the  num- 
ber was  not  small,  not  one  ventured  to  applaud 
him :  all,  on  the  contrary,  viewed  him  with 
distrust  or  maledictions;  and  at  the  conclu- 
sion of  his  vote,  the  agitation  of  the  assembly 
was  extreme.  One  would  have  imagined  from 
the  effect  it  produced,  that  Egalite,  by  that 
single  vote,  irrevocably  condemned  Louis  to 
death,  and  that  all  that  followed  it  was  but  a 
vain  formality." — Vol.  ii.  p.  48. 

One  of  the  most  instructive  facts  in  the 
whole  history  of  the  Revolution,  was  the  una- 
nimous vote  of  the  assembly  on  the  guilt  of 
Louis.  Posterity  has  reversed  the  verdict ;  it 
is  now  unanimously  agreed  that  he  Avas  inno- 
cent, and  that  his  death  was  a  judicial  murder. 
That  the  majority,  constrained  by  fear,  misled 
by  passion,  or  seduced  by  ambition,  should 
have  done  so,  is  intelligible  enough ;  but  that 
seven  hundred  men  should  unanimously  have 
voted  an  innocent  man  guilty,  is  the  real  phe- 
nomenon, for  which  no  adequate  apology  can 
be  found  even  in  the  anxieties  and  agitation  of 
that  unhappy  period.  Like  all  oiher  great  acts 
of  national  crime,  it  speedily  brought  upon  it- 
self its  own  punishment.  It  rendered  the  march 
of  the  Revolution  towards  increasing  wicked- 
ness inevitable,  because  it  deprived  its  leaders 
of  all  hope  of  safety  but  in  the  rule  of  the  mul- 
litude,  supported  by  acts  of  universal  terror. 

The  result  of  the  vote  M'hich,  by  a  majority 
of  forty-seven,  condemned  Louis  to  death,  is 
well  described : 

"When  the  fatal  words  were  pronounced, 
an  explosion  of  satanic  joy  was  expected  from 
the  tribunes :  nothing  of  the  kind  occurred.  A 
universal  stupor  took  possession  of  the  whole 
assembly,  damping  alike  the  atrocious  hurras 
and  the  infernal  applause.  The  victory  which 
had  been  obtained  filled  the  victors  with  as 
much  awe  as  it  inspired  the  vanquished  with 
consternation ;  hardly  was  a  hollov/  murmur 
heard;  the  members  gazed  at  each  other  in 
death-like  silence ;  eveiy  one  seemed  to  dread 
even  the  sound  of  his  own  voice.  There  is 
something  so  over-powering  in  great  events, 
that  those  even  whose  passions  they  most  com- 
pletely satisfy,  are  restrained  from  giving  vent 
to  their  feelings." — Vol.  ii.p.  61. 

The  death  of  the  king,  and  its  effect  on  the 
people,  is  very  impressive  : 

"The  sight  of  the  royal  corpse  produced 
divers  sensations  in  the  minds  of  the  specta- 
tors. Some  cut  off  parts  of  his  dress  ;  others 
sought  to  gather  a  few  fragments  of  his  hair; 
a  few  dipped  their  sabres  in  his  blood ;  and 
many  hurried  from  the  scene,  evincing  the 
most  poignant  grief  in  their  countenances. 
An  Englishman,  bolder  than  the  rest,  threw 
himself  at  the  foot  of  the  scaffold,  dipped  his 
handkerchief  in  the  blood  which  covered  the 
ground,  and  disappeared. 

"  In  the  capital,  the  great  body  of  the  citi- 


zens appeared  to  be  ovenvhelmedby  a  genera. 
stupor :  they  hardly  ventured  to  look  each  other 
in  the  face  in  the  street ;  sadness  was  depicted 
in  every  countenance:  a  heavy  disquietude 
seemed  to  have  taken  possession  of  every  mind. 
The  day  following  the  execution  they  had  not 
got  the  better  of  their  consternation,  which  ap- 
peared then  to  have  reached  the  members  of 
the  Convention,  who  Avere  astonished  and  ter- 
rified at  so  bold  a  stroke,  and  the  possible  con- 
sequences with  which  it  might  be  followed. 
Immediately  after  the  execution,  the  body  of 
Louis  XVI.  was  transported  into  the  ancient 
cemetery  of  the  Madeleine  :  it  was  placed  in  a 
ditch  of  six  feet  square,  with  its  back  against 
the  wall  of  the  Rue  d'Anjou,  and  covered  with 
quick-lime,  which  was  the  cause  of  its  being  so 
dilficult  afterwards,  in  1815,  to  discover  the 
smallest  traces  of  his  remains. 

"  The  general  torpor,  without  doubt,  para- 
lyzed many  minds,  but  shame  had  a  large 
effect  upon  others.  It  was  certaiul}^  a  deplo- 
rable thing  to  see  the  king  put  to  death  v/ithout 
the  smallest  effort  being  made  to  save  him  from 
destruction  ;  and  on  the  supposition  that  such 
an  attempt  might  have  led  to  his  assassination 
by  the  Jacobins,  even  that  would  have  been 
preferable  to  the  disgraceful  tranquillity  which 
prevailed  at  his  execution.  I  am  well  aware 
that  all  who  had  emigrated  had  abandoned  the 
king;  but  as  there  remained  in  the  interior  so 
many  loyal  hearts  devoted  to  his  cause,  it  is 
astonishing  that  no  one  should  have  shown 
himself  on  so  rueful  an  occasion.  Has  crime 
then  alone  the  privilege  of  conferring  audacity'' 
is  weakness  inseparable  from  virtue]  I  can- 
not believe  it,  although  every  thing  conspired 
to  favour  it  at  that  period,  when  the  bravest 
trembled  and  retired  into  secrecy." — Vol.  ii. 
pp.  13,  44. 

The  Girondists  were  far  from  reaping  the 
benefits  they  expected  from  the  death  of  the 
king;  Lanjuinais's  prophecy  in  this  respect 
proved  correct:  it  was  but  the  forerunner  of 
their  own  ruin. 

"The  death  of  Louis,  effected  by  a  combina- 
tion of  all  parties,  satisfied  none.  The  Giron- 
dists in  particular,  as  Lanjuinais  had  foretold, 
found  in  it  the  immediate  cause  of  their  ruin. 
Concessions  made  to  crime  benefit  none  but 
those  who  receive  them :  they  make  use  of 
them  and  speedily  forget  the  givers.  This  was 
soon  demonstrated ;  for  no  sooner  was  the  trial 
of  Louis  concluded  by  his  death,  than  the  Ja- 
cobins commenced  their  attacks  on  Roland,  th*" 
minister  of  the  interior,  with  such  vehemence., 
that  on  the  day  after  the  king's  execution  he 
sent  in  his  resignation. 

"The  Girondists  did  every  thing  in  their 
power  to  prevent  him  from  proceeding  to  this 
extremity:  his  wife  exerted  all  her  influence 
to  make  him  retain  his  situation,  offering  to 
share  all  his  labours,  and  take  upon  herself 
the  whole  correspondence.  It  was  all  in  vain: 
he  declared  that  death  Avould  be  preferable  to 
the  mortifications  he  had  to  undergo  ten  times 
a  day.  What  made  his  friends  so  anxious  to 
retain  him  was  their  conviction  that  they 
could  find  no  one  to  supply  his  place  They 
clearly  saAV  their  situation,  when  it  was  no 
longer    possible    to    apply   a  remedy.     The 


THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR. 


24V 


mountain,  strong  through  their  weakness, 
Dverwhchned  them :  already  it  broke  through 
every  restraint,  and  the  system  of  terror,  so 
well  organized  after  the  revolution  of  the  10th 
of  August,  was  put  into  full  activity." — Vol.ii. 
pp.  153,  154. 

It  has  never  yet  been  clearly  explained  how 
Robespierre  rose  to  the  redoubtable  power 
which  he  possessed  for  sixteen  months  before 
his  death.  His  contemporaries  are  unanimous 
in  their  declarations  that  his  abilities  were  ex- 
tremely moderate,  that  his  courage  was  doubt- 
ful, and  his  style  of  oratory  often  tiresome  and 
perplexed.  How,  if  all  this  be  true,  did  he 
succeed  in  rising  to  the  head  of  an  assembly 
composed  of  men  of  unquestioned  abilit}-,  and 
ruled  by  the  oldest  and  most  audacious  orators 
in  France  ]  How  did  he  compose  the  many 
and  admirable  speeches,  close  in  reasoning, 
energetic  in  thought,  eloquent  in  expression, 
which  he  delivered  from  the  tribune,  and  which 
history  has  preserved  to  illustrate  his  namel 
Supposing  them  to  have  been  written  by  others, 
how  did  he  maintain  his  authority  at  the  Ja- 
cobin Club,  whose  noctural  orgies  generally 
took  a  turn  which  no  previous  foresight  could 
have  imagined,  and  no  ordinary  courage  could 
withstand]  How  did  he  conduct  himself  in 
such  a  manner  as  to  destroy  all  his  rivals,  and, 
at  a  time  when  all  were  burning, with  ambi- 
tion, contrive  to  govern  France  with  an  au- 
thority unknown  to  Louis  XIV.'?  The  truth 
is,  Robespierre  must  have  been  a  man  of  most 
extraordinary  ability;  and  the  depreciatory 
testimony  of  his  contemporaries  probably  pro- 
ceeded from  that  envy  which  is  the  never-fail- 
ing attendant  of  sudden  and  unlooked-for  ele- 
vation. The  account  of  the  system  he  pursued, 
in  order  to  raise  himself  to  supreme  power,  is 
pregnant  with  instruction. 

"It  was  at  this  period  (March,  1793)  that 
Robespierre  began  to  labour  seriouslj^  at  the 
plan  which  was  destined  to  lead  him  to  the 
dictatorship.  It  consisted,  in  the  first  instance, 
in  getting  rid  of  the  Gironde  by  means  of  the 
Mountain  ;  and  secondly,  in  destroying  by  their 
aid  every  man  of  the  ancient  regime,  capable 
by  his  rank,  his  talent,  or  his  virtue,  of  stand- 
ing in  his  way.  It  was  indispensable  to  reduce 
to  his  own  level  all  the  heads  above  himself 
which  he  suffered  to  exist,  and  among  those 
which  it  was  necessary  to  cut  off,  he  ranked  in 
the  first  class  those  of  the  queen  and  of  Ega- 
lite.  Having  done  this,  his  next  object  was  to 
destroy  the  Mountain  itself:  he  resolved  to 
decimate  it  in  its  highest  summits,  in  such  a 
manner  that  he  alone  would  remain,  and  no- 
thing oppose  hi.s  govi?rning  France  with  abso- 
lute sway.  Robespierre  at  the  same  time  as- 
sailed with  mortal  anxiety  all  the  military  re- 
putations which  might  stand  in  his  way;  and, 
in  the  end,  death  delivered  him  from  every  ge- 
apral  from  whose  opposition  he  had  any  thing 
to  apprehend. 

"That  this  frightful  plan  existed,  is  but  too 
certain ;  that  it  was  executed  in  most  of  its 
parts,  is  historically  known.  That  it  did  not 
Anally  succeed,  was  mnrely  owing  to  the  cir- 
eumstance  that  the  Jacobins,  made  aware  nf 
their  danger  before  it  was  too  late,  assailed 
him  when  he  was  unprepared,  and  overturned 


him  in  a  moment  of  weakness."— Vol.  ii,  pp. 
192—195. 

Fouquier-Tinville,  the  well-known  public 
accuser  in  the  revolutionary  tribunal,  is  drawn 
in  the  following  graphic  terms  : — 

"  Fouquier-Tinville,  a  Picard  by  birth,  bom 
in  1747,  and  procurcur  in  the  court  of  the 
Chatelet,  exhibited  one  of  those  extraordinary 
characters  in  which  there  is  such  a  mixture  of 
bad  and  strange  qualities  as  to  be  almost  incon- 
ceivable. Gloomy,  cruel,  atrabilious:  the  un- 
sparing enemy  of  every  species  of  merit  or 
virtue ;  jealous,  artful,  vindictive  :  ever  ready 
to  suspect,  to  aggravate  the  already  overwhelm- 
ing dangers  of  innocence,  he  appeared  imper- 
vious to  every  feeling  of  compassion  or  equity; 
justice  in  his  estimation  consisted  in  condem- 
nation ;  an  acquittal  caused  him  the  most  se- 
vere mortification ;  he  was  never  happy  but 
when  he  had  sent  all  the  accused  to  the  scaf- 
fold: he  prosecuted  them  with  an  extreme 
ncharnement,  made  it  a  point  of  honour  to  repel 
their  defences:  if  they  were  firm  or  calm  in 
presence  of  the  judges  of  the  tribunal,  his  rage 
knew  no  bounds.  But  with  all  this  hatred  to 
what  generally  secures  admiration  and  esteem, 
he  showed  himself  alike  insensible  to  the  allure- 
ments of  fortune  and  the  endearments  of  do- 
mestic life :  he  was  a  stranger  to  every  species 
of  recreation:  women,  the  pleasures  of  the 
table,  the  theatres,  had  for  him  no  attractions. 
Sober  in  his  habits  of  life,  if  he  ever  became 
intoxicated,  it  was  with  the  commonest  kind 
of  Avine.  The  orgies  in  which  he  participated 
had  all  a  political  view,  as,  for  example,  to 
procure  ^  feu  de  file ;  on  such  occasions  he  was 
the  first  to  bring  together  the  judges  and  juries 
and  to  provoke  bacchanalian  orgies.  What  h3 
required  above  every  thing  was  human  blood. 

"  A  fcii,  de  file,  in  the  Jacobin  vocabulary 
was  the  condemnation  to  death  of  all  the  ac- 
cused. When  it  took  place,  the  countenance 
of  Fouquier  Tinville  became  radiant;  no  one 
could  doubt  that  he  was  completely  happy; 
and  to  attain  such  a  result  he  spared  no  pains. 
He  was,  to  be  sure,  incessanth'  at  work :  he 
went  into  no  society,  hardly  ever  showed  him- 
self at  the  clubs  :  it  was  not  there,  he  said,  that 
his  post  lay.  The  only  recreation  which  he 
allowed  himself  was  to  go  to  the  place  of  exe- 
cution, to  witness  the  pangs  of  his  victims: 
on  such  occasions  his  gratification  was  ex- 
treme. 

"Fouquier  Tinville  might  have  amassed  a 
large  fortune:  he  was,  on  the  contrary,  poor, 
and  his  wife,  it  is  said,  actually  died  of  starva- 
tion. He  lived  without  any  comlorts:  his 
whole  furniture,  sold  after  his  decease,  only 
produced  the  sum  of  five  hundred  francs.  He 
was  distinguished  by  the  appearance  of  po- 
verty and  a  real  contempt  of  numey.  No 
species  of  seduction  could  reach  him:  he  waj 
a  rock,  a  mass  of  steel,  insensible  lo  every 
thing  which  usually  touches  men,  to  beauty 
and  riches :  he  became  animated  only  at  the 
prospect  of  a  murder  which  might  be  com- 
mitted, anil  on  such  occasions  he  was  almosi 
handsome,  so  radiant  was  the  expression  of 
his  visage. 

"The  friend  of  Robespierre,  who  fully  ap 
predated  his  valuable  qualities,  he  was   ih 


248 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS   ESSAYS. 


I'epositorv  of  his  inmost  thoui^hts.  The  Dic- 
tator asked  liiin  one  day.  wliat  he  could  oiler 
him  most  attractive,  wiieii  supreme  power  was 
fully  concentrated  in' his  hands.  '  Kepose,' 
replied  Fouquier  Tinville,  'but  not  till  it  is 
proved  tliat  not  another  head  remains  to  fall; 
incessant  labour  till  then.'  "—Vol.  ii.  21G,  217. 

On  readinf^  these  and  similar  passages  re- 
garding the  Reign  of  Terror,  and  the  charac- 
ters which  then  rose  to  eminence,  one  is 
tempted  to  ask,  is  human  nature  the  same  un- 
der such  extraordinary  circumstances  as  in 
ordinary  times;  or  is  it  possible,  that  by  a 
certain  degree  of  political  excitement,  a  whole 
nation  may  go  mad,  and  murders  be  perpe- 
trated without  the  actors  being  in  such  a  state 
as  to  be  morally  responsible  for  their  actions  ] 
In  considering  this  question,  the  conclusion 
which  is  irresistibl}'  impressed  on  the  mind  by 
a  consideration  of  the  progress  of  the  French 
Revolution,  is,  that  the  error  lies  more  in  the 
head  than  in  the  heart,  and  that  it  is  by  the 
incessant  application  of  false  principles  to 
the  understanding,  that  the  atrocious  actions 
which  excite  the  astonishment  of  posterity  are 
committed.  Without  doubt  there  are  in  all 
troubled  times  a  host  of  wicked  and  aban- 
doned men,  who  issue  from  their  haunts, 
stimulated  by  cupidity,  revenge,  and  every 
evil  passion,  and  seek  to  turn  the  public  cala- 
mities to  their  individual  advantage.  But 
neither  the  leaders  nor  the  majority  of  their 
followers  are  composed  of  such  men.  The 
■polUkal  fanatics,  those  who  do  evil  that  good 
may  come, — who  massacre  in  the  name  of  hu- 
manity, and  imprison  in  that  of  public  free- 
dom,— these  are  the  men  who  are  most  to  be 
dreaded,  and  who,  in  general,  acquire  a  peril- 
ous sway  over  the  minds  of  their  fellow  citi- 
zens. When  vice  appears  in  its  native 
deformity,  it  is  abhorred  by  all :  it  is  by  as- 
suming the  language  and  working  upon  the 
feelings  of  virtue  that  it  acquires  so  fatal  an 
ascendant,  and  that  men  are  led  to  commit  the 
most  atrocious  actions,  in  the  belief  that  they 
are  performing  the  most  sacred  of  duties.  The 
worst  characters  of  the  Revolution  who  sur- 
vived the  scaffold,  were  found  in  private  life 
to  have  their  humanity  unimpaired,  and  to  lead 
peaceable  and  inolTensive  lives.  Barrere  is 
now,  or  was  very  recently,  at  Brussels,  where 
his  time  is  devoted  to  declaiming  on  the  ne- 
cessity of  entirely  abolishing  capital  punish- 
ments ;  and  yet  Barrere  is  the  man  who  pro- 
posed the  famous  decree  for  the  annihilation 
of  Lyons,  beginning  with  the  words  "Lyons 
faisait  la  guerre  a,  la  liberie :  Lyons  n'est 
plus;"  and  constantly  affirmed,  that  "le  vais- 
'♦"au  de  la  Revolution  ne  peut  arriver  au  port 
que  sur  une  ocean  du  sang." 

The  origin  and  composiiion  of  the  famous 
Commitlee  of  Public  Safely,  and  the  manner  in 
which  it  gradually  engrossed  the  whole  powers 
of  the  state,  and  became  concentrated  in  the 
persons  of  the  Triumvirate,  arc  thus  given: 

"It  was  on  the  Gth  April,  17'J3,"  says  our 
author,  "that  the  terrible  Committee  of  Public 
Safety  was  constituted:  which  speedily  drew 
10  itself  all  the  powers  in  the  state.  It  did  not 
manifest  its  ambition  at  the  outset:  it  was 
jseful  at  starting:  it  exhibited  no  symptoms 


of  an  ambitious  disposition,  but  that  pruden 
conduct  ceased  after  the  great  revolt  of  31  si 
May.  Then  the  Convention,  its  committees/ 
and  in  an  especial  manner  that  of  General 
Safety,  fell  under  the  yoke  of  the  Committee 
of  Public  Safety,  which  performed  the  part  of 
the  Council  of  Ten  and  the  Three  inquisitors 
in  the  Venetian  state.  Its  power  was  mon- 
strous, because  it  was  in  some  sort  concealed; 
because  amidst  the  multitude  of  other  com- 
mittees it  veiled  its  acts  ;  because,  renewing 
itself  perpetually  among  men  of  the  same 
stamp,  it  constantly  destroyed  the  personal  re- 
sponsibility of  its  members,  though  its  mea- 
sures were  ever  the  same. 

"  The  Committee  of  Public  Safety  terminated 
by  being  concentrated,  not  in  the  whole  of  its 
members,  but  in  three  of  their  number.  Robes- 
pierre was   the  real  chief,  but  half  concealed 
from  view ;  the  two  others  were  Coulhon  and  ■ 
St.  Just.    There  was  between  these  monsters  ! 
a  perfect  unanimity  down  to  the  moment  of  , 
their  fall:  in  proportion  as  the  Mountain  was 
divided  and  its  chiefs  perished,  the  alliance  ■ 
between  them  became  more  firmly  cemented. 
I  have  every  reason  to  believe  that  they  had 
resolved  to  perpetuate  their  power  in  unison, 
and   under   the   same   title  which  Bonaparte 
afterwards    adopted    at   the    ISth    Brumaire. 
Robespierre,  Couthon,   and   St.. Just  were  to' 
have  formed  a  supreme  council  of  three  con- 
suls.  The  first,  with  the  perpetual  presidency, 
was  to  have  been  intrusted  with  the  depart- 
ments of  the  exterior,  of  justice,  and  of  the 
finances :  Couthon  was   to  have  had  the  in- 
terior; and  St.  Just  the  war  portfolio,  which 
suited  his  belligerent  inclination." — p.  229. 

One  of  the  most  singular  circumstances  in 
all  civil  convulsions,  when  they  approach  a 
crisis,  is  the  mixed  and  distracted  feelings  of 
the  great  majorit}'',  even  of  the  actors,  in  the 
anxious  scenes  which  are  going  forward.  A 
signal  instance  occurred  on  occasion  of  the 
revolt  of  31st  May,  which  overturned  the  Gi- 
rondists, and  openly  established  the  supremacy 
of  the  armed  force  of  Paris  over  the  National 
Convention.  This  eventful  crisis  is  thus  power- 
fully described  by  our  author : — 

"  The  assembly,  in  a  body,  rose  to  present 
itself  at  the  great  gate  to  go  out  upon  the  Place 
de  Carousel.  We  were  all  uncovered,  in  token 
of  the  danger  of  the  country:  the  president 
alone  wore  his  hat.  The  officers  of  the  as- 
sembly preceded  him :  he  ordered  them  t 
clear  a  passage.  Henriot,  at  that  decisive 
moment,  breaking  out  into  open  revolt,  ad- 
vanced on  horseback  at  the  head  of  his  aides- 
de-camp.  He  drew  his  sabre  and  addressed 
us  in  a  tone,  the  arrogance  of  which  was  de- 
serving of  instant  punishment — 'You  have  ni> 
orders  to  give  here,'  said  he,  '  return  to  yonr 
posts,  and  surrender  the  rebellious  deputies  to 
the  people.'  Some  amongst  us  insisted:  the 
president  commanded  his  officers  to  seize  that 
rebel.  Henriot  retired  fifteen  paces,  and  ex- 
claimed: '  Cannoniers,  to  your  pieces!'  Tli 
troops  that  surrounded  him  at  the  same  time 
made  preparations  to  charge  us.  Already  the 
muskets  were  raised  to  take  aim,  the  hussars 
drew  their  sabres,  the  artillerymen  inclined 
their  lighted  matches  towards  their  pieces.  .^' 


THE  REIGN  OF  TERUoR. 


two 


liis  spectacle,  Ilcrault  dc  Sechcllcs,  the  prcsi- 
(•nt,  was  disconccrlcd,  turned  about,  and  we 

■  wed  him.     He  went  to  all  the  other  f^ates, 

wed  bj-  the  t^amc  escort:  traversed  the 
irdens  of  the  Tuileries,  and  tlie  Place  de 
arousel,  in  vain  seeking  to  escape  :  at  every 
sae  a  barrier  of  cannon  and  bayonets  opposed 
IS  exit. 

"At  the  same  time, — who  would  believe  it! 
e  greater  part  of  the  troops,  with  their  hats 
1  the  point  of  their  ba3-oncts,  were  shouting: 
rive  la  Convention  Nationale!'  'Vive  la 
f  publique !'  '  Peace — Laws — a  Constitution  !' 
inie  cried  out:  'Vive  la  Montagne!'  a  still 
nallor  imi;  iler,' A  la  mort  Brissot,  Gensonne, 
ergniaii  I.  (niadet!'  A  few  voices  exclaimed, 
'urge  the  Convention!  let  the  blood  of  the 
icked  How  !"— Pp.  379,  380. 
Vet  though  the  opinions  of  the  national 
lard,  the  armed  force  of  Paris,  were  thus 
vided,  and  a  minority  only  supported  the 
olcnt  measures  of  Hcnriot  and  the  insurgents, 
is  minoritj',  by  the  mere  force  of  unity  of 
tion,  triumphed  over  all  the  others,  and 
ade  their  unwilling  fellow-soldiers  the  in- 
Timents  in  imposing  violence  on  the  Icgisla- 
re,  and  dragging  its  most  illustrious  mem- 
rs  to  prison.  Such  was  the  French  Revo- 
tion ;  and  such  is  the  ascendency  which  in 
I  extreme  cases  of  public  agitation  is  acquired 

audacious,  united  wickedness,  over  irre- 
lute,  (!ivi<i>^d  virtue. 

It  is  in!"i  .'Sting  to  examine  the  line  of  con- 
ct  adopted  by^the  moderate  members  of  the 
scmbly  after  this    crisis,  which   prostrated 

leL'i^latiire  before  the  municipality  and 
me'!  :  of  Paris.     The  author  gives  us 

I  ;    account  of  the    principles    by 

jich  he  himself  and  the  majority  of  the  mem- 
rs  were  actuated : — 

"OverwlKliiK'd  with  consternation  as  all  men 
pr'  !>y  the  audacity  of  the  revolu- 

ni  vinced  of  our  impotence  at 

I  It  tiiip',  (lor  virtue  has   but  feeble  nerves, 
'!  none  of  that  vigour  which  was  manifested 

I I  only  by  aniir|uitv.  but  even  by  our  fathers.) 

"I  ■      ■    ■  •     , 

IIS  than  a  siicnt, 

.11  the  end  might 

ite  til  1.     if  all  whom  the  fury  of  the  Moun* 

n  had  '.     ^f 

e  mil- 

d,  ■  tll.i 

1  V   :  -V.  I 

lolvcd  to  assume  the  np, 

IltT'Trrir.', --        ■':  '■  ill'- .li   . 

I  many  n  .  and  k' 

■  hop'-  of  fiiiaily  uveiluruiiig  that  abuiiuiia- 

•  tvr.innv. 

'11.1'.  d  this  rejiohnion,  I  immrili- 

ly  p!  "■■''n  it.     I  ••  ' 

th*-  a  i  I  il  with 

ing   SI-  'T.     1    livd   (III 

ins     .  ;  •    wuh    Danlnn, 

'  llien.  thr  l  ihat  by 

I  •  aid  of  th< .i,  .  ,     .    ii,  I  wa.i 

'pared  for  every  storm  which  van  approach* 

» 
»■ 

'This  line  of  condurt,  whirli  w.m  nnmueii 
I  t)ie  same  time  by  Durand.  dirau.  liupuis, 


Demartin,  and  a  number  o»  others,  perfectly 
succeeded.  We  were  soon  fortrottcn,  while 
the  remnants  of  the  Jac«)bin  f.  i| 

each  other  without  nvrcy;  w<-  ,        ■  t 

over  in  silence  for  fifteen  months,  and  that 
happy  stale  of  oblivion  proved  our  salvation  ; 
for  all  at  once,  changing  our  tactics,  and  de- 
claring against  Robespierre,  ot  "-cted 
vote  gave  his  opponents  the  ,  and 
soon  drew  after  it  the  whole  Assemiiiy.  In  less 
than  an  hour  after  it  was  given,  wc  became 
an  authority  which  it  was  necessary  to  con- 
sult, and  which,  continually  ii.  .  '  ->- 
cause  it  had  struck  in  at  the  forti  it, 
spcedilj'  made  itself  master  of  thai  Miiniine 
authority  which  the  Jacobins  were  no  luii'i-r 
in  a  condition  to  dispute. 

"I  know  that  our  conduct  is  blame;!,  and 
was  blamed  by  many  persons.  A  number  of 
knights  of  the  saloon  exclaim  against  it :  I  will 
only  ask,  which  of  them,  with  all  their  boast- 
ing, did  any  thing  useful  at  the  fail  of  Robes- 
pierre ? 

"It  is  necessary  in  difTiciilt  times  to  dis- 
tinguish obstinate  folly  from  mi';i  "  ',•; 
there  would  be  no  wisdom  in  lo 
overthrow  the  pyramids  of  Egypt  by  striking 
them  with  the  hand  :  but  in  beginning  with  the 
upper  tier,  and  successively  pulling  down  all 
those  which  compose  the  mass,  the  object 
might  be  accomplished." — Vol.  iii.  p.  78. 

This  passage  involves  a  question  of  the 
utmost  moment  to  all  true  patriots  in  periods 
of  public  danger  from  civil  convulsion  ;  which 
is,  what  should  be  their  conduct  when  they  are 
openly  assailed  by  an  anarchical  faction  !  The 
answer  to  this  is  to  be  found  in  the  situation 
of  the  parties,  at  the  time  when  the  collision 
takes  place.  If  supreme  authority,  that  of  the 
armed  force,  has  not  passed  into  the  hands  of 
the  anarchists,  ever)'  effort  should  be  made  lo 
retain  it  in  the  possession  f 

properly ;  but  if  that  is  iinpi'  .l 

pursued  by  these  members  ol  the  Convention 
at  that  period  is  not  only  the  mo'-'  '■"'  '  "t.  but 
in  the  end  the  most  useful.    To  ron- 

.■■r"  is  a  i^  "  ■-'■  '  •  'i- 

.  as  to  I  .  / 

ol  a  naliiui  arc  so  :  e 

in<'-'i!>ittl>*  i>r  :ini>ri'i  :ij 

it  1  •  for  the  :  >' 

•-,   tii;il   a 

•.I. 
'I'll-  i  - 

"TIf    I.      ,       :    1      ^  ;-  'li, 

■•n  the  patriotic  party  artrd  wiih  i- 

•• •  '  ■        • .u 


vernrd   wilii    the  inosit    despoiic    i  i 

' •■•'•■•■'•,•  for  the  •.•'-  •   •• 

t  lived  I 
■-  ..|    w ii.it   It  ■ 

' "T  it  arc  II  '" 

th'Mr  utmoHt  to  prrvrnt  • 

vcrnrn'-nt,  of  whatever  

ever  quarter,  should  be  ei  '• 

rnrr.     T'  '  ■•  iii.iii  »n.>  -ii"U,J 

brine  : 
"\'c9,  I  repeal  U:  ibai  cm  has  np  re^eta 


a&o 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


blance  to  any  other.  I  have  seen  the  dcspot- 
ism  of  Napoleon  •  I  have  witnessed  the  terror 
of  1815;  paltry  imitations  of  those  tremendous 
years  !  France  in  1793  and  1794  was  furrowed 
in  every  direction  by  the  revolutionary  thun- 
der; the  most  insignificant  commune  ha<l  its 
denouncers  and  its  executioners.  Kidicule 
was  frequently  joined  to  atrocity.  Recollect 
that  village  of  the  Limousin,  from  the  top  of 
whose  steeple  the  tricolour  flag  suddenly  dis- 
appeared. A  violent  disturbance  was  in- 
stantly raised;  search  was  made  for  the  daring 
ofl^ender,  who  could  not  be  found,  and  in  con- 
sequence a  dozen  persons  were  instantly  ar- 
rested on  suspicion.  At  length  the  fragments 
of  the  flag  were  discovered  suspended  from  the 
branches  of  a  tree,  and  it  was  found  that  a 
magpie  had  made  its  nest  with  the  remains  of 
the  national  colour.  Oh,  the  tyrannical  bird  ! 
they  seized  it,  cut  off  its  head,  and  transmitted 
the  proces  verbal  to  the  Convention.  We  re- 
ceived it  without  bursting  into  laughter:  had 
any  one  ventured  to  indulge  himself  in  that 
way,  he  would  have  run  the  risk  of  perishing 
on  the  public  scaffold. 

"  The  Jacobins  were  not  ashamed  to  propose 
to  us,  and  we  passed  into  a  law  the  decree, 
which  awarded  50  francs  to  every  girl  who 
should  any  how  become  a  mother.  This 
abominable  demoralization  flowed  naturally 
from  the  manners  of  that  period.  They  made 
a  Goddess  of  Reason,  whose  altar  was  the 
scaffold.  They  there  sacrificed  to  crime  by 
massacring  virtue;  nothing  sacred  or  respect- 
able remained :  things  arrived  at  length  at  such 
a  point,  that  the  denunciation  of  the  innocent 
was  recommended  as  a  duty  to  sons,  friends, 
and  servants ;  in  a  word,  there  was  no  degree 
of  degradation  to  which  we  did  not  descend." — 
Vol.  iii.  pp.  42,  43. 

It  is  well  known  that  when  the  Duke  of 
Orleans  was  sent  to  the  scaflbld,  he  was  de- 
tained nearly  ten  minutes  opposite  to  the  Palais 
Royal,  for  no  intelligible  reason  which  has  yet 
been  divulged.  The  following  explanation  of 
that  circumstance,  which  our  author  says  he 
received  from  Tallien,  is  new  to  us;  we  give 
it  as  we  find  it,  without  either  vouching  for  or 
discrediting  its  truth. 

"It  was  not  without  full  consideration  that 
Robespierre  formed  his  plan  in  regard  to  the 
Duke  of  Orleans,  which  consisted  in  this: — 
two  presidents  were  to  be  established  for 
France ;  the  one  tn  preside  over  the  war  depart- 
ment, the  other  over  the  interior;  the  one  was 
to  execute,  the  other  to  direct.  The  first  of 
these  places  was  destined,  not  for  Egalite,  but 
for  his  son,  whose  character  was  unsullied; 
the  second  was  to  be  occupied  by  Robespierre 
himself.  But  to  cement  this  alliance,  Robes- 
pierre insisted  as  a  nine  qua  non  that  the  daugh- 
ter of  Egalile  should  be  given  to  him  in  mar- 
riage. The  proposition  was  made  by  Couthon, 
and  Egalit6  consulted  his  son  upon  it,  whose 
resolution  was  deci<iedly  opposed  to  the  alli- 
ance It  was  accordingly  refused,  with  every 
affectation  of  regret  on  the  part  of  the  Duke  of 
Orleans;  and  thereafter  Robespierre's  indigna- 
tion knew  no  bounds  The  proposition,  how- 
ever, was  afterwards  renewed  through  Tallien, 
who    had  many  pecuniary  connections  with 


Egalite,  but  with  no  better  success.  He 
evinced  an  invincible  repugnance  to  such  a 
son-in-law.  'In  that  resolution,' said  Tallien,! 
'I  clearly  saw  the  prince  of  the  blood;  he  was 
deaf  to  all  the  offers  and  considerations  of 
advantage  which!  pointed  out.' 

"After  Tallien  had  received  this  posilirj 
refusal,  he  returned  to  his  constituent,  who  was 
immediately  seized  with  a  violent  fit  of  rage, 
and  swore  to  avenge  the  affront  by  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  whole  family.  Every  one  knows 
hoM',  in  consequence,  he  forced  Dumourier  to 
throw  off  the  mask,  and  from  that  incident  de- 
duced the  flight  of  young  Egalit(i  from  the  king 
dom,  and  the  arrest  of  his  fathen  After  he 
was  imprisoned,  Robespierre  let  him  know  that 
his  fate  would  be  different  if  he  would  recon- 
sider his  refusal.  The  answer  was  still  in  the 
negative;  the  rage  of  the  Jacobin  then  knew 
no  bounds,  and  he  decided  upon  the  prompt 
execution  of  his  intended  father-in-law.  At  the 
last  moment,  a  new  proposal  was  made, 
according  to  Tallien's  statement;  and  if  Egal- 
ite, when  the  fatal  car  was  stopped  opposite' 
the  Palais  Royal,  had  made  a  signal  to  indicate 
that  he  now  acquiesced,  the  means  of  extri- 
cating him  from  punishment  by  means  of  a 
popular  insurrection  were  prepared.  He  still 
refused  to  make  the  signal,  and  after  waiting 
ten  minutes,  Robespierre  was  obliged  to  let 
him  proceed  to  the  scaffold.  I  give  the  story 
as  Tallien  related  it  to  me,  without  vouching 
for  its  truth;  but  it  is  well  known  that  this 
was  not  the  only  alliance  with  the  royal  family 
which  Robespierre  was  desirous  of  contractp 
ing,  and  which  would  have  covered  with  stiU; 
greater  infani}'  the  Bourbon  race." — Vol.  iii 
179,  180. 

There  is  no  character  so  utterly  worthless, 
that  some  redeeming  point  or  other  is  not  to  be 
found  in  it.  The  Duke  of  Orleans  has  hitherto 
oeen  considered  as  one  of  the  most  abandoned 
of  the  human  race  ;  and  the  eye  of  impartial 
history  could  find  nothing  to  rest  on,  except, 
the  stoicism  of  his  death,  to  counterbalance  the 
ignominy  of  his  life.  If  the  anecdote  here  told 
be  true,  however,  another  and  a  nobler  trait 
remains  ;  and  the  picture  of  the  first  prince  of 
the  blood  standing  between  death  and  an  alli- 
ance Avith  the  tyrant  of  his  country,  and  pre- 
ferring the  forrner,  may  be  set  off  against  hi-; 
criminal  vote  for  the  death  of  Louis,  and  trai: 
mit  his  name  to  posterity  with  a  lesser  load  e; 
infamy  than  has  hitherto  attached  to  it. 

The  worship  of  the  Goddess  of  Reason  has 
past  into  a  proverb.  Here  is  the  description 
of  the  initiatory  "festival"  in  honour  of  the 
goddess. 

"  The  day  after  the  memorable  sitting  when 
the  Christian  religion  was  abolished,  the  Fes- 
tival of  Reason  was  celebrated  in  Notre  D3^l^ 
which  became  the  temple  of  the  new  divinii.''- 
The  most  distinguished  ariists  of  the  capita', 
musicians  and  singers,  were  enjoined  to  as^. 
at  the  ccremonj',  under  pain  of  being  con- 
sidered suspected  and  treated  as  such,  "rhe 
wife  of  Monmoro  represented  the  new  divinity; 
four  men.  dressed  in  scarict,  carried  her  on 
their  shoulders,  seated  in  a  gilt  chair  adorned 
with  garlands  of  oak.  She  had  a  scarlet  cap 
on  her  head  a  blue  mantle  over  her  shoulders^ 


THE  KEIGN  OF  TERROR. 


8B1 


•  white  tunic  covered  her  body;  in  one  hand 

ihe  held  a  pike,  in  the  other  au  oaken  branch. 

.lefore  her  marched  younij  women  clothed  in 

f.hite,  with  tricolour  girdles  and  crowned  with 

owers.     The  legislature  with  red  caps,  and 

le  deputies  of  the  sections  brought  up  the 

ear. 

"The  cortege  traversed  Paris  from  the  hall 

f  the  Convention  to  IS'otre  Dame.    There  the 

(xldess  was  elevated  on  the  hiijh  altar,  where 

he  received  successively  the  adoration  of  all 

resent,  while  the  young  women  filled  the  air 

ilh  incense  and  perfumes.     Hymns  in  honour 

f  the  occasion  were  sung,  a  discourse  pro- 

ounced,  and  every  one  retired,  the  goddess  no 

>:iger  borne  aloft,  but  on  foot  or  in  a  hackney 

oach,  I  forget  which. 

"  The  most  odious  part  of  the  ceremony  con- 
isted  in  this,  that  while  the  worship  of  the 
oddess  was  going  on  in  the  nave  and  in  the 
mctuarv,  every  chapel  round  the  cathedral, 
arefully  veiled  by  means  of  tapestry  hangings, 
scame  the  scene  of  drunkenness,  licentious- 
ess  and  obscenity.  No  words  can  convey  an 
lea  of  the  scene ;  those  who  witnessed  it  alone 
in  form  a  conception  of  the  mixture  of  disso- 
iteness  and  blasphemy  which  took  place.  Pros- 
tates abounded  in  every  quarter;  the  mysteries 
"  Lesbos  and  Gnidos  were  celebrated  without 
lame  before  assembled  multitudes.  The 
ling  made  so  much  noise  that  it  roused  the 
idignation  of  Robespierre  himself;  and  oq  the 
ly  of  the  execution  of  Chaumette,  who  had 
resided  over  the  ceremony,  he  said  that  he 
iserved  death  if  it  was  only  for  the  abomi- 
itions  he  had  permitted  on  that  occasion." — 
ol.  iii.  p.  19.5,  196. 

The  concluding  months   of  the   Reign   of 
error  are  thus  vividly  depicted: — 
"  I  have  now  arrived  at  the  solen&n  period 
hen  the  evil  rapidly  attained  ito  height,  by 
f  human  events,  which 
r  after  a  limited  period, 
h  not  wiihf)ut  leavinsj  on  some  occasions 
.,,  .ri.s  of  it^j  passage.    The  revolution- 
daily  increased,  in  consequence 
of  the    '  '        rppirators  of 

would  1.  d  that  these 

had  but  one  body,  one  soul,  to  surh 
were  they  united  in  their  nclionn.    The 
:i  in  the  Assembly,  the  Committees  of 
iu:  ■'.•  and  of  (Jrnnr.  '  ^    ' 

u  V  ■  Revolutionary  I 

of  Paris,  Ihe  (v'lubs  of  liie  J.icoIhim 


shaken  ;  and  all  the  youih  of  the  kingdom 
driven  to  the  frontiers,  less  to  uphold  the  in- 
tegrity of  France,  than  to  protect  them':i'lvcs 
against  the  ju^t  vengeance  which  awaii'-d  iliem 
both  within  and  without. 

"All  bowed  the  neck  before  this  gigantic 
assemblage  of  wickedness;  virtue  resigned 
itself  to  death  or  dishonour.     'I"  is  no 

medium  between  falling  the  v  .  ,   such 

atrocities  or  taking  a  part  in  thnm.  A  uni- 
versal disquietude,  a  permanent  anxiety  settled 
over  the  realm  of  France;  encriry  appeared 
only  in  the  extremity  of  rcsi:,^lntlon  ;  it  was 
evident  that  everj'  Frenchman  pri  lerrcd  death 
to  the  effort  of  resistance,  and  that  the  nation 
would  submit  to  this  horrid  yoke  as  long  as  it 
pleased  the  Jacobins  to  keep  it  on. 

"  Was  then  all  hope  of  an  amelioration  of 
our  lot  finally  lost? — Unquestionably  it  was, 
if  it  had  depended  only  on  the  efforts  of  the 
virtuous  classes;  but  as  it  is  the  natural  effect 
of  suffering  to  induce  a  remedy,  so  it  was  id 
the  shock  of  the  wicked  among  themselves 
that  our  only  hope  of  salvation  remained ;  and 
although  nearly  a  year  was  destined  to  elapse 
before  this  great  consummation  was  effected, 
yet  from  the  beginning  of  1794,  men  gifted 
with  foresight  began  to  hope  that  heaven 
would  at  length  have  pity  on  them,  throw  the 
apple  of  discord  among  their  enemies,  and 
strike  them  with  that  judicial  blindness  which 
is  the  instruinent  it  makes  use  of  to  punish 
men  and  nations." — Vol.  iii.  p.  230. 

The  first  great  symptom  of  this  approaching 
discord  was  the  quarrel  between  Danton  and 
Robespierre,  which  terminated  in  the  df'sinic- 
tion  of  the  former.    It  was  impossi!  wo 

such    characters,  both    eminently    .  is, 

and  bo'.h  strongly  entrenched  in  popular  attach- 
ment, could  long  continue  to  hold  on  their 
course  together;  when  their  common  enemies 
were   destroyed,  and   the    :  ■■(  the 

Revolution  scattered,  they  If  i  upon 

each  other.  It  is  the  strongest  proof  of  the 
ability  of  Robespierre  that  he  wn^  ('•'■•  '■>  crush 
an  adversary  who  had  the  pre<  t  lum 

in  the  path  of  popularity,  who  j  aiy 

brilliant  qualities  of  which   h'-  >•; 

whose  voice  of  ihiindiT  had  k 

terror  into  the  en'mus  of  the  li. i;id 

who  wa.1  .supported  by  a  large  and  powerful 

irty  in  the  capital.    It  is  in  \  irh 

,  a<'hi''V»'rn»'f)l.  f'>  "pTtk  of  ihr  e 

ol  '  r  the  irilaiin  ol  hn 

sj  1  t  IS  lluis  drsi-ril>ed 

— Rol)cspierr«'  -T  the  asseniMy  on 

occasion  of  tin-  imj'iarum'nt  of  his  rival. 

"'Thf    Orlrnns   pnriv  was   ihi*   first  which 

•IS 


Paris,  Ihe 
Cordeliers;   all,   accordm:^'   t.i   their 
ffTcnl  destinations,  conspired  vrly 

bring  about  the  death  of  the  kin;:,  '   - 

row  rif  thn  monarchy;  thm  all   ih- 
)p"  in  ;  fni.'i: 

e    < .  who,    ii 

ults,  and  even  their  crimes,  were,  fairly 
lough,  entitled  to  l>c  placed  comparatively 
nong  the  upright  characters  of  the  Con- 
rn.:oii. 

"  This  combinalinn  nf  wicked  men  had  fille'! 
rancc  with  terrror;  by  ih^m  opulml  cilics 
ere  overturned  ;  the  Inb  ■'.■!  >- i    •■f  i'"  ........ 

unes  decimated ;  the  > 

'  nifans  of     '         '         ' 

;riciiltnrr,  ■ 

e  foundationi  of  every  »i»ccica  of^ properly  j  ctlorts  of  his  partisans  to  ruio 


s»- 

hoi 

circuiii 


That   cnmin.il   parly 

•ilways  avail'" !  •• 
.111(1  the  re! 

'i'lirni  ■ 
;,'    lo     di 

I  forcp.  It  sank  bclore  Ihe  rn> 
<-.,it.  ...  I  .,,,).i,r  virtue.   In  .i  . 
nces.  Orleans  f.i 


<l 


IC 

f 

■,» 

■'? 

..pen 
d 

ir 

-e 

■')• 
lite  cwuri  hii 


253 


ALISON'S   MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


enemy,  and  preserve  the  throne ;  but  the  fall 
of  the  one  necessarily  drew  after  it  that  of  the 
other. No  ro)'alist  could  endure  a  parricide. 

"'A  new  scene  opens. — The  opinion  of  the 
people  was  so  strongly  opposed  to  royalty,  that 
it  became  impossible  to  maintain  it  openly. 
Then  the  Orleans  party  dissembled  anew;  it 
was  they  who  proposed  the  banishment  of  the 
Bourbons.  That  policj^,  however,  could  not 
resist  the  energy  of  the  partisans  of  the  Revo- 
lution. In  vain  did  Dumourier,  the  friend  of 
kings  and  of  Orleans,  make  his  calculations 
the  policy  of  Brissot  and  his  accomplices  was 
som  sef  5  through. — It  was  a  king  of  the  Or- 
leans family  that  they  wished  ;  thenceforward 
no  hope  of  peace  to  the  republic  till  the  last 
of  their  partisans  has  expired. 

"'Danton!  you  shall  answer  to  inflexible 
justice.  Let  us  examine  your  past  conduct. 
Accomplice  in  every  criminal  enterprise,  you 
ever  espoused  the  cause  which  was  adverse  to 
freedom;  you  intrigued  alike  with  Mirabeau 
and  Dumourier,  with  Hebert  and  Herault  de 
Sechelles.  Danton !  you  have  made  yourself 
the  slave  of  tyranny;  you  opposed  Lafayette, 
it  is  true,  but  Mirabeau,  Orleans,  Dumourier, 
did  the  same.  It  was  by  the  influence  of  Mira- 
beau that  you  were  appointed  administrator 
of  the  Department  of  Paris.  Mirabeau,  who 
meditated  a  change  of  dynasty,  felt  the  value 
c£  your  audacity,  and  secured  it;  you  then 
abandoned  all  your  former  principles,  and 
nothing  more  was  heard  of  you  till  the  massa- 
cre in  the  Champ  de  Mars.  What  shall  I  say 
of  your  cowardly  desertion  of  the  public  inte- 
rest in  every  crisis,  where  you  uniformly 
adopted  the  party  of  retreating.' 

"  At  the  conclusion  of  this  incomprehensible 
tirade,  he  proposed  that  Camille  Desmoulins, 
Herault,  Danton,  Lacroix,  Philippaux,  convict- 
ed of  accession  to  the  conspiracy  of  Dumou- 
rier, should  be  sent  to  the  revolutionary  tri- 
bunal. 

"  Not  one  voice  ventured  to  raise  itself  in 
favour  of  the  accused.  Their  friends  trembled 
and  were  silent.  The  decree  passed  unani- 
mously, and  with  every  expression  of  enthusi- 
asm. The  galleries  imitated  us:  and  from 
those  quarters,  from  whence  so  often  had 
issued  bursts  of  applause  in  favour  of  Danton, 
now  were  heard  only  fierce  demands  for  his 
head.  This  is  the  ordinary  march  of  the 
public  mind  during  a  revolution.  Fervid  ad- 
miration of  no  one  is  of  long  duration :  a 
breath  establishes,  a  breath  undoes  it.  In 
France  this  change  was  experienced  in  its 
turn  by  every  leader  of  the  Mountain. — Vol.  iii. 
p.  338. 

The  final  struggle  which  led  to  the  over- 
throw of  Robespierre  has  exercised  the  talents 
of  many  historians.  None  have  given  it  in 
more  vivid  terms  than  our  author: — 

"The  battalions  of  the  sections,  who  had 
been  convoked  by  the  emissaries  sent  into  the 
tlifl^erent  quarters  of  Paris,  arrived  successively 
sit  the  Tuileries  around  the  National  Assem- 
bly. Tallien  said  to  the  chief  of  the  civic 
force — '  Depart,  and  Avhen  the  sun  rises,  may 
he  not  shine  on  one  conspirator  in  Paris.' 

"The  night  was  dark;  the  moon  was  in  its 
ftrst  quarter ;  but  the  public  anxiety  had  sup- 


plied that  defect  by  a  general  illumination. 
The  defenders  of  the  National  Convention 
followed  the  line  of  the  quay,  bringing  with 
them  several  pieces  of  cannon ;  they  marched 
in  silence.  Impressed  with  the  grandeur  of 
their  mission,  they  sustained  each  other's  cou^ 
rage  without  the  aid  of  the  vociferations  anu 
exclamations  which  are  the  resource  of  those 
who  march  to  pillage  and  disorder. 

"  The  place  in  front  of  the  H6tel-de-Ville 
was  filled  with  detachments  of  the  national 
guard  attached  to  the  cause  of  the  insurgents, 
companies  of  cannoniers  and  squadrons  of 
gendarmerie,  aud  with  a  multitude  of  indivi- 
duals, some  armed,  others  not,  all  inflamed 
with  the  most  violent  spirit  of  Jacobinism,  o» 
perhaps  in  secret  sacrificing  to  fear. 

"  Leonard  Bourdon,  who  was  uncertain  whe- 
ther he  should  commence  hostilities  by  at  once 
attacking  the  difl^erent  groups  assembled  on 
the  place,  before  coming  to  that  extremity  re- 
solved to  despatch  an  agent  of  the  Committee 
of  Public  Safety,  named  Dulac,  a  courageous 
man,butnotapt  unnecessarily  to  expose  his  life. 
Dulac  did  so,  and  read  to  the  assembled  crowd 
the  decree  of  the  Convention  which  declared 
Robespierre  and  his  associates  hors  la  hi.  Im- 
mediately, the  greater  part  of  those  who  were 
assembled  came  over  and  arranged  themselves 
with  the  forces  of  the  Convention.  Bourdon, 
however,  still  hesitated  to  advance,  as  the  re- 
port was  spread  that  the  Hotel-de-Vilie  was 
undermined,  and  that,  rather  than  surrender, 
the  conspirators  would  blow  it  and  themselves 
in  the  air.  Bourdon  therefore  kept  his  posi- 
tion and  remained  in  suspense. 

"  Meanwhile  every  thing  in  the  Hotel-de- 
Ville  was  in  a  state  of  the  utmost  agitation. 
Irresolution,  conti-adictory  resolutions  pre- 
vailed. Robespierre  had  never  wielded  a  sa- 
bre ;  St.  Just  had  dishonoured  his ;  Henriot, 
almost  drunk,  knew  not  what  to  do.  The  mu- 
nicipal guards,  a  troop  well  accustomed  to 
march  towards  crime,  were  stupified  when 
they  in  their  turn  became  the  objects  of  attack. 
All  seemed  to  expect  death,  without  having 
energy  enough  to  strive  to  avert  it  by  victory. 

"  At  this  crisis  Payen  read  to  the  conspira- 
tors the  decree  of  the  Convention  which  de- 
clared them  hors  la  hi,  and  included  in  the  list 
the  names  of  all  those  in  the  galleries  who 
were  applauding  their  proceedings.  The  rnse 
was  eminently  successful,  for  no  sooner  did 
these  noisy  supporters  hear  their  names  read 
over  in  the  fatal  list,  than  they  dropped 'off 
one  by  one,  and  in  a  short  time  the  galleries 
were  empty.  They  soon  received  a  melan- 
choly proof  how  completely  they  were  desert- 
ed. Henriot  in  consternation  descended  the 
stairs  to  harangue  the  cannoniers,  upon  whose 
fidelity  every  thing  now  depended.  All  had 
disappeared ;  the  place  was  deserted,  and  in 
their  stead  Henriot  perceived  only  the  heads 
of  the  columns  of  the  national  guard  advanc- 
ing in  battle-array. 

"  He  reascended  with  terror  in  his  looks  and 
imprecations  in  his  mouth  ;  he  announced  the 
total  defection  of  the  troops  ; — instantly  terror 
and  despair  took  possession  of  that  band  of 
assassins ;  every  one  turned  his  fury  on  his 
neighbour ;  nothing  but  mutual  execrations 


THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION  OF  1830. 


26U 


could  be  'heard.  Some  tried  to  hide  them- 
selves, others  to  escape.  Cofliiihal,  maddened 
by  a  transport  of  rage,  seized  Henriot  in  his 
arms,  and  exclaiming,  'Vile  -wretch,  your 
cowardice  has  undone  us  all!'  threw  him  out 
of  a  window.  Henriot  was  not  destined  to  die 
then ;  a  dunghill  on  which  he  fell  so  broke 
his  fall  <as  to  preserve  his  life  for  tlie  punish- 
ment which  he  so  richl}'  merited.  Lcbas  took 
a  pistol  and  blew  out  his  brains;  Robespierre 
tried  to  imitate  him;  his  hand  trembled,  he 
only  broke  his  jaw,  and  disfigured  himself  in 
the  most  frightful  manner.  St.  Just  was  found 
with  a  poignard  in  his  hand,  which  he  had  not 
the  courage  to  plunge  in  his  bosom.  Coutlion 
crawled  into  a  sewer,  from  whence  he  was 
dragged  by  the  heels ;  the  younger  Robespierre 
threw  himself  from  the  window." 

The  scene  here  described  is,  perhaps,  the 
most  memorable  in  the  history  of  modern 
times;  that  in  which  the  most  vital  interests 
of  the  human  race  were  at  stake,  and  millions 
watched  with  trembling  anxiety — the  result  of 
the  insurrection  of  order  and  virtue  against 


tyranny  and  cruelty.  It  is  a  scerie  -which,  to 
the  end  of  time,  will  warmly  intere:-t  every 
class  of  readers  ;  not  those  merely  who  delight 
in  the  dark  or  the  terrible,  but  all  who  are  in- 
terested in  the  triumph  of  freedom  over  op- 
pression, and  are  solicitous  to  obtain  for  their 
country  that  first  of  blessings— a  firm  and  well 
regulated  system  of  general  liberty. 

Happen  what  may  in  this  ci.untry,  wc  do 
not  anticipate  the  occurrence  of  such  terrible 
scenes  as  are  here  described.  The  progress 
of  knowledge — the  influence  of  the  press, 
which  is  almost  unanimous  in  favour  of  hu- 
mane measures — the  vast  extent  of  property 
at  stake  in  the  British  islands — the  habit  of 
acting  together,  which  a  free  government  and 
the  long  enjoyment  of  popular  Tights  have 
confirmed,  will  in  all  probability  save  us  from 
such  frightful  convulsions.  If  the  English  are 
ever  to  indulge  in  unnecessary  deeds  of  cniel- 
ty,  they  must  belie  the  character  which,  with 
the  single  exception  of  the  wars  of  the  Roses, 
they  have  maintained  in  all  their  domestic 
contests  since  the  Norman  Conquest. 


THE  FRENCH  llEYOLUTION  OF  1830/ 


Those  who  are  conscious  of  a  good  cause, 
and  of  thq  support  of  historical  facts,  should 
never  despair  of  making  truth  triumph,  even 
under  circumstances  the  most  adverse  and  ap- 
parently hopeless.  When  we  began  to  treat 
of  the  French  Revolution  two  years  ago,  never 
did  a  resolute  journal  attempt  to  stem  a  more 
vehement  torrent  of  public  opinion.  It  was  al- 
most like  striving  in  the  days  of  Peter  the 
Hermit  against  the  passion  for  the  Crusades. 
The  public  mind  had  been  so  artfully  prepared 
by  the  incessant  abuse  of  the  revolutionary 
press  in  France  and  England  for  years  before, 
against  Charles  X.  and  the  Polignac  Adminis- 
tration, to  receive  the  worst  impressions  con- 
cerning them  :  they  were  so  completel)'  de- 
ceived by  the  same  channels  as  to  the  real 
nature  of  the  Parisian  revolt,  the  objects  to 
which  it  was  directed,  and  the  consequences 
with  which  it  was  attended,  that  it  was  all  but 
hopeless  to  resist  the  torrent.  But  wc  knew 
that  our  case  was  rested  on  historical  facts ; 
and,  therefore,  though  not  possessed  of  any  in- 
formacion  concerning  it,  but  what  we  derived 
from  the  public  journals,  and  shared  with  the 
rest  of  our  countrymen,  we  did  not  scruple  to 
make  the  attempt. 

Wc  had  looked  into  the  old  Almanac,  and 
we  did  not  find  it  there  recorded,  that  constitu- 
tions, cast  off  like  a  medal  at  a  single  stroke, 
were  of  long  duration  ;  wc  did  not  find  that  the 
overthrow  of  government  by  explosions  of  the 
populace  in  great  cities  had  been  found  to  be 

•  Blackwood's  Macav.inc.  Pecrmhcr,  1832. 

Saint  f'hamans  s\ir  la  Rcvoiulion  do  1830,  et  scs 
Suites.     Paris,  1ST2. 

ri'vrnnnct— (lufslinns  cnnrrrninc  rarliniiwiilnry  Jii- 
rifirtirlion.     Paris,  HHI  ;  and  Illarkwuod,  Kdinlniruli. 

Polijinar— Considorations  PoljliqiirR  mir  I'Kpoquc  Ac- 
Uelle      Paris,  1832;  and  Ulackwoud,  lb32. 


instrumental  in  increasing  the  happiness  or 
tranquillity  of  mankind;  we  did  not  know  of 
many  examples  of  industry  thriving  during  the 
reign  of  the  multitude,  or  expenditure  increas- 
ing by  the  destruction  of  confidence,  or  credit 
being  augmented  by  a  successful  exertion  of 
the  sacred  right  of  insurrection ;  and  we  saw 
no  reason  to  conclude  that  a  government  ar- 
ranged in  a  back-shop  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  thcHotelde  Ville,  by  half  adozi  '  -rats, 
supported  ])y  shouting  bands  of  \i  •  ,,  and 

hot-headed  students,  and  sent  down  by  the  dili- 
gence or  the  telegraph  to  the  provinces  of 
France,  was  likely  to  meet  the  views,  or  pro- 
tect the  interests,  of  thirty-two  millions  of  souls 
in  its  vast  territory.  For  these  reasons,  though 
possessed  of  no  private  inforinatiun  in  regard 
to  that  important  event,  we  ventured  from  the 
very  first  todiflfcr  from  the  great  majority  of 
our  countrymen  regarding  it,  and  afler  doing 
all  we  could  to  dispel  the  illusion,  quietly  wait- 
ed till  the  course  of  cvenLs  should  demonstrate 
their  justice. 

That  course  has  comr,  and  with  a  rapidity 
greatly  beyond  what  wc  anticipated  at  the  out- 
set. The  miserable  slate  of  France  since  the 
glorious  days,  has  been  such  as  to  have  been 
unanimously  admitted  by  oil  parties.  DilVer- 
ing  on  other  subjects  as  far  as  the  poles  are 
asunder,  they  arc  yet  unanimous  in  repre- 
senting the  state  of  the  people  since  the  Revo- 
lution as  miserable  in  the  extreme.  The  Roy- 
alists, the  Republicans,  the  Orleanisl.s,  the 
Doctrinaires,  vie  with  each  other  in  paintini* 
the  deplorable  state  of  their  country.  They 
ascribe  it  to  different  causes;  the  R<iMihiicans 
are  clear  that  it  is  all  owing  to  Ca>iinir  Perier 
and  llie  Doctrinaires,  who  have  arfsted  thfl 
people  in  the  middle  of  their  glorious  career 


aM 


ALISON'S   MISCELLANEOUS   ESSAYS. 


and  turned  to  gall  and  wormwood  the  sweet 
fruiis  of  popular  conquest;  Guizot,  the  Uuke 
dc  Broglift,  and  the  Doctrinaires,  ascribe  it  to 
the  mad  ambition  of  the  democrats,  and  the  in- 
cessant cflbrts  they  have  made  to  agitato  and 
distract  the  public  mind;  Saint  Chamans  and 
the  Koyalists  trace  it  to  the  fatal  deviation 
from  the  principle  of  legitimacy,  and  the  inter- 
minable dissensions  to  which  the  establishment 
of  a  right  in  the  populace  of  Paris  to  choose 
their  sovereign  must  necessarily  lead ;  while 
Marshal  Sou'lt  has  a  clear  remedy  for  all  the 
disorders  of  the  ceuntrjs  and  without  stopping 
to  inquire  whether  they  are  revolting  from 
starvation,  ambition,  or  experienced  evils,  cuts 
them  down  by  grape-shot,  and  charges  their 
determined  bands  b}'  squadrons  of  cuirassiers. 
Men  in  this  country  may  vary  in  the  causes  to 
which  they  ascribe  these  evils,  according  to 
the  side  to  which  they  incline  in  politics ;  but 
in  regard  to  their  existence  and  magnitude,  af- 
ter such  a  concurrence  in  the  testimony  of  un- 
willing witnesses,  no  doubt  can  be  entertained 
b}'^  Tory,  Reformer,  or  Radical. 

One  single  fact  is  sufficient  to  place  in  the 
clearest  light  the  disastrous  effect  of  this  con- 
vulsion upon  the  internal  industry  of  the  coun- 
trj'.  It  appears  from  the  returns  of  the  French 
Commerce  lately  published,  that  their  imports 
before  and  after  the  Three  Glorious  Days  stood 
thus: 

Francs. 
•General  imports,  1830,  638,338,000 

Do.  1831,  519,825,000 


Decrease,         118,513,000 


Imports  for  home  consump- 
tion, 1830, 
Do.  1831, 


489,242,000 
374,188,000 


Decrease,  111,054,000 
Thus  it  appears,  that  although  the  Revolu- 
tion did  not  break  out  till  July  1830,  so  that 
one-half  of  the  imports  of  that  year  was  affect- 
ed by  the  revolt  of  July,  yet  still  the  general 
imports  in  1831,  as  compared  with  1830,  had 
fallen  nearly  n  fifth,  and  those  for  home  con- 
sumption about  afiurlh  in  a  single  year !  Such 
is  the  deplorable  effects  of  popular  triumph 
upon  public  industry,  and  the  suffering  and 
starvation  brought  upon  the  poor  by  the  crimi- 
nal ambition  of  their  demagogues. 

The  progress  of  events,  and,  aboA-e  all,  the 
necessity  under  which  Marshal  Soult  was  laid, 
of  quelling  the  insurrection  of  June,  1832,  by 
"a  greater  number  of  armed  men  than  com- 
batled  the  armies  of  Prussia  or  Russia  at  Jena 
or  Austerlitz,"*  and  following  up  his  victory 
hy  the  proclamation  of  a  state  of  siege,  and  or- 
dinances more  arbitrary  than  those  which  were 
the  immediate  cause  of  the  fall  of  Charles  X., 
have  gone  far  to  disabuse  the  public  mind  on 
this  important  subject.  In  proof  of  this,  we 
cannot  refer  to  stronger  evidence  than  is  af- 
forded by  the  leading  Whig  journal  of  this  city, 
one  of  the  warmest  early  supports  of  the  Re- 
folntion  of  July,  and  which  is  honoured  by  the 
eommunicalions  of  all  the  official  men  in  the 

*  Sarrans. 


Scottish  metropolis.  The  passage  is  as  ho 
nourable  to  their  present  candour,  as  their  fop 
mer  intemperate  and  noisy  declamation  in 
favour  of  democratic  insurrection  was  indica 
tive  of  the  slender*  judgment,  and  limited  his- 
torical information,  which  they  bring  to  bear 
on  political  questions.  It  is  contained  in  the 
preface  with  which  the  "  Caledonian  Mercury" 
ushers  in  to  their  readers  a  series  of  highly  in. 
teresting  and  valuable  papers,  by  a  most  re- 
spectable eye-witness  of  the  Parisian  revolt: 

"  It  has  appeared  to  us  desirable  to  lay  be- 
fore our  readers  a  view  of  a  great   event,  or 
rather  concatenation   of  events,   so   different 
from  any  which  they  have   hitherto  been  ac- 
customed to  have  presented  to  them;  and  we 
have  been  the  more  easily  induced  to  give  in- 
sertion to  these  papers,  because  hitherto  one 
side  of  the  question  has  been  kept  wholly  in 
the  shade, — and  because   differing  as  v,-e  do, 
toto  calo,  from  the  author  in  general   political 
principle,  we  are,  nevertheless,  perfectly  atone 
with  him  in  regard  to  the  real  origin  or  jnimum 
mobile  of  the  Revolution  of  July,  as  well  as  the 
motives  and  character  of  the  chief  personages 
who   benefited   by   that   extraordinary   event 
The  truth  is,  that,  in  this  countr)',  ii-c  prcjiidgtd 
the  case,  and  decided  before  inquiry,  upon  the  re- 
presentations of  one  side,  which  had  the  ad- 
vantage of  victory  to  recommend  and  accrolil 
the   story  which   it   deemed  it  convenient  to 
tell :  nor — first  impressions  being  proverbially  ■ 
strong — has  it  hitherto  been  found  possible  to; 
persuade  the  public  to  listen  with  patience  to 
any  thing  that  might  be  alleged  in  justification, ' 
or  even  in  extenuation  of  the  party  which  had 
had   the  misfortune  to  play  the  losing  game. 
Of  late,  however,  new  light  has  begun  to  break 
in  upon  the  public.     All  have  been  made  sen- 
sible that  the  Revolution  has  retrograded ;  that 
its  movement  has  been,  crab-like,  backwards; 
and  that  'the  best  of  republics'  has  shownit- 
self  the  n-orsf,  because  the  least  secure,  of  aclrnddcS' 
potis)us:  while  the  'throne,  surrounded  byre- 
publican  institutions' — that  monster  of  fancy, 
engendered  by  the  spirit  of  paradoxical  anti- 
thesis— has  proved  a  monster  in  reality,  broken 
down  all  the  fantastic  and  baseless  fabrics  by 
which   it  was   encircled,  and  swept  away  the 
very  traces  of  the  vain  restraints  imposed  upon 
it.    The  empire,   in   short,  has   been   recon- 
structed out  of  the  materials  cast  up  by  a  de- 
mocratical   movement ;    with   this   dificrence 
only,  that,  instead  of  a  Napoleon,  we  now  see 
a  Punchinello  at  the  head  of  it ;  and  hence  the 
same   public,  which  formerly  believed  Louis 
Philippe  to  be  a  sort  of  Citizen  Divinity,  now 
discover  in  that  personage  only  a  newly-cre- 
ated despot  M-ithout  any  of  the  accessories  or 
advantages  which   give,   even  to  despotism, 
some  hold  on  public  opinion.     A  reaction  has 
accordingly  taken  place:  and  men  are  in  con- 
sequence prepared  to  listen  to  things  again'' 
which,  previously,  they,  adderwise,  closed  thi^ 
ears,  and  remained  deaf  to    the  voice  of  the 
charmer,  charm  he  never  so  wisely." 

But  although  from  the  very  first  we  clearly 
discerned  and  forcibly  pointed  out  the  disas- 
trous effects  on  the  freedom,  peace,  and  Iran- 
quillitv,  first  of  France,  and  then  of  <he  world, 
which  the  Parisian  revolt  was  calculated  to 


THE  FRENCH  REVOLLTIO.X  OF  isno. 


■j&: 


[troJacp,  yet  we  were  not  a%v.ire  of  ilie  strong 
I^TOUnds  in  constitutional  law  and  public  ]»>>• 
lice  there  were  lor  the  ordinances  of  Charles  X. 
Ve  consitlercd  them  as  a  roup  d'etat  justified  by 
cccssity,  and  the  evident  peril  in  which 
Jharles  stood  of  losing  his  crown,  and  throw- 
ng  the  nation  back  to  the  horrors  of  revolu- 

on,  if  he  did  otherwise,  but  as  confessedly  an 
^fraction  of  the  constitution.  Upon  this  sub- 
let we  are  now  better  informed:  The  j^reat 
nd  energetic  ability  of  the  royalist  party  has 
een  exerted  in  France  to  unfold  the  real 
rounds  of  the  question,  and  it  is  now  mani- 

st  that  the  ordinances  were  not  only  imperi- 
usly  called  for  by  state  necessity,  but  strictly 
istified  by  the  Charter  and  the  constitutional 
iw  of  France.  Many  of  those  who  now  ad- 
lit  the  lamentable  elTects  of  the  overthrow  of 

harles  X.  arc  not  disposed  to  go  this  length, 
nd  are  not  aware  of  the  grounds  on  which  it 

rested.  Let  such  persons  attend  to  the  fol- 
>wing  considerations: — 

The  king's  defence  of  the  ordinances  is  con- 

ined  in  the  following  proposition: — 

1.  That  by  an  article  of  the  Charter,  granted 
•  Louis  XVIII.  to  the  French,  and  the  founda- 
on  of  the  constitution,  power  is  reserved  to 
e  king  to  make  such  regulations  and  ordi- 
inces  as  are  necessary  for  the  execution  of 
e  laws,  and  the  safety  of  the  slate, 

2.  That  matters,  through  the  efforts  of  the 
evolutionists,  had  been  brought  to  such  a  i 
iss,  that  the  ordinances  of  July  were  necessary 
for  the  execution  of  the  laws,  and  the  safety 

■  the  state." 

The  Mth  article  in  the  Charter  is  in  these 
rras — "  Reserving  to  the  king  the  power  to 
ake  regulations  and  ordinances  necessary  to 
sure  the  eiecution  of  the  laws,  and  the  safely 

the  stale"  On  these'words  we  will  not  in- 
re,  by  attempting  to  abridge,  the  argument 

.M.  l'>\TMiinet. 

'•Til-:  ;ill>'.,'ed  treason  is  a  violation  of  the 

lartcr;  and  how  can  the  Charter  have  been 

■  '•• '  1     'I'..;  exercise  of  a  power,  of  which 

;lic  use  I    It  has  been  asserted  re- 


ir»,  and  fur  tht  in/rly  nf  tiir  natr.  \ 
..   it  the  laws,  and  the  safely  of 
■e  words  demand  attention.  They 
vithont  a  motive,  nor 
I  and  f'irr<*  b'-in^'  uri'' 
•:    will*  I    . 

.nor,  well  ..  .  i-     ,   =       , 

iigs,  between  which  there  was  still  more 
Terence  than  analogy. 
'If  the  first  words  had  sufficed,  the  laifpf 


led.     It 


>ttld  not  1 
1US,  that  II  of  the  < 

derstood  that  tht  ta/tttf  of  thr  ttait  was  in 
<cr}'  ra^r  to  h'-  V  '■■  '  f'r    -'7  hy  tht  trtru- 

n  of  I'. 
en 


"A  very  <mivichis  necessity  demands  the  ad 
mission,  either,  that  the  pnwcr  to  proviile  Pij 
the  safety  of  the  state,   •  pendent  of  the 

power  to  enforce  the  <  1  of  the  laws, 

or,  that  the  rules  commonly  admitted  in  legis- 
lation must  be  abandoned,  to  the  extent  of  as- 
suming that  a  positive  provision,  which  has  a 
known  object — an  evident  )i  —a  natural 

and  important  reference — n.  wvi-r,  no- 

thing by  itsell",  but  is  confounded  and  lost,  as 
though  it  did  not  exist  in  the  preceding  provi- 
sion, to  which  it  adds  nothing.  Lawvrs — lit- 
erary men — all  men  of  sense — well  know  that 
such  an  assumption  is  inadmissible.  When 
the  law  is  clear,  nothing  remains  but  to  exe- 
cute it ;  and  even  whon  it  is  obscure,  the  right 
of  interpretation  only  extends  to  the  preferring 
one  meaning  to  another;  it  does  not  authorize 
the  declaring  it  of  no  elTect.  The  interpreter 
of  the  law  does  not  annihilate  it.  He  expounds 
and  gives  it  life.  'Quolics  oralio  aiuhi^ua  est, 
cominodissimiin  est  id  arcipi,  quo  res  dc  qua  agitur 
in  Into  sit.''  Whenever  the  meaning  of  a  law  is 
doubtl'ul,  that  interpretation  is  to  be  adopted 
which  will  insure  its  effect.  This  is  what  the 
law  pronounces  of  itself;  and  this  maxim  has 
been  transmitted  to  us  by  the  Romans. 

"Besides,  what  are  the  true  interpreters  of 
the  law?  They  are,  at  first,  example;  and 
subsequently,  the  opinions  of  persons  of  au- 
thority, expressed  at  the  period  of  the  publica- 
tion of  these  laws.  Let  the  provisions  of  the 
Charter  be  submitted  to  this  double  test,  and  it 
will  be  seen,  that,  from  the  first  days  of  the 
Restoration,  the  most  enlightened,  the  most  es- 
teemed, and  the  most  impartial  men,  have  ex- 
plained this  provision  as  I  have  done.  Of  this, 
the  Moniteur  has  collected  the  proofs.  It  will 
be  farther  seen,  that  in  1811,  1815,  and  1816, 
even  the  founder  of  the  Charter  c":  '.  with- 
out dispute  the  right  I  refer  to. —  .cs  as 
regarded  the  press — sometimes  ^1  it  lation  to 
the  enemies  of  the  Crown — and  s  )meiimes,  but 
in  an  opposite  sense,  as  regarded  the  elections. 
No  one  has,  however,  asserted  that  the  Minis- 
ters who  signed  the  ordinances  have  been  im- 
lehed  as  traitors,  and  h. 
'  '  I  the  contrary,  they  <  I, 
but  npplanil'"d.     Some  have  tji                  ordi- 

I.  iiwi.v  of  ISI.")  to  have  been  jusi ,  .  ■  have 

red  those  of  I8lfl  salutary.     Approval 

iieral,  and  w  .  ■    by  all  parties  in 

Kill.     'I'hc  III  'vro  various,  it  is 

■,  aii'l  ronld  not  f.iil  •■■\t  rc- 

..is;  but  the  source  wii   .  .     , 1;  waa 

the  same— the  right  to  dictate  ihein  was  the 
same;    and   thus,   \\'  '  '     f 

tli»"<e  mea.surcs,has  I  » 

\I.  IVyronnet  proceeds  to  confirm,  by  rxain 
pies,  what  is  here  nddiired  in   r' l' ml  to  the 


power  reserved  to  the  1;  • 
the  prartire  whirh  barl  1 


I.,  I  f. 

would  have 

t.      Uh . 

•.  of  thr  ■ 

ving  il''-i  •■  t  .1  '  iiTai  ml'",  including  every 
'se,  whaiev'i  ;t  iiiitiht  be  I  Can  it  be  nna- 
I  ted,  that  a  legislator  coald  hare   spoken 

1  is, — '  Yi'U  .If  Im  .  .      •      •  ,...,. 

I  ihcr.  if  []v  -..ii  'v 
11  you  w;ll  execute  the  laws  1'  I  of  Deputies  by  its  conmissumcr*  - 


iiiip,  and 
It.    Th« 


I 


il,  nitord  stithcicnt  evidence  oi  this  po» 

■■'11* 

"  In  1822.  when  the  law  relaiinu  to  the  era- 


256 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


"  'la  virhic  of  the  14th  article  of  the  Cliar- 
ter,  the  king  possesses  the  iij,'ht  to  decree  by 
an  ordinance  the  measure  which  is  submitted 
to  j'ou,  and  under  this  view  it  might  be  thought 
that  this  proposition  was  not  necessar)\  But 
since  the  government  has  thought  that  the  in- 
fervcntion  of  the  Chambers  wouUl  be  attended 
with  some  advantages,  they  cannot  hesitate  to 
consent  to  it.' 

"In  1828,  when  a  new  law  was  framed  to 
abrogate  and  replace  the  former  one,  the  com- 
missioners, bj"-  their  reporter  M.  Simeon,  ad- 
dressed the  Chamber  of  Peers  in  the  following 
terms : 

"  '  The  14th  article  of  the  Charter  reserves 
to  the  king  the  power  to  make  the  regulations 
and  ordinances  necessary  to  insure  the  execu- 
tion of  the  laws,  and  the  safety  of  the  state.  It 
is  not  therefore  necessary  that  the  law  should  con- 
firm to  him  that  which  he  holds  from  the  Charter, 
and  from  his  prerogative  as  supreme  head  of 
the  state.  If  any  danger  be  imminent,  a  dicta- 
torship, to  the  extent  of  providing  against  it, 
devolves  upon  him  during  the  absence  of  the 
Chambers.  He  may  also,  in  case  of  imminent 
danger,  suspend  personal  liberty.' 

"  But  all  this  is  only  theory.  Let  us  refer  to 
acts.  The  Charter  declared,  that  the  laws 
which  were  not  inconsistent  with  it  should  re- 
main in  force  till  they  should  be  legally  re- 
pealed.    (Art.  63.) 

"  It  declared,  also,  that  the  election  of  depu- 
ties should  be  made  by  the  electoral  colleges, 
the  organization  of  which  would  be  regulated 
by  the  laws.     (Art.  35.) 

"Thus,  then,  according  to  the  letter  of  the 
Charter,  the  electoral  laws  existing  previous 
to  1814,  were  to  continue  in  force  until  new 
laws  were  made.  '  New  laws,'  be  it  well  re- 
membered. 

"What  happened,  however!  On  the  13th 
July,  1815,  and  on  the  5th  September,  1816,  two 
new  and  different  systems  of  election  were-^ 
created  in  turns  ;  and  they  were  created  by  or- 
dinances. 

"  W  here  was  the  right  to  act  thus  found,  if 
not  in  the  14th  article  of  the  Charter? 

"Bat  this  is  little:  The  Charter  declares 
that  no  one  can  be  elected  who  is  not  forty 
years  of  age,  and  that  no  one  can  be  an  elector 
under  the  age  of  thirty.    (Art.  38  and  40.) 

"What  happened,  however?  On  the  13th 
of  July,  1815,  it  was  decreed  that  a  person 
might  exericse  the  right  of  an  elector  at  the 
age  of  twenty-one,  and  be  chosen  deputy  at 
the  age  of  twenty-five. 

"And  how  was  this  decreed?  By  what  act 
was  this  important  change  in  the  Charter  ef- 
fected ?     By  a  law  ?    No  ! — By  an  ordinance. 

"  Where  was  the  right  to  act  thus  found,  if 
not  in  the  I4th  article  of  the  Charter? 

"This  is  still  but  of  minor  importance:  The 
Charter  declared  that  each  department  should 
return  the  same  number  of  deputies  which  it 
had  hitherto  done.  (Art.  36.)  What,  how- 
ever, happened  ? 

"On  the  13th  July,  1815,  the  number  of  depu- 
ties was  augmented  from  two  hundred  and  si.vlif- 
two  to  three  hundred  and  nincty-fivc ;  atid  by  tvhat 
authority?     By  an  ordinance. 

"Again,  what  happened  ?     In  1816,  when  it 


was  resolved  to  return  to  the  number  of  depu 
ties  fixed  by  the  Ciiarler,  instead  of  five  depu 
ties  being  returned  for  the  department  of  I'Airi' 
three  deputies  for  Corsica,  and  two  for  the  de 
partment  of  Finistcre,  as  was  the  case  in  1814 
— three  were  allotted  to  the  first,  two  to  thi 
second,  and  four  to  the  third:  and  by  wha 
act?    By  an  ordinance. 

"  Where  was  the  right  to  act  thus  found,  il 
not  in  the  14th  article  of  the  Charter? 

"Farther,  the  Charter  declared  that  thos( 
persons  only  could  be  electors  who  theniselve! 
paid  direct  taxes  to  the  amount  of  three  hun- 
dred francs,  and  those  only  be  deputies  wh( 
paid  them  to  the  extent  of  one  thousand  francs 
(Art.  38  and  40.) 

"  However,  what  happened  ?  In  1816,  it  wa; 
decided,  that  to  become  an  elector,  or  a  deputy' 
the  individual  need  not  possess  property  ii 
his  own  right  chargeable  with  those  taxes,  bu 
that  it  was  sufficient  if  the  requisite  sums  werd 
paid  by  a  wife,  a  minor  child,  a  widowec 
mother,  a  mother-in-law,  a  father-in-law,  or  i 
father. 

"What  farther  happened?  In  1815,  anc 
again  in  1816,  it  was  decided  that  members  of 
the  Legion  of  Honour  might  be  admitted  tc 
vote  in  the  minor  assemblies  of  the  arrondissfr 
ment,  without  paying  taxes  of  any  kind;  ai^d 
on  paying  only  three  hundred  francs,  in  th< 
superior  assemblies  of  the  departments,  whert 
only  those  were  entitled  to  vote,  who  were  as- 
sessed at  the  highest  rate  of  taxation. 

"How  were  all  these  things  decreed?  By 
ordinances.  And  where  was  the  right  to  ac 
thus  found?  Evidently  it  existed  only  in  thf 
14th  article  of  the  Charter.  Now,  let  us  re-1 
capitulate  these  facts.  A  double  change  of; 
system — a  double  change  of  numbers — !• 
double  change  as  to  age — a  double  change  asi 
to  taxation — a  change  as  to  the  particulr" 
rights  of  three  departments.  All  this  with, 
any  law.  A  direct  formal,  and  essential  en- 
croachment on  the  articles  35,  36,  38,  40,  anc 
63,  of  the  Charter.  All  this  without  any  law 
all  established  by  ordinances ;  all  this  by  virtue 
of  the  14th  article;  all  this  without  crime- 
without  condemnation — without  even  accusa- 
tion :  and  now  !" 

These   examples   are  Avorthy  of  the  mos' 
serious  consideration,  and,  in  truth,  are  de- 
cisive of  this  legal  question — How  is  it  po^ 
sible   to   stigmatize   that  as  illegal   in   1830 
which  had  been  exercised  to  fully  as  great  m 
extent,  on  more  than  a  dozen  ditTcrcnt  occ 
sions,  from  1815  onwards  ?    How  is  the  chaiK 
on  the  electoral  law  in  1815  and  1816  to  ix 
vindicated?     And   who   ever   cornplained  <^' 
this  ?    But,  above  all,  attend  to  the  import;! 
changes  introduced  in  1815,  on  the  qualifii 
tion  of  electors,  and  the  representative  bO'' 
by  ordinances.     The  age  of  an  elector  w 
lowered  from  30  to  21  years,  and  of  a  dcpir. 
from   40  to  25;   the  number  of  deputies  in 
creased  from  262   to   395,  by  an  ordinanr- 
Did  the  French  liberals  ever  complain  of  tin 
ordinances  as  illegal?    Did  they  ever  obj' 
to  that  which  decfared  that  the  300  francs  . 
year,  Avhicli  is  the  qualification  for  an  elector 
might  be  paid  not  only  by  the  elector,  but  nu 
wife,  child,  mother,  mother-in-law,  father-ia 


THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION  OF  1830. 


26- 


liw,  or  father  ?    Or  that  which  admitted  mem- 

?Ts  of  the  Legion  of  Honotir  to  vote  in  the 

linor  assemblies  without  payin:^  any  taxes? 

\'hv  were  not  the  ministers  impf-achi  d  who 

!  the  ordinances  in  favour  of  the  Liberal 

I     .,  /    Not  a  whisper  was  heard  of  their  ille- 

iility  on  any  of  these  occasions.     But  this  is 

le  uniform  conduct  of  the  Rcvohitionists  in 

|1  ages  and   countries,  and  in   all   matters, 

reign  and  domestic.     Whatever  is  done  in 

'.■r  favour   is   lauded  to  the   skies,  as  the 

•    of    liberality,   wisdom,    and   justice; 

ver  is  aimed  at  their  supremacy,  is  in- 

/  stii^matized  as  the  most  illejal  and  op- 

ve  act   tliat  ever  was    attempted   by  a 

-thirsty  tyrant.     Had  the  ordinances  of 

dy,  instead  of  restoring  the  number  of  depu- 

•s  to  something  approaching  to  that  fixed  by 

s  Charter,  and  restraining  the  licentiousness 

the  press,  been  directed  to  the  increase  of 

mocraiic  power,  they  would  have  been  prais- 

as  the  most  constitutional  act   that  ever 

laoated  from  the  throne;   and  Charles  X., 

•  the  brief  period  of  popularity  allotted  to 

(ncedin?  monarchs,  been  styled  "the  most 

ipular  monarch  that  ever  set  on  the  throne 

!  ce  the  days  of  Charlemagne." 

There  are  many  other  instances  of  the  exer- 

<  e  of  the   same   power  by  the   crown.    In 

'liar,  in  a  report  made  in   1S17  to  the 

her  of  Peers,  respecting  the  jur}'  law, 

I  also  contained  several  enactments,  it  is 

''xi,  to  remove  the  fears  expressed  by  the 

aries  of  the  project  of  the  law,  that  if 

fears  were  realized,   "  the  king  would 

the    resource  of  i(sj>i£>-  tlte  cxlraordinnry 

led  by  the  \i>h  nrlirk  of  the  Chnrter}' 

rt  was  received  without  opposition 

■  liberal  part  of  the  Chamber.     Prince 

lac  has  adduced  two  instances,  among  a 

f  others  which  might  be  adduced,  of  the 

i  which  these  acts  of  the  crown  wf  ro 

y  the  Liberal  party  in  France.   "The 

r,'    says    the  National,    '"without   the 

■  ri'.-].-,    would    have    b(cn    an    absurdity." 

r  the  Charter  said,  and  tens  riaht 


.'ic  and   mine. 
tint    I   h:iv 


It  is  quite  another  question,  whether  it  wa» 
wise  or  constitutional  to  have  conferred  this 
power  on  the  cmwn.     Huflice  it  t  "  'Mt 

dill  possess  it;  that  its  ex<Tcisc  h.  •  •    v 

taken  place  on  many  different  occasions,  with 
the  full  concurrence  and  applatisc  of  the  popu- 
lar party ;  and  therefore  that  the  legnhty  of  the 
ordinances  is  bcj'ond  a  doubt. 

The  question  remains,  whether  the  exercise 
of  the  power  was  justified  by  necessity,  or 
called  for  by  expedience? 

Upon  this  subject,  if  any  doubt  existed,  it 
has  been  removed  by  the  events  of  the  last  two 
years.  No  one  who  contemplates  the  state  of 
France  during  that  period  can  doul't,  that  the 
power  of  the  democracy  has  become  too  great, 
not  merely  for  royalty,  but  for  freedom ;  that 
the  balance  has  been  altogether  subverted ;  and 
that  the  martial  law,  arbitrary  measures,  arid 
rclejitless  prosecution  of  the  press,  which  has 
distinguished  the  administration  of  Casimir 
Perier  and  Marshal  Soult,  were  imperatively 
called  for,  to  restrain  the  anarchy  which  was 
rapidly  conducting  society  in  France  to  its 
dissolution.  What  the  power  of  tlie  demo- 
cracy was — what  formidable  weapons  it  pos- 
sessed—how complete  was  its  organization,  is 
proved  by  what  it  has  done.  It  has  subverted 
the  most  beneficent  government  that  ever  ruled 
in  France  since  the. days  of  Clovis;  whose 
wisdom  and  moderation  had  gone  far  to  close 
the  frightful  wounds  of  the  Revolution;  which 
gave  perfect  freedom  to  individuals,  and  abso- 
lute protection  to  property,  during  the  fifteen 
years  of  its  rule ;  and  the  unexampled  pros- 
perity resulting  from  whose  administration  all 
the  anarchy  and  wretchedness  c  '  '  "fi 

the  Revolution  of  .fuly  have  not  1  ■  ■'''■■'• 

gether  to  extinguish.  The  Revolutionists  were 
victorious  in  the  strife;  they  got  a  king  of 
their  own  choosing,  and  a  government  of  their 
own  formation  ;  their  journalists  were  nii  !•• 
Ministers  of  State,  and  the  system  for  wli  rh 
they  contended  established;  and  what  was  li  »• 
consequence?  Why,  that  out  of  the  iriunipii 
of  the  Libi-rals  has  arisen  such  Inrbulencc, 
■  ■      ir-tchedness,  ,T i   ..i.  ..i.. 

!  V  f'T  iho   ],'■' 


'1  up  his  sword. 

..11..    i ,.  . 


—  .  I.  .,, 


'u-    by  a  bl  •      '  in  the  .streel.i  ot  Pans,  nnd 

'■'  '  '  reatcrnumb"    '     •  '  •■■""" 

us,  "  ih.nn  I  ' '  ' 

J.iia  o!  ••/.."     1 

,.f  the  .,  ,  it  is  I 

[mrnlum    cruris    which    ."lolvrs    tlie    d.nibl.      It 

'■••    --  •'    •  I'  ' f  and  Chart's  were  cor-^'  ■  ' 

•  rrible  nature  of  the  ; 


e  IJih  ririKl'',  which 


!  In  bring  |i>nh.  tuok  ihi-  :  < 

'  '1  prevent  th'-i"   ""  '  • 

inalinR  the  i  '   'h" 

'i  which  their  advir .  irp"<  hati 


i» 


lie  power.    ; 


On  this  .Hubject  we  <■ 
quote  lb-   ■''•'■'   ■"  ■'   '■'■■ 
I  the  Vis 


....  .   .Iitn«c.  SI.S4.    Pnllfiiae     : 

dlfclalina  to  arbiirary  n  powvr  a*  lilMrQ  aiiribal-  '  ofib*  conitiiunon. 


f 


r 


258 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


i 


"The  Ordinances  of  July,  and  the  sedition 
which  followed  them,  wci-e  no  more  the  cause 
of  the  Kcvolution  of  July  than  the  dismissal 
of  M.  IS'eckar,  and  the  storming  of  the  Bastile, 
were  the  cause  of  the  Kevolution  of  17S9.  I 
see  in  both  these  events  the  first  acts  of  a  Re- 
volution, of  which  the  causes  had  existed  long 
before,  but  not  the  origin  of  that  Revolution 
itself.  You  might  just  as  well  say  that  the 
battle  of  Arbela  was  the  cause  of  the  ruin  of 
Darius :  as  if,  when  the  enemy  had  invaded 
your  territory,  and  penetrated  to  the  heart  of 
your  dominions,  you  had  any  chance  of  safety 
by  laying  down  your  arms  and  submitting  to 
his  terms — as  if  it  was  not  better  to  risk  a 
struggle  wliich  would  save  you,  if  it  was 
gained,  and  renders  you  no  worse  than  you 
were  before,  if  it  is  lost.  Such  was  the  posi- 
tion of  Charles  X.  He  is  unjustly  accused  of 
having  committed  suicide  ;  but  there  are  many 
others  to  whom  the  reproach  can  with  more 
reason  be  applied. 

"Louis  XVIII.  committed  suicide  on  his 
race,  Avhen  he  caused  his  ministers,  in  1817, 
to  bring  forward  a  democratic  law  for  the  election 
of  Deputies  to  Parliament,  drawn  in  such  a 
manner  as  gave  little  chance  of  success  to  the  real 
friends  of  the  monarchy,  and  when  he  created 
sixty  Peers  to  hinder  the  reparation  of  that  fatal 
step  when  it  was  yet  time. 

"  The  Chamber  of  Peers  committed  suicide, 
when,  with  a  childish  desire  for  popularity, 
they  joined  themselves  to  the  Opposition  (an 
unnatural  union)  to  overturn  the  minister, 
who  stood  out  as  the  last  defender  of  mo- 
narchical and  aristocratic  principles,  and  to 
give  a  triumph  to  liberal  ideas.  They  have 
received  their  reward  in  the  overthrow  of  the 
hereditary  Peerage. 

"  They  committed  suicide,  the  Royalists  of 
every  shade  and  description,  who  enrolled 
themselves  under  the  Liberal  banners,  from 
whence,  after  the  triumph  was  completed,  they 
were  ignominiously  expelled. 

"  The  courtiers  committed  suicide  when 
they  weakly  joined  the  Liberals,  not  seeing 
that  the  principles  of  thaA  T)arty  are  inconsist- 
ent with  their  existence. 

"The  crowd  of  commercial  and  industrious 
persons  committed  suicide,  when,  become  the 
soldiers  and  pioneers  of  Liberalism,  they  at- 
tacked with  all  their  might,  and  finally  over- 
turned, that  constitution  Avhich  had  conferred 
such  blessings  on  them,  and  prosperity  on 
their  country,  and  under  Avhich  France  had 
enjoyed  a  prosperity  without  example. 

"It  is  in  the  ifaults  of  these  parties,  in  the 
situation  of  parties  anterior  to  the  Ordinances 
which  resulted  from  these  faults,  that  \\c  must 
seek  f(ir  the  causes  of  the  catastrophe,  and  not 
in  the  faults  of  Charles  X.  or  his  Ordinances. 
It  is  evident  that  the  event  has  not  created  the 
situation,  hut  only  brought  it  to  light;  that  his 
sceptre  did  not  fall  in  pieces  at  the  first  stroke, 
from  being  then  for  the  first  time  assailed,  but 
because  the  blow  unfolded  the  rottenness  of 
the  heart,  brought  about  by  anterior  causes." 
—St.  Cliamans,  3,  4. 

We  had  begim  to  underline  the  parts  of  this 
striking  passage,  which  bear  in  an  obvious 
manner  on  the  recent  events  in  this  country, 


now,  alas !  beyond  the  reach  of  redemptic 
but  we  soon  desisted.  Every  word  of  it  a 
plies  to  our  late  clianges ;  and  demonstrates! 
coincidence  between  the  march  of  revolutii 
in  the  two  countries,  which  is  almost  mirac 
lous.  At  the  distance  of  about  ten  years,  o 
liberal  Tories  and  revolutionary  Whigs  ha' 
followed  every  one  of  the  steps  of  the  Jacobi 
and  Doctrinaires  of  France.  While  they  we 
hastening  down  the  gulf  of  perdition  at  a  g. 
lop,  we  followed  at  a  canter,  and  have  adopt 
every  one  of  the  steps  which  there  rendered  l 
downward  progress  of  the  Revolution  irretric 
able,  and  spread  unheard-of  miserj'  thron 
every  part  of  France.  We  too  have  had  R( 
alists  of  every  shade  inclining  to  liberal  idea 
and  the  courtiers  entering  into  alliance  \r 
their  enemies,  and  a  crowd  of  commercial  a 
manufacturing  citizens  combining  to  overtu 
the  constitution  under  which  they  and  thi 
fathers  had,  not  for  fifteen,  but  an  hnndr 
and  fifty  years,  enjoyed  unheard-of  prosperit 
and  the  Crown  bringing  forward  a  new  a 
highly  democratical  system  of  election ;  a 
the  concurrence  of  the  Peers  forced  by 
threatened  creation  of  sixty  riiembers.  Hj 
ing  sown  the  same  seed  as  the  French,  can', 
hope  to  reap  a  difl^erent  crop"?  May  Heav 
avert  from  these  realms  the  last  and  dread 
catastrophe  to  which  these  measures  led 
the  other  side  of  the  Channel ! 

With  regard  to  the  conduct  of  Charles 
after  ascending  the  throne,  the  following  . 
count  is  given  by  the  same  writer: — 

"  The  goodness  of  Charles  X.,  his  love 
his  people,  his  beneficence,  his  affability, . 
pietyj  his  domestic  virtues,  doubtless  ha 
placed  his  private  character  beyond  the  rea: 
of  attack.  Let  us  see  whether  his  public  cc 
duct  justifies  any  more  the  accusations  of 
enemies. 

"  On  ascending  the  throne,  he  resisted  : 
natural  desire  of  giving  the  direction  of  affa 
to  his  political  confidants,  and,  sacrificing  i; 
private  afi"ections  to  his  public  dut)-,  he 
tained  the  administration  of  his  deceased  b 
ther  who  had  raised  France  to  so  high  a  pii 
of   happiness.     When,    shortly    after,  pu! 
opinion,  misled  by  the  press,  became  wf. 
of  the  prosperity  of  France,  and  overturned 
its  madness  the  ministers  who  had  restoi 
its  prosperity  within,  and  regained  its  consi 
ration  without,  did  Charles  X.  make  use 
any  coup  d'etat  to  maintain  in  his  govemni' 
the  principles  which  he  deemed  necessarj' 
the  salvation  of  France  1     No.    He  yieUk 
he  sacrificed  all  his  own  opinionsthe  chani 
his  ministers  and  his  syslem,  and  in  good  la 
embraced   the   new  course  which   was  p 
scribed  to  him.     He  conceded  every  thing  tl' 
was  demanded.    As  the  reward  of  the  ma' 
sacrifices  made  to  opinion,  he  was  promises 
peaceable,  beloved,  and  cherished  exisf"' 
But  bitter  experience  soon  taught  him 
what  was  conceded  passed  for  nothing,  I'l 
ther  was  considered  only  as  the  means  of  '• 
tainingfresh  concessions;  that  the  parly  whi' 
he  hoped  to  have  satisfied,  multiplied  onC'j 
mand  on  another,  moved  incessantly  forw: 
from  session  to  session,  and  evidently  WOM 
not  stop  till  it  had  fallen  with  him  into  '• 


A 


THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION  OF  1830. 


860 


|alf  of  drmocracy;  that  public  opinion,  that 
II  to  say,  id  tyrant,  the  prcst,  was  soon  as  much 
i*nlaicd  at  the  new  ministers  as  it  had  1 
t  those  which  proceded  them;  tiiat  his 
ernmcnt  was  harassed  with  as  ijieat  ob>ia- 
les  as  before ;  that  the   sacniice  made  was 
(lercforc   useless,   and    that    the   system   on 
■     '     —  'ist  his  better  judgment,  he   had 
id  of  being  followed  by  the  ad- 
iiiil.ii,'f>   wluch  had    been   promised,  was  in 
ct   precipitalin?   him    into    those   evils,  the 
rcsight  of  which  had  at  first  inclined  him  to 
contrary  system. 

Charles  X.,  confirmed  by  that  essay  in  his 

■<;t  iil'MS.  reverted  then  to  his  own  opinions, 

id  iIk"  men  who  shared  them ;  and,  whatever 

dumny  may  assert  to  the  contrary,  neither 

ose  men  nor  those  opinions  were  contrary 

the   charter.      The   real   A'iolators   of  the 

arler  were  to  be  found   in   the   majority  of 

c  Chamber  of  Deputies;  in  the  2«1  who  re- 

sed  to  respect  the  constitutional  right  of  the 

inarch   to   choose   his   ministers,  and  who 

re  resolved  to  force  hitm  to  dismiss  them, 

luch  they  could  not  allege  a  single  illegal 

t  of  which  thej'  had  been  guilty.     And,  in 

ilh,  their  administration  was  perfectly  legal 

(d  constitutional,  down  to  the  promulgation 

I  the  Ordinances,  on  which  opinions  are  so 

h  divided,  and  which  necessity  alone  dic- 

•o  prevent  the  crown  being  taken  ofl'  the 

Ijid  of  the  sovereign. 

!•  I,ct  the  truth   then  be  proclaimed  boldly. 

to  the  Ordinances,  Charles  X.  merited 

.  .   ach  as  little  in  his  public  as  his  private 

ij-.    I  may  defy  his  most  implacable  enemies 

libellers,  who   have  with  such 

.1  fallen  victim,  to  point  out  one 

ni   gnevance,  or  single   illegal   act  of  his 

\\    ..  reign.     Are  there  any  more  reproaches 

\e  to  the  family  who  surrounded  him  ? 

find,  on  the  i  .in  them  an  as- 

ff  all    (h**  '.f  ih"    noblest 

le.     If 

.        , .    ritance 

0  I  n  llr  race,  are  lost  to  us  by  our  ingrati- 


thcir  faces;  instead  of  a  blood-thirsty  tyranl 

a  beneficent   monarch,  bravidy  enduring    the 

rms  of  a  ■  ( ;  and  bc- 

■   the  r.  ,    itie  conti- 

nent,  they  had  secured  the  interest,  and  won 


•f  the  citizf-ns. 
M.  St.  Cliamans 


the  affection,  of  ail  fi 

"Were,   then,"  . 
"the  Ordinances  the  ca  ib 

which  ensued  !     Yes!  ;:  ■', 

■  useless — if  liie    throne  and    tne  <-■  n 

^  were  not  in  danger;  or  if,  though  i..  ..:...,<  r, 
they  could  have  been  saved  without  a  cvup 
(fetat.  Not,  if  they  were  necessary  and  una- 
voidable; if  the  throne,  the  dynasty,  thr  C.>n- 
I  stitulion,  were  about  to  jierish;  if  the  ill.  pal 
attacks  of  the  enemies  of  the  monarchy  had 
left  the  king  no  other  resource  but  a  des- 
perate effort.  What  signifies  whether  you 
perish  of  the  operation,  or  the  progress  of  the 
disease  ? 

"  What  was  the  situation  of  affairs  at  the 
epoch  of  the  Ordinances  ?  On  that  depends 
the  solution  of  the  question. 

"The  Chamber  had  been  disso]ved,'because 
the  majority  was  hostile;  the  elections  had 
sent  back  a  majority  still  more  numerous  and 
hostile;  the  Chamber  was  to  assemble  on  the 
3d  August. 

"  Charles  X.  could  not  govern  France  with 
that  Chamber,  but  by  composing  a  ministry  in 
harmony  with  the  majority  of  its  members ; 
that  is,  by  assuming  nearly  the  same  men, 
who,  after  the  7th  August,  formed  the  cabinet 
of  Louis  Philippe,  and  adopting  the  same 
system;  for  such  a  ministry  could  not  have 
existed  a  day  without  conceding  the  same 
democratic  demands  which  were  granted  in 
the  modified  charter  of  August  7ili.  We  may 
judge,  then,  of  the  situation  in  which  Charles 
X.  would  have  been  placed,  by  that  in  which 
we  now  see  Louis  Philippe.  Now,  if,  in  the 
short  space  of  eighteen  months  three  ailininis- 
tratinns  have  been  oveilurned;  if  the  throne 
itself  is  shaken — without  autlioriiy,  without 
force,  without  consideration — what  iniiNi  have 
been  the  fate  of  the  royally  of  Charles  X. !  If 
■'  liberal  party  has  acted  in  this  manner  by  a 
whuin  thev  re?ard<"«l  as  their  own — the 


ir  own  cxpcrienc  of  the 
this  city  fiiliv  corri 


■ill  the  ^  ■»  of  ihc  rcvtilm  ;',  ; 

if,  in  ^i -o  nv">   '"'"s  to  ; ..our, 

:hni  princ*'  has  Iwen  >  throw  them  out 


c  .  When  he  tirst  ;i 
«|,  J-'-""- '  •■'  !>y  ihe  i' 
*y.  t>V  Ihc  I 


'.  and   u 

...     ■  tVt^t'*^fi\    ■ 

p|is  wli.i''-'.    r    ■ 


iiid  his  nii;iits  ;  if 

.     ...      MO,    t,,    lip-Ill    even 

and  to  hiv  i>wm 

.11  Kiev  have 

■•nrn    pnnrf. 


t   of  their   haired   and 


I 


extent  and  bf;  •    montht    sooner    t 

.lul  th- I        -■  -I      Charles  X. 

Mi'ir  r-  and  a  chamber  ■ 

t'^i   by   the    Rcvwl«ln>uu.U  arui»pcd   Iruiu  ,  inico,  would  have  found  himicil  iicir.ym   ih« 


«l    Uiuia 

.•    «T       I.)      ( 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


name  position  as  Louis  XVI.  in  1792.  The 
result  wouhl  have  been  the  same.  If,  then,  the 
danger  of  destruction  awaited  him  equally, 
whichever  course  he  adopted,  it  was  far  better 
to  perish  when  combating  like^a  king  of 
France  than  in  weakly  yielding.  An  open 
strife  oflered  at  least  the  chance  of  safety ;  con- 
cessions oflered  none." — St.  Cha/natis,  11,  12. 

"  And  that  mccfsily  is  a  sufficient  ground  for 
such  violent  measures  as  coups  d'etat,  cannot 
surely  be  denied  by  those  whose  subsequent 
conduct  has  been  entirely  founded  on  that 
basis.  What  authorized  them  to  rnvolt  against 
the  authority  of  the  kingi  They  answer, 
necessity,  in  default  of  constitutional  means 
of  resistance.  Who  gave  them  a  right  to 
change  the  dynasty  ?  They  answer,  necessity. 
Who  authorized  them  to  overturn  the  charter 
sworn  to  bv  all  the  French  1  Necessity.  Who 
authorized  them  to  mutilate  the  chamber  of 
peers,  and  to  change  into  a  life-rent  their  rights 
of  eternal  property?  They  answer,  necessity. 
Necessity  is  their  sole  law:  and,  if  necessity 
justifies  measures  evidently  calculated  to  over- 
turn, not  only  the  throne  but  the  constitution, 
with  what  reason  can  it  be  pretended  that  it 
docs  not  justify  a  measure  intended  to  pre- 
serve both  r'—/6i</.  18,  19. 

Saint  Chamans  gives  an  account  of  the  iral 
causes  of  the  Revolution  of  Jul}-.  These  are, 
the  democratic  law  of  Feb.  5,  1817,  regarding 
the  elections;  the  licentious  press;  and  the 
centralization  of  all  the  powers  of  France  in 
Paris.  This  part  of  the  subject  is  of  the  ut- 
most importance,  and  is  treated  by  our  author 
with  liis  usual  abilit}'.  We  shall  endeavour 
only  to  do  justice  to  the  subject  in  our  trans- 
lation. 

"  Two  causes  have,  in  an  especial  manner, 
precipitated  the  monarchy  into  the  abyss  from 
which  there  was  no  escape.  These  were  the 
license  of  the  daily  press,  and  the  democratic 
law  of  elections.  It  was  against  thera  that 
the  Ordinances  were  directed. 

"  I  will  not  here  repeat  what  I  have  often 
advanced  in  regard  to  the  periodical  press.  I 
will  only  say,  that  ever  since  it  has  been  unre- 
strained, it  has  engaged  in  a  battle  of  life  and 
death  with  the  authority,  whatever  it  was, 
which  held  the  reins  of  government:  that  it 
stabbed  to  the  heart  the  constitutional  monar- 
chy of  1791,  established  in  the  first  fervour  of 
the  Revolution;  that  it  afterwards  slew  the 
Girondists,  who  had  overthrown  the  monar- 
chy; that  it  itself  was  crushed  on  three  differ- 
ent occasions,  first  by  the  Reign  of  Terror, 
then  by  the  cannons  of  the  13th  Vendemiairc, 
when  Napoleon  overthrew  the  sections,  and 
again  by  il>e  transportations  which  followed 
the  18ih  Fructidor;  that  having  reappeared 
aAer  an  interval  of  twenty  years,  it  destroyed 
the  ministry  of  1819,  and  shook  the  throne  of 
the  Ri'sioration ;  that  it  overturned  succcs- 
Bively  the  ministry  of  Villcle,  of  Marlignac, 
and  after  that  at  one  fell  swoop  the  ministry, 
the  throne,  the  charier,  and  the  constitutional 
monarchy;  that  since  that  lime  it  has  slain 
the  ministry  of  the  Duke  de  Broglio  and  Gui- 
tot,  and  of  M.  Lafitir ;  the  two  last  in  a  few 
inonihs,  and  the  thii'!  lias  no  better  lease  of 
life  than  the  popular  tliir.uc.     That  is  to  say, 


during  twenty  years  that  the  press  has  beep  i 
unfettered  since  1789,  it  has  uniformly  come . 
to  pass,  that  in  a  short  lime  it  has  either  or«|i  ( 
turned  the  authority  of  government,  or  beead 
overturned  by  it,  through  a  violent  coup  d'etat, 
It  was  the  shock  of  these  opposing  powei^( 
each  of  which  felt  that  its  existence  could  be 
secured  only  by  the  destruction  of  its  enemy 
which  produced  the  terrible  struggle  and  the 
catastrophe   of   1830.      To   appreciate,   in  a 
word,  all  the  force  of  that  demon-like  power, 
it  is  sufficient  to  recall  to  recollection  that  th^- 
press  succeeded  in  a  few  months  in  makin 
the  weak  and  unfortunate  Louis  XVI.  pass  for  , 
a   blood-thirsty   tyrant;    and   that  latterly  it. 
created  that  strong  disaffection,  which,  in  the 
crisis  of  their  fate,  Charles  X.  and  his  nobl» 
family  experienced  in  the  population  of  Pan 
and  its  environs;    the  very  men  who  we; 
daily  witnesses  of  their  virtues,  and  literall . 
overwhelmed  with  their  benefactions. 

"As  to  the  law  of  elections,  of  Februar}',  1817, 
it  was  framed  in  the  true  spirit  of  democracy; 
the  necessary  result  of  which  was,  that  it  de-  i 
livered  the  whole  influence  in  the  state  into  the  • 
hands  of  the  middling  class,  incapable  of  any 
practical  instruction  in  public  affairs,  passion- 
ately devoted  to  change  and  disorder,  from  which  . 
it  hopes  to  obtain  its  elevation  to  the  head  of 
affairs,  as  if  it  eve-  could  maintain  itself  there. 
That  law  annulleu  at  once  the  influence  both  of 
the  higher  classes  intrusted  in  the  preservation  : 
of  order,  and  of  the  lower,  ever  ready,  no  doubt, ; 
to  disturb  the  public  peace,  by  the  prospect  of 
pillage,  but  who  can  never  be  led  into  long  I 
disorders,  by  the  dream  of  governing  the  state.  ■ 
It  follows,  from  these  principles,  that  the  law  ■ 
of  February  5,  1817,  whose  enactments  regu- 
lated three-fifths  of  the  electors,  gave  the  ma- 
jority, and,  by  consequence,  the  control  of  the  i 
state,  precisely  to  the  class  the  most  dangerous  to 
the  public  order,  and  ever  disposed  to  support 
revolutions,  from  the  belief  that  it  will  benefit 
by  their  progress." — St.  Chamans,  21,  22. 

"  The  revolution,  long  previousl)^  prepared, 
broke  out  on  occasion  of  the  Ordinances,  wliich 
were  directed  to  the  coercion  of  the  press,  and 
an  alteration  on  the  law  of  elections.    The 
press  could  have  been  placed  under  no  re- 
straints if  the  elections  had  returned  a  Cham- 
ber of  Deputies,  enemies  alike  to  order  an  ' 
public  repose.     It  was  the  law  of  the  electioti  . 
therefore,  that  alone  rendered  indispensable  the 
employment  of  a  violent  remedy.     The  law  . 
of  the  election  of  5th  February,  1817,  with  the 
ordinance  of  5th  September  following  on  i'- 
and  the  creation  of  Peers  Avhich  was  its  n 
suit — these  were  the  true  causes  of  the  Revoh 
tion  of  1830,  and  these  causes  existed  befo: 
the  reign  of  Charles  X.     He  therefore  is  ni 
to  be  blamed  for  it.    If  the  throne  has  perisheii. 
it  is  not  because  the  battle  was  engaged,  but 
because  it  was  lost.    It  was  reduced  to  such  a 
state,  that  nothing  but  a  victory  gained  could  i 
have  saved  it. 

"These  were  the  causes  which  directly  pri^- 
duced  the  catastrophe ;  but  it  would  neithi 
have  been  so  complete  nor  so  rapid,  had  it  n^ 
been  for  the  effects  of  that  absurd  centraliz. 
tion,  of  which  the  Constituent  Assembly  pre* 
pared  the  scourge,  by  dividing  France  into  8# 


i 


THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTIOX  OF  1830. 


361 


many  departments,  nearl)-^  equal,  and  brcakinp; 
cown  all  the  tics  of  the  provinces,  cemented 
fty  time.    That  universal  levelling  paved  the 
jway  for  tyranny,  by  concenlratina;  the  whole 
moral  strength  of  the  nation  in  Paris.     The 
'universal   destruction  of   the    provinces  has 
.'deprived  France  of  all  internal  strength  ;  the 
(whole  remainder  of  the  country  has  been  re- 
Iduced  to  mimic  the  movements  of  Pari.s,  and 
I  ape  its  gestures,  like  a  reflection  in  a  glass. 
[Since  that  period,  the  provinces,  or  rather  the 
1  departments,  have  not  had  a  thought  or  a  wish, 
but  what  they  received  from  Paris  ;  they  have 
changed  masters  ten  times,  without  knowing 
wh)',  almost  always  against  their  will,  begin- 
ning with  the  10th  August,  1792,  and  ending 
!with  the  29th  July,  1830.     How,  in  fact,  can  an 
'■'y-si.rth  part  of  France  organize  anj'  resist- 
e  to  the  central  authority  1     The  ncighbour- 
ling  departments  first  receive  the  impulse,  which 
lis  instantly   communicated   like   an    electric 
[shock  to  the  others.     All  France  being  con- 
centrated in  Paris,  there  is  neither  force  nor 
Dpiniou  beyond  that  limited  spot.     The  mo- 
aent  that  Paris  falls,  the  whole  kingdom  in- 
^'intlv  falls  under  the  yoke  of  the  stranger; 
vast  monarchy  of  France  is  reduced  to  the 
nit  of  a  single  city.     It  was  not  thus  with 
•  France.     A  king  of  England  reigned  six- 
1  years  in  Paris,  but  the  provinces  resisted 
'  saved  France.     Guise  and  the  League,  and 
■rly  the  Fronde, chased  the  king  from  Paris ; 
■  the  provinces  did  not  abandon  their  sovc- 
jn,  and  not  only  preserved  his  throne,  but 
"'l  him  back  in  triumph  to  Paris. 
'    "  What  a  deplorable  change  is  now  exhi- 
n     The  great  centralizaTion  of  Paris  is 
epeated  in  detail  in  the  little  centralization  of 
chief  towns   of   the    departments,  which 
xraimunicale  their  movement  to  all  the  dis- 
ricts  of  which  they  arc  the  head.     In  each  of 
hese,  a  few  of  the  rabble,  headed  by  half  a 
lozen    advocates,   make   a   little    revolution, 
ilways  following  the  model  of  the  great  one. 
Phis  is  what  has  been  seen  in  our  days,  but 
levcr  before  in  so  extraordinary  and  disgrace- 
ill  a  manner.     Who  would  believe  it]     A  few 
ousand  workmen  and  students,  who  had  ob- 
ned  the  mastery  in  Paris  by  means  of  a 
edition,  changed  the  coloiirs  of  the  nation, 
iQd  hoisted  the   tri-coiour  flag.     The  df-part- 
aents  instantly  covered  themselves  with  white, 
ilae,  and  red.    Throughout  all  France  they 
ihanged  their  colours,  without  knowing  whose 
hey  were  to  mount;  whether  those  of  a  rc- 
rabtic,  a  military  despotism,  or  a  democratic 
tOTCrnment.     They  knew  nothing  of  all  this  ; 
"It.  as  mobs  must  have  a  rallying  cry,  they 
led  out,  llva  la  CViir/*-,  when  they  were  sup- 
'ing  a  faction  which  had  overturned  it.     If 
I  asked  them  what  they  wanted,  what  they 
inplaincd  of.  whom  thev  srrvcd.  what  th-'V 
iT.poNPd  to  themselves  !    Thr-y  answfrnd.'  We 
kill  tell  you  when  the  next  courier  arrives 
m  Paris.'    They  are  in  transports,  and  ready 
l.iy  down  their  life— for  whom  1     Why.  for 
he  rnirr  whose    name    shall   be    proclaimed 
roni  the  first  mail-coach.     Unhappily  this  is 
10  pl.-asantry;  the  tri-colour  was  n-rfived  in 
«veral  departments  many  days  before   they 
tncv  what  sort  of  government  it  was  to  bring 


them.  Thirty  or  forty  s  lopkeepers  in  Paris 
had  as  many  millions  in  our  noble  France  at 
their  disposal,  as  if  it  were  a  matter  which 
they  could  mould  according  to  their  will.  They 
made  use  of  our  illustrious  country  as  a  sta- 
tuary does  of  a  block  of  marble,  who  asks 
himself,  'Shall  I  make  a  god,  a  devil,  or  a 
table  V  Be  he  whom  he  may,  it  is  certain  that 
he  is  the  very  man  whom  tlie  provinces  would 
most  desire,  and  whom  they  would  instantly 
love  with  transport  the  moment  he  is  on  the 
throne.  Who  can  be  surprised  after  that,  if 
these  revolutionary  improvisatores  arc  not 
supported  by  the  same  profound  aflections 
which  ancient  habits  and  old  feelings  have  im- 
planted in  the  hearts.  How  disgraceful  to  the 
age  to  see  our  countrymen,  and  precisely  those 
amongst  them  who  are  most  vociferous  in 
support  of  liberty,  make  themselves  the  mute 
slaves  of  Paris,  and  accept  with  their  eyes 
shut  whoever  is  crowned  there,  whether  he  be 
a  Nero,  a  Caligula,  or  a  Robespierre  !" — Cho' 
mans,  24 — 27. 

These  observations  are  worthy  of  the  most 
serious  attention.  The  utter  and  disgraceful 
state  of  thraldom  in  which  France  is  kept  by 
Paris — in  other  words,  by  twenty  or  thirty  in- 
dividuals commanding  the  press  there — has 
long  been  proved,  and  was  con>;picuous  through 
all  the  changes  of  tlic  Revolution;  and  without 
doubt,  the  destruction  of  all  the  provincial 
courts,  and  the  annihilation  of  the  whole  an- 
cient distinctions  of  the  provinces,  has  gene 
far  to  break  down  and  destroy  the  spirit  of  the 
remainder  of  France.  But  the  evil  lies  deeper 
than  in  the  mere  centralization  of  all  the  in- 
fluences of  France  in  Paris;  its  principal 
cause  is  to  be  found  in  the  destruction  of  the 
higher  ranks  of  the  nobility,  which  took  place 
during  the  first  Revolution.  In  no  part  of 
France  are  there  now  to  be  found  any  great  or 
influential  proprietors,  who  can  direct  or 
strengthen  public  opinion  in  the  provinces,  or 
create  any  counterpoise  to  the  overwhelming 
preponderance  of  the  capital.  Hero  and  there 
may  be  found  an  insulate,]  proprietor  who  lives 
on  his  estates;  but,  •••  'lat 

class  is  extinct  in  lli     ,  far 

from  being  able  to  resist  the  inlluenre  of  I'aris, 
its  peasant  landholders  are  unable  to  withstand 
the  ascendant  of  their  prefect,  or  ihn  chief 
town  of  their  department.     .Napob-  er- 

fectly  aware  i,(  this.     He  knew  v  in 

consequence  of  the  destruction  of  the  higher 
orders,  regulated  freedom  was  impossible  in 
France,  and  he  therefore  .signali/ed  his  first 
,i.  ,   to  the  throne  by  the  creation  of  .i 

ii.  r  of  noblesse,  who,  he  flal'ere.l  him- 

self, would  sunply  the  place  of  th.r 
been  destroyed.  Imperfectly  as  a  i 
the  most  part  destitute  of  property,  can  supply 
the  place  of  one  who  centre  in  themselve-*  the 
great  mass  of  the  national  properiv.  it  vet  con- 
tributed something  to  pre  '^f 
society;  and  of  this  the  '"•j 
regulated  freedom  of  the  1'  ''"d 
decisive  evidence.  But  '  *'^ 
the  purpose  of  the  revo!  «« 
few  of  iheiu  to  stiprei  •  ''^ 
journals  were  not  y"  ^"d 
therefore  the"  never  ceased  agiiatuig  the  putj 


2G2 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


ic  mind,  and  spreading  the  most  false  and 
malicious  reports  concerning  all  men  in  au- 
thority, till  at  length  they  succeeded  in  over- 
turning, not  only  the  throne,  but  the  hereditary 
peerage,  and  have  thus  destroyed  the  last  bul- 
wark which  stood  between  the  Parisian  mob 
and   despotism,   over   the   whole  of  France. 
Such  is  the  unseen  but  resistless  manner  in 
which  Providence   counteracts   the   passions 
of  individuals,  and  brings  out  of  the  furnace  of 
democracy  the  strong  government,  which  is 
ultimately  destined  to  coerce  it,  and  restore 
society  to  those  principles  which  can  alone 
insure  the  safety  or  happiness  of  its  members. 

Let  us  now  hear  M.  St.  Chamans  on  the  ef- 
fects of  that  great  triumph  of  democracy. 

"Let  us  now  attend  to  the  deplorable  effects 
of  the  Revolution  of  1830.  To  riches  has  suc- 
ceeded misery;  commerce,  flourishing  when 
the  Glorious  Days  began,  is  now  in  the  depth 
of  suffering;  industry,  then  so  active,  is  lan- 
guishing; the  bankers,  so  splendid  before  that 
catastrophe,  now  attract  the  public  attention 
by  nothing  but  the  eclat  of  their  bankruptcies. 
Before  it,  consumption  was  continually  in- 
creasing; order  and  tranquillity  reigned  uni- 
versally in  France ;  the  public  revenue  was 
abundant,  and  easily  collected :  since  it,  con- 
sumption has  greatly  decreased;  disorder  and 
disquietude  trouble  every  man  in  the  country; 
the  public  receipts  are  constantly  diminish- 
ing, and  becoming  of  more  difficult  collection. 
Contrast  the  moderate  imposts  which  were 
suihcient  when  peace  was  certain,  with  the 
extraordinary  expenses  and  total  deficiency  of 
the  ordinary  receipts  which  have  taken  place 
since  the  Revolution  disturbed  the  peace  of 
Europe,  and  the  disastrous  effects  of  this  ca- 
lamitous event  will  distinctly  appear. 

"Instead  of  the  perfect  order  which  under 
the  Restoration  prevailed  in  France,  we  now 
see  universally  violence  going  on  against 
churches,  priests,  juries,  electors,  and  inof- 
fensive citizens ;  against  the  collectors  of  the 
public  revenue,  their  registers  and  furniture ; 
against  the  organs  of  the  press,  and  the  press 
itself;  royalty  is  obliged  everywhere  to  efface 
the  word  'Royal;'  government  addressing  to 
the  departments  telegraphic  despatches,  which 
the  prefects  are  in  haste  to  affix  on  their  walls, 
and  which  the  public  read  with  avidity;  the 
great,  the  important  news  is,  that  on  such  a 
day,  the  14th  or  28th  of  July,  Paris  u-as  tranquil. 
Pans  was  tranquil !  Why,  tranquillity  was  so 
usual  under  the  former  reign,  that  no  one 
thought  of  mentioning  it,  more  than  that  the 
sun  had  risen  in  the  morning. 

-  Nor  have  the  effects  of  the  Three  Glorious 
Days  been  less  conspicuous  in  every  other  de- 
partment. We  see  regiments,  ill-disciplined, 
acting  according  to  their  fancy;  sometimes 
raging  with  severity  against  the  insurrections; 
.'sometimes  regarding,  without  attempting  to 
suppress  them;  sometimes  openly  joinin'^ 
their  violence ;  the  theatres  alternately  shocl?- 
ing  religion,  its  ministers,  manners,  and  public 
decency;  the  minister  opposing  nothing  to 
that  torrent  of  insanity,  though  he  knows 
'A-here  to  apply  the  scissors  of  the  censorship 
when  the  license  extends  to  his  own  actions." 
Ibid.  31,  32. 


"  Thus  the  Revolution,  without  having  given 
us  one  of  the  ameliorations  so  loudly  demand 
ed  by  the  Liberals,  has  exhibited  no  other  re 
suit  but  anarchy  and  misery ;  the  one  the  ob 
ject  of  well-known  terror  to  every  friend  to  his 
country,  the  other  universal  suffering.  It  is 
needless  to  give  any  proofs  of  this  state  of  de 
cay  and  suffering ;  we  have  only  to  open  oui 
eyes  to  see  it ;  all  the  world  knows  it,  and  not 
the  least  the  authors  of  the  Revolution  of  July ; 
not  only  those  who  have  been  its  dupes,  but 
those  who  have  been  enriched  by  it,  (if  indeed 
it  has  benefited  any  one,)  make  no  attempt  to 
conceal  the  state  of  anarchy  and  disquietude 
into  which  France  is  plunged ;  on  the  contrary, 
they  seek  to  turn  it  to  their  profit,  by  constantly 
exhibiting  before  the  public  eye  a  dismal  per- 
spective of  evils  suspended  over  our  heads- 
disorder,  anarchy,  a  republic,  pillage,  popular 
massacres,  in  fine,  the  Reign  of  Terror.  They 
do  not  pretend  that  their  rule  can  give  us  pros- 
perity, but  only  that  it  stems  the  torrent  of  ad- 
versitj'. 

"These  disastrous  consequences  are  ma- 
turing throughout  France  with  a  frightful  ra- 
pidity. The  inhabitants  of  Paris,  and  possibly 
the  government,  are  not  aware  of  the  extent  to 
which  the  jirinciples  of  anarchy  have  spread 
in  every  part  of  France.  They  believe  that 
the  earth  is  undermined  only  where  explosions 
have  taken  place,  but  they  are  in  a  mistake ; 
it  is  everywhere,  and  on  all  sides,  a  boukvcrsc 
merit  is  threatened.  Certainly,  if  any  thing  is 
more  deplorable  than  the  present  state  of 
things,  it  is  the  future,  which  to  all  appearance 
is  in  store  for  us. 

"  Discord  and  anarchy  have  penetrated 
everywhere;  into  most  of  the  regiments  of  the 
army,  into  almost  all  the  departments  of 
France.  In  the  army,  it  is  well  known  that 
the  non-commissioned  officers  have  more  au- 
thority than  the  officers ;  in  the  villages,  the 
electors  of  the  magistrates  and  municipal 
councils,  with  the  officers  of  the  National 
Guard,  have  everywhere  created  two  parties, 
and  distracted  every  thing.  The  source  of 
their  discord  is  deeper  than  any  political  con- 
tests ;  it  is  the  old  struggle  of  the  poor  against 
the  rich ;  it  is  the  eflbrts  of  the  democracy  in 
waistcoats,  trying  to  subvert  the  intolerable 
aristocracy  of  coats. 

"  The  disastrous  effects  of  the  Revolution  of 
1830  have  not  been  confined  to  political  sub- 
jects. To  complete  the  picture  of  our  interior 
condition,  it  is  necessary  to  add  that  anarchy 
has  spread  not  only  into  the  state,  but  into  re- 
ligion, literature,  and  the  theatres,  for  it  will 
invariably  be  found  that  disorder  does  not  con- 
fine itself  to  one  object;  that  the  contagioi? 
spreads  successively  into  every  department  of 
human  thought.  It  was  reserved  for  the  lights 
of  the  19th  century  to  draw  an  absurd  and  in^ 
credible  religion  from  the  principle  that  'la- 
bour is  the  source  of  riches.'  The  first  conse- 
quence they  deduce  is,  that  there  is  no  one  use- 
ful in  the  world  but  he  who  labours  ;  those  who 
do  not  are  useless:  The  second,  that  all  the 
good  things  of  this  M'orld  should  belong  to 
those  who  are  the  most  useful,  that  is  the  day- 
labourers.  M.  St.  Simon  thence  concludes  that 
a  shoemaker  is  more  useful  to  society  than  .hf. 


THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION  OF  1830. 


203 


Duchess  d'Angouleme.  He  never  hesitated  as 
to  his  divine  mission,  and  gave  himself  out  for 
the  prophet  of  a  new  religion,  the  high  priest 
of  a  new  church. 

"In  literature  what  a  chaos  of  new  and  ex- 
travagant ideas — what  a  torrent  of  absurd  re- 
volting madness  has  burst  forth  in  a  short  pe- 
riod !  It  is  especially  during  the  last  eighteen 
months,  that  all  men  of  reflection  have  become 
sensible  of  the  reality  of  our  state  of  perfection  ; 
they  have  seen  that  the  inefficiency  of  our  lite- 
rary and  political  character  is  at  least  equal  to 
their  prtie,  and  nothing  more  can  be  said  of 
them.  . 

"One  Avould  imagine,  iu  truth,  that  Provi- 
dence had  intentionally  rendered  the  triumph  of  the 
Revolutionists  so  sudden  and  complete,  expressly  in 
order  to  open  the  eyes  of  those  by  a  new  example,  to 
whom  the  first  would  not  suffice.  Nothing  has  con- 
tended against  them  but  the  consequence  of 
their  own  principles,  and  yet  where  are  they] 
They  have  declaimed  for  fifteen  years  against 
the  undue  preponderance  of  the  roj'al  authori- 
ty, and  the  want  of  freedom ;  and  yet  they  have 
proved  by  their  actions  that  they  could  take 
nothing  from  that  authority,  and  add  nothing 
to  that  freedom,  without  plunging  us  into  anar- 
ch}''. Follow  attentively  their  reign — their  own 
principles  have  been  sufficient  to  destroy  them, 
without  the  intervention  of  a  human  being. 
The  first  ministry,  M.  Guizot  and  the  Duke  de 
Broglio,  had  the  favour  of  the  king,  and  of  the 
majority  in  both  chambers.  Under  the  Resto- 
ration, a  ministry  could  never  have  been  over- 
turned which  stood  in  such  a  situation ;  but 
nevertheless  it  did  not  exist  three  months ; 
without  being  attacked  it  perished ;  disap- 
peared in  the  midst  of  a  tumult.  The  repres- 
sion of  that  disorder  was  the  nominal,  the  prin- 
ciples of  the  government  itself  the  real  cause. 
The  same  causes  overthrew  in  a  few  months 
more  the  succeeding  ministry.  The  adminis- 
tration of  Casimir  Perier  had  also  the  support 
of  the  king  and  of  the  chambers,  and  no  one 
attacked  it;  but  nevertheless  it  was  compelled 
fo  purchase  a  disgraceful  and  ephemeral  exist- 
•mce,  by  the  suppression  of  the  hereditary 
peerage.  Such  is  the  state  of  this  government ; 
with  all  the  elements  of  force  it  is  incapable  of 
governing;  with  .500,000  men,  and  an  annual 
budget  of  1500,000,000,  (64,000,000/.,)  whicii  it 
has  at  its  disposal,  it  is  not  obeyed.  At  Paris, 
nothing  has  occurred  but  revolt  upon  revolt, 
which  could  be  suppressed  only  by  abandoning 
to  their  fury  the  Cross,  the  emblem  of  Chris- 
tianity, the  palace  of  the  Archbishop,  and  the 
arms  of  the  throne;  while  in  the  provinces  in- 
surrections have  broken  out  on  all  sides,  some- 
times against  the  authority  of  the  magistrates, 
L-iimetimes  with  their  concurrence,  which  have 
led.  to  such  a  stoppage  of  the  revenue,  as  has 
led  to  the  contraction  of  debt  to  the  amount  of 
20,000,000/.  a  year. 

"  Whence  is  it,  that  with  the  same  elements 
from  whence  Charles  X.  extracted  so  much 
prosperity,  and  maintained  such  perfect  peace, 
nothing  can  be  produced  under  Louis  Philippe 
but  misery  and  disorder?  It  is  impossible  to 
blink  the  question;  it  is  with  the  same  capital 
that  industryand  commerce  are  perishing;  with 
Uie  same  manufactures  that  you  cannot  find 


employment  for  your  workmen;  with  the  same 
ships  that  your  merchants  arc  starving;  with 
the  same  revenues  that  you  are  compelled  to 
sell  the  royal  forests,  contract  enormous  loans; 
pillage  the  fund  laid  aside  for  the  indemnity 
of  individuals,  and  incessantly  increase  the 
floating  debt;  that  it  is  with  peace  both  with- 
in and  without  that  you  are  obliged  to  aug- 
ment the  army,  and  restore  all  the  severity  of 
the  conscription.  How  is  it  that  the  ancient 
dynasty  preserved  us  from  so  many  misfor- 
tunes, and  the  new  one  has  brought  us  such 
terrible  scourges  1     I  will  explain  the  cause. 

"  Confidence  creates  this  prosperity  of  na- 
tions. Disquietude  and  apprehension  cause 
it  to  disappear.  Security,  for  the  future,  given 
or  taken  away,  produces  activity  or  languor, 
riches  or  misery,  tranquillity  or  trouble.  You 
have  made  your  election  for  the  wrong  side  of 
that  alternative,  when  instead  of  Right  you 
substitute  Might:  because  Right,  which  never 
changes,  bears  in  itself  all  the  elements  of 
stability,  while  PoM^er,  which  changes  every 
day,  brings  home  to  every  breast  the  feeling 
of  instability.  I  know  well,  that  to  the  present 
triumph  of  power  its  leaders  strive  to  annex 
an  idea  of  right ;  but  it  will  be  just  as  easy, 
when  the  next  heave  of  the  revolutionary 
earthquake  displaces  the  present  authority,  to 
clothe  that  which  succeeds  it  with  a  similar 
title  to  permanent  obedience.  Every  succes- 
sive party  in  its  turn  can  rest  its  pretensions 
to  sovereignty  on  the  authority  of  the  People. 
On  the  other  hand,  our  right  of  succession 
depends  on  an  immovable  basis.  If  Charles 
X.  or  Henry  V.  is  on  the  throne,  every  one 
knows  that  no  person  can  claim  the  crown  on 
the  same  title  as  that  by  which  they  held  it: 
but  under  the  present  government,  how  is  it 
possible  to  avoid  the  conviction,  that  if  it 
pleases  300  persons  at  Metz  or  Grenoble  to 
proclaim  a  republic,  or  300  others  at  Toulouse 
or  Bordeaux,  Henry  V.,  and  if  a  general  stupor, 
arising  from  the  weakness  of  each  of  the  d-e- 
partments  taken  singly,  prevents  any  effectual 
resistance,  the  new  government  will  immedi- 
ately acquire  the  same  title  to  obedience  as 
that  which  now  fills  the  throne  1" — St.  C/w- 
mans,  57,  58. 

"  It  is  therefore  in  the  principle  on  which  the 
government  is  founded,  that  we  must  look  for 
the  causeofoursulllTing  and  our  ruin.  Iflo  this 
cause  we  add  the  consequences,  nut  less  power- 
ful, of  a  democratic  constitution,  that  is,  to  an 
orcranized  anarchy,  we  may  despair  of  the 
safety  of  our  country,  if  it  is  not  destroyed  by 
the  seeds  of  destruction  which  such  a  govern- 
ment carries  in  its  bosom.  In  no  country,  and 
in  no  age,  has  democracy  made  a  great  state 
prosper,  or  established  it  in  a  stable  manner; 
and  even  though  it  should  become  inured  to 
the  climate  elsewhere,  it  would  always  prove 
fatal  in  France.  The  foundation  of  the  French 
character  is  vanity;  and  that  feeling  which, 
under  proper  direction,  becomes  a  noble  desire 
for  illustrators,  which  has  been  the  source  of 
our  military  gku-y,  and  of  our  success  in  so 
many  different  departments,  is  an  invincible 
bar  to  our  essays  ■'n  democracy,  because  every 
one  is  envious  of  the  superiority  of  his  neigh^ 
hour,  conceives   himself  qualified  for  every 


XG4 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS, 


.'hing,  aiul   pretends    to    every   situation."— 

IbicL  60. 

"The  Revolution  of  1830  has  lighted  anew 
the  torch  of  experience  on  many  controverted 
points,  and  I  appeal  with  confidence  upon  them 
to  the  many  men  of  good  faith  who  exist  among 
our  adversaries.  They  seek  like  us  the  good 
of  our  common  country,  and  the  welfare  of 
humanity;  they  hold  that  in  the  Charter  there 
was  too  little  political  power  conferred  upon 
the  people.  Let  them  judge  now,  for  the  proof 
has  been  decisive.  They  will  find  that  on 
every  occasion,  without  one  exception,  in 
which  political  power,  unrestrained  by  strict 
limits,  has  been  conferred  upon  the  people, 
personal  Itbciiyhad  been  destroyed;  that  the  latter 
has  lost  as  much  as  the  former  has  gained. 
Such  an  extension  of  political  power  is  no- 
thing but  democracy  or  supreme  authority 
lodged  in  the  hands  of  the  people.  Reflect 
upon  the  fate  of  personal  freedom  under  the 
democratic  constitutions  which  promised  us 
the  greatest  possible  extension  of  individual 
liberty.  Was  there  liberty  under  the  Consti- 
tuent Assembly,  for  those  who  were  massacred 
in  the  streets,  and  whose  heads  they  carried  on 
the  ends  of  pikes  "?  Was  there  liberty  for  the 
seigniors  whose  chateaux  they  burnt,  and  who 
saved  their  lives  only  by  flight  1  Was  there 
liberty  for  those  who  were  massacred  at 
Avignon,  or  whom  the  committee  of  Jacobins 
tore  from  the  bosoms  of  their  families  to  con- 
duct to  the  guillotine  1  Was  there  liberty  for 
the  King,  who  was  not  permitted  to  move  be- 
yond the  barriers  of  Paris,  nor  venture  to 
breathe  the  fresh  air  at  the  distance  of  a  league 
from  the  city  1  No,  there  was  liberty  only  for 
their  oppressors  :  the  only  freedom  was  that 
which  the  incendiaries,  jailers,  and  assassins 
enjoyed. 

"Since  the  Revolution  of  Jul)',  has  there 
been  any  freedom  for  the  clergy,  who  do  not 
venture  to  show  themselves  in  the  streets  of 
Paris,  even  in  that  dress  which  is  revered  by 
savage  tribes  ;  for  the  Catholics,  who  can  no 
longer  attend  mass  but  at  midnight;  for  the 
Judges,  who  are  threatened  in  the  discharge 
of  their  duties  by  the  aspirants  for  their  places ; 
for  the  Electors,  whose  votes  are  overturned 
with  the  urns  which  contain  them,  and  who 
return  lacerated  and  bleeding  from  the  place 
of  election;  for  the  Citizens  arbitrarily  thrust 
out  of  the  National  Guard;  for  the  Archbishop 
of  Paris,  whose  house  was  robbed  and  plun- 
dered with  impunity,  at  the  very  moment  when 
the  ministers  confessed  in  the  chambers  they 
could  allege  nothing  against  him;  for  the 
officers  of  all  grades,  even  the  generals  ex- 
pelled from  their  situations  at  the  caprice  of 
their  inferiors  ;  for  the  curates  of  churches, 
when  the  governm?nt,'  trembling  before  the 
sovereign  multitude,  close  the  churches  to 
save  them  from  the  profanation  and  sacking 
of  the  mob;  for  the  King  himself,  condemned 
by  their  despotism,  to  lay  aside  the  arms  of 
his  racel" 

"  These  evils  have  arisen  from  confounding 
personal  with  political  liberty;  a  distiction 
which  lies  at  the  foundation  of  these  matters. 

"I  cM personal  freedom  the  right  to  dispose, 


without  molestation,  of  one's  person  and  es 
tate,  and  be  secure  that  neither  the  one  no5 
the  other  will  be  disquieted  without  your  con 
sent.  That  liberty  is  an  object  of  universal  in- 
terest ;  its  preservation  the  source  of  universal 
solicitude.  I  support  the  extension  of  that 
species  of  liberty  to  the  utmost  extent  that 
society  can  admit ;  and  I  would  carry  it  to  a 
much  greater  length  than  ever  has  heen  im- 
agined by  our  democrats.  I  would  have  every 
one's  property  held  sacred;  his  person  and 
estate  inviolable,  without  the  consent  of  his 
representatives,  or  the  authority  of  the  law; 
absolute  seciirity  against  forced  service  of  any 
kind,  or  against  either  arrest  or  punishment, 
but  under  the  strongest  safeguard,  for  the 
protection  of  innocence. 

"  The  other  species  of  liberty,  called  Politi- 
cal Liberty,  is  an  object  of  interest  to  the  great 
body  of  the  citizens  ;  it  consists  in  the  right  of 
taking  a  part  in  the  government  of  the  state. 
It  cannot  afiect  the  great  body,  because  in  every 
country  the  immense  majority  can  influence 
government  neither  b}^  their  votes  nor  their 
writings.  This  latter  kind  of  liberty  should 
be  restrained  within  narrow  limits,  for  experi- 
ence proves  it  cannot  be  widely  extended  vrith- 
out  destroying  the  other." 

These  observations  appear  to  be  as  novel  as 
they  are  important.  They  are  not,  strictly 
speaking,  new ;  for  in  this  Magazine  for  Feb- 
ruary, 1830,*  the  same  principles  are  laid  down 
and  illustrated;  and  this  furnishes  another 
proof,  among  the  many  which  might  be  col- 
lected, of  the  simultaneous  extrication  of  the 
same  original  thought,  in  diflerent  countries  at 
the  same  time,  from  the  course  of  political 
events.  But  to  any  one  who  calmly  and  dis- 
passionately considers  the  subject,  it  must  be 
manifest  that  they  contain  the  true  principle 
on  the  subject.  The  diSerence,  as  St.  Cha- 
mans  says,  between  personal  and  polilicai  lib- 
erty, or,  as  we  should  say  in  this  countr}-,  be- 
tween Freedom  and  Democracy,  is  the  most 
important  distinction  which  ever  was  stated ; 
and  it  is  from  confounding  these  two  different 
objects  of  popular  ambition,  that  all  the  misery 
has  arisen,  which  has  so  often  attended  thfe 
struggle  for  popular  independence,  and  tha\ 
liberty  has  so  often  been  strangled  by  its  own 
votaries. 

To  pi'oduce  the  greatest  amount  of  personal 
freedom  and  security  with  the  smallest  degree 
of  political  power  in  the  lower  classes ;  to 
combine  the  maximum  of  liberty  with  the  mi- 
nimum of  democracy,  is  the  great  end  of  good 
government,  and  should  be  the  great  object  of 
the  true  patriot  in  every  age  and  country. 
There  is  no  such  fatal  enemy  to  Freedom  as 
Democracy;  it  never  fails  to  devour  its  off- 
spring in  a  few  years.  True  liberty,  or  the 
complete  security  of  persons,  thoughts,  pro- 
perty, and  actions,  in  all  classes,  from  injury 
or  oppression,  never  existed  three  months  imder 
an  unrestrained  Democracy  ;  because  the  worst 
of  tyrannies  is  a  multitude  of  tyrants.  The 
coercion  of  each  class  of  society  by  the  others ; 


*  French  Revolution,  No.  2.    February,  1830,  wiitten 
by  the  author. 


THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION  OP  1830. 


265 


of  tlie  impetuosity  and  vehemence  of  the  po- 
pulace and  their  demagogues  by  the  steadiness 
and  weight  of  the  aristocracy ;  of  the  ambi- 
tion and  oppression  of  the  aristocracy  by  the 
vigour  and  independence  of  the  commons,  is 
indispensable  to  the  equilibrium  of  govern- 
ment and  the  preservation  of  freedom;  but  it 
is  precisely  the  state  of  things  which  the  re- 
volutionists will  ever  assail  with  most  vehe- 
mence, because  it  afibrds  the  most  effectual 
coercion  to  their  passions  and  despotic  ambi- 
tion. The  spirit  of  democracy,  that  keen  and 
devouring  element  which  has  produced,  and  is 
producing,  such  ravages  in  the  world,  is  to  the 
political  what  fire  is  to  domestic  life.  Politi- 
cal freedom  cannot  exist  without  it,  and  when 
properly  regulated,  it  vivifies  and  improves 
every  department  of  society;  but  if  once  al- 
lowed to  get  ahead,  if  not  confined  within  iron 
bars,  it  will  instantly  consume  the  fabric  in 
■which  it  is  placed. 

Napoleon  has  left  the  following  picture  of 
the  manner  in  which  freedom  was  devoured 
by  democracy,  during  the  first  French  Revolu- 
tion : — "  Liberty,"  said  he,  "  was  doubtless  the 
first  cry  of  the  people  when  the  Revolution 
arose ;  but  that  was  not  what  they  really  de- 
sired. The  first  lightning  of  the  Revolution 
showed  what  talents  then  existed,  which  the 
levelling  prmciple  would  restore  to  society  for 
the  advantage  and  glory  of  the  state.  Thus  it 
was  equality  which  the  French  people  always 
desired;  and  to  tell  the  truth,  liberty  hath  never 
existed  since  it  was  proclaimed.  For  the  proper 
definition  of  liberty  is  the  power  of  freely  ex- 
ercising all  our  faculties  ;  and  with  the  excep- 
tion of  some  speeches  which  the  orators  of  the 
sections  were  allowed  to  make  in  1795,  show 
me  a  period  when  the  people  were  at  liberty  to 
say  or  do  what  they  wished  since  1789  1  Was 
it  when  the  crowds  of  women  and  malecon- 
tents  besieged  the  Convention  1  Begone ;  think 
of  your  business,  said  they  ;  and  yet  these  poor 
people  only  asked  for  bread.  Will  any  one 
pretend  that  the  years  1793  or  1794  were  the 
eras  of  freedom  1  Under  the  Directory,  no  one 
dared  to  open  their  mcuth;  and  after  the  18th 
Fructidor  in  1797,  a  second  Reign  of  Terror 
arose.  Never  have  the  people,  even  under 
Louis  XI.  or  Cardinal  Richelieu,  or  in  the  most 
despotic  states,  had  less  liberty  than  duriiii^  the 
whole  period  ivhich  has  elapsed  since  the  first  Jlcvn- 
lution  broke  out.  What  France  always  wished, 
what  shs  still  wishes,  is  equality;  in  other 


words,  the  equal  partition  of  the  means  of  ris- 
ing to  glory  and  distinction  in  the  state."* 

This  lesson  would  not  suffice.  The  revolu- 
tionists saw  their  despotic  rule  melting  away 
under  the  just  and  equal  sway  of  the  Bourbon.?, 
and  therefore  they  inflamed  the  public  mind 
till  they  got  their  government  overthrown. 
Despotism  of  one  kind  or  another  instantly  re- 
turned :  that  of  the  National  Guard,  the  Pari- 
sian Emeutes,  or  Marshal  Soult's  cannoniers, 
and  liberty  has  been  destroyed  by  the  dema- 
gogues who  roused  the  people  in  its  name. 
Thus  it  ever  has  been ;  thus  it  ever  will  be  to 
the  end  of  time.  Individuals  may  be  instructed 
by  history  or  enlightened  by  reflection;  the 
great  masses  of  mankind  will  never  learn  wis- 
dom but  from  their  own  suffering. 

This  distinction  between  individual  freedom 
and  political  power,  between  liberty  and  demo- 
cracy, is  the  great  point  of  separation  between 
the  Whigs  and  Tories.  The  Conservatives 
strive  to  increase  personal  frcedoin  to  the  ut- 
most degree,  and  to  effect  that  they  find  it  in- 
dispensable to  restrain  the  efforts  of  its  worst 
enemies,  the  democrac}^  The  Whigs  attend 
only  to  the  augmentation  of  popular  power, 
and  in  so  doing  they  instantly  trench  on  civil 
liberty.  When  were  persons,  property,  life, 
and  thoughts,  more  free,  better  protected  or 
secured,  than  in  Great  Britain  from  1815  to 
1830,  the  days  when  the  Democracy  was  re- 
strained 1  When  have  they  been  so  ill  secured 
since  the  tinie  of  Cromwell,  as  during  the  last 
two  years,  illuminated  as  they  have  been  by 
the  flames  of  Bristol,  and  the  conflagration  of 
Jamaica,  the  days  of  democratic  ascendency  1 
Ireland,  at  present  under  the  distracting  rule 
of  O'Connell,  the  demagogue,  is  the  prototype 
of  the  slavery  to  which  we  are  fast  driving, 
under  the  guidance  of  the  Whigs  :  England, 
from  1815  to  1830,  the  last  example  of  the 
freedom  from  which  we  are  receding,  estab- 
lished by  the  Tories.  What  farther  evils  the 
farther  indulgence  of  this  devouring  principle 
AS  to  produce,  we  know  not,  though  experience 
gives  us  little  hopes  of  amendment  till  we  have 
gone  through  additional  suffering;  but  of  this 
we  are  well  assured,  that  the  time  will  come 
when  these  truths  shall  have  passed  into 
axioms,  and  experience  taught  every  man  of 
intelligence,  that  the  assassins  of  freedom  are 
the  supporters  of  democratic  power. 


♦  Napoleon,  en  Ductiesise  Abrantes,  vii.  1,69, 170. 


206 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


THE  FALL  OF  TURKEY.* 


TnE  hng  duration  and  sudden  fall  of  the 
Turkish  Empire  is  one  of  the  most  extraordi- 
nary and  apparently  inexplicable  phenomena 
in  European  histor}%  The  decay  of  the  Otto- 
man power  had  been  constantly  the  theme  of 
historians;  their  approaching  downfall,  the 
unceasing  subject  of  prophecy  for  a  century; 
but  yet  the  ancient  fabric  still  held  out,  and 
evinced  on  occasions  a  dsgree  of  vigour  which 
confounded  all  the  machinations  of  its  enemies. 
For  eighty  years,  the  subversion  of  the  empire 
of  Constantinople  had  been  the  unceasing 
object  of  Moscovite  ambition :  the  genius  of 
Catherine  had  been  incessantly  directed  to 
that  great  object;  a  Russian  prince  was  christ- 
ened after  the  last  of  the  Palceologi  expressly 
to  receive  his  throne,  but  yet  the  black  eagle 
made  little  progress  towards  the  Danube;  the 
Mussulman  forces  arrayed  on  its  banks  were 
still  most  formidable,  and  a  host  arrayed  under 
the  banners  of  the  Osmanleys,  seemingly  ca- 
pable of  making  head  against  the  world.  For 
four  years,  from  1808  to  1812,  the  Russians 
waged  a  desperate  war  Avith  the  Turks ;  they 
brought  frequently  an  hundred  and  fifty,  some- 
times two  hundred  thousand  men  into  the 
field;  but  at  its  close  they  had  made  no  sensi- 
ble progress  in  the  reduction  of  the  bulwarks 
of  Islamisra :  two  hundred  thousand  Mussul- 
mans had  frequently  assembled  round  the  ban- 
ners of  the  Prophet;  the  Danube  had  been 
stained  with  blood,  but  the  hostile  armies  still 
contended  in  doubtful  and  desperate  strife  on 
its  shores;  and  on  the  glacis  of  Roudschouk, 
the  Moscovites  had  sustained  a  bloodier  defeat 
than  they  ever  received  from  the  genius  of 
Napoleon.  In  the  triumph  of  the  Turks  at 
that  prodigious  victory,  the  Vizier  wrote  exult- 
ingly  to  the  Grand  Seignior,  that  such  was  the 
multitude  of  the  Infidel  heads  which  he  had 
taken,  that  they  would  make  a  bridge  for  the 
souls  of  the  Faithful  from  earth  to  heaven. 

But  though  then  so  formidable,  the  Ottoman 
power  has  within  these  twenty  years  rapidly 
and  irrecoverably  declined.  The  great  barrier 
cf  Turkey  was  reached  in  the  first  campaign 
cf  the  next  war,  the  Balkan  yielded  to  Russian 
genius  in  the  second,  and  Adrianople,  the  an- 
cient capital  of  the  Osmanleys,  became  cele- 
brated for  the  treaty  which  sealed  for  ever  the 
degradation  of  their  race.  On  all  sides  the 
provinces  of  the  empire  have  revolted:  Greece, 
through  a  long  and  bloody  contest,  has  at  length 
worked  out  its  deliverance  from  all  butits  own 
passions;  the  ancient  war-cry  of  Byzantium, 
Victory  to  the  Cross,  has  been  again"  heard  on 
the  .(Egean  Sca;f  and  the  Pasha  of  Egypt,  tak- 

•  Travels  in  Turkey,  by  F  Slade,  Esq.  London,  1832 
Blackwood's  Matfazine,  .lime,  1833. 

tWhcii  the  liravo  Canaria  passed  under  the  bows  of 

me  Turkish  admiral's  sliip,  to  wliich  he  had  prappled 

the  fatal  firesliip,  at  .Scio,  the  crow  in  his  lioat  exclaimed 

'  \iriory  to  the  (.'ross!"  the  old  war-cry  of  Byzantium! 

—OoHun's  Greek  Revolution,  i.  VA. 


ing  advantage  of  the  weakness  consequent  ft 
so  many  reverses,  has  boldly  thrown  off  tn« 
yoke,  and,  advancing  from  Acre  in  the  path  of 
Napoleon,  shown  to  the  astonished  world  the 
justice  of  that  great  man's  remark,  that  his 
defeat  by  Sir  Sidney  Smith  under  its  walls 
made  him  miss  his  destiny.  The  victory  of 
Koniah  prostrated  the  Asiatic  power  of  Turkey; 
the  standards  of  Mehemet  Ali  rapidly  ap- 
proached the  Sei'aglio;  and  the  disc&mfited 
Sultan  has  been  driven  to  take  refuge  under 
the  suspicious  shelter  of  the  Russian  legions. 
Already  the  advanced  guard  of  Nicholas  has 
passed  the  Bosphorus ;  the  Moscovite  standards 
are  floating  at  Scutari ;  and,  to  the  astonish- 
ment alike  of  Europe  and  Asia,  the  keys  of  the 
Dardanelles,  the  throne  of  Constantine,  are  laid 
at  the  feet  of  the  Czar. 

The  unlooked  for  rapidity  of  these  events,  is 
not  more  astonishing  than  the  weakness  which 
the  Mussulman  s  have  evinced  in  their  last  strug- 
gle. The  Russians,  in  the  late  campaign,  nevel 
assembled  forty  thousand  men  in  the  field.  In 
the  battle  of  the  11th  June,  1828,  which  de- 
cided the  fate  of  the  war,  Diebitsch  had  only 
thirty-six  thousand  soldiers  under  arms ;  yet  this 
small  force  routed  the  Turkish  army,  and  laid 
open  the  far-famed  passes  of  the  Balkan  to  the 
daring  genius  of  its  leadei*.  Christendom 
looked  in  vain  for  the  mighty  host  which,  at 
the  sight  of  the  holy  banner,  was  wont  to  as- 
semble round  the  standard  of  the  Prophet.  The 
ancient  courage  of  the  Osmanleys  seemed  to 
have  perished  with  their  waning  fortunes; 
hardly  could  the  Russian  outposts  keep  pace 
with  them  in  the  rapidity  of  their  flight;  and  a 
force,  reduced  by  sickness  to  tAventy  thousand 
men,  dictated  peace  to  the  Ottomans  within 
twenty  hours'  march  of  Constantinople.  More 
lately,  the  once  dreaded  throne  of  Turkey  has 
become  a  jest  to  its  remote  provinces;  the 
Pasha  of  Egypt,  once  the  most  inconsiderable 
of  its  vassals,  has  compelled  the  Sublime 
Porte,  the  ancient  terror  of  Christendom,  to 
seek  for  safety  in  the  protection  of  Infidel 
battalions;  and  the  throne  of  Constantine,  in- 
capable of  self-defence,  is  perhaps  ultimately 
destined  to  become  the  prize  for  which  Mos- 
covite ambition  and  Arabian  audacity  are  to 
contend  on  the  glittering  shores  of  Scutari. 

But  if  the  weakness  of  the  Ottomans  is  sur- 
prising, the  supineness  of  the  European  pow- 
ers is  not  less  amazing  at  this  interesting  crisis. 
The  power  of  Russia  has  long  been  a  subject 
of  alarm  to  France,  and  having  twice  seen  the 
Cossacks  at  the  Tuileries,  it  is  not  surprising 
that  they  should  feel  somcAvhat  nervous  ai 
eveiy  addition  to  its  strength.  England,  jea- 
lous of  its  maritime  superiority,  and  appre- 
hensive— whether  reasonably  or  not  is  imma- 
terial— of  danger  to  her  Indian  possessions, 
from  the  growth  of  Russian  power  in  Asia,  has 
long  made  it  a  f  xed  principle  of  her  policy  xo 


THE   FALL   OF   TURKEY. 


2G7 


coerce  the  ambitious  designs  of  the  Cabinet  of 
St.  Petersburg,  and  twice  she  has  saved  Turkey 
from  their  grasp.  When  the  Russians  and 
Austrians,  in  the  last  century,  projected  an 
alliance  for  its  partition,  and  Catherine  and 
Joseph  had  actually  met  on  the  Wolga  to 
arrange  its  details,  Mr.  Pitt  interposed,  and  by 
the  influence  of  England  prevented  the  design  : 
and  when  Diebitsch  was  in  full  march  for 
Constantinople,  and  the  insurrection  of  the 
Janissaries  only  waited  for  the  sight  of  the 
Cossacks  to  break  out,  and  overturn  the  throne 
of  Mahmoud,  the  strong  arm  of  Wellington  in- 
terfered, put  a  curb  in  the  mouth  of  Russia,  and 
postponed  for  a  season  the  fall  of  the  Turkish 
power.  Now,  however,  every  thing  is  changed ; 
— France  and  England,  occupied  with  domestic 
dissensions,  are  utterly  paralysed ;  they  can  no 
longer  make  a  show  of  resistance  to  Moscovite 
ambition ;  exclusively  occupied  in  preparing 
the  downfall  of  her  ancient  allies,  the  Dutch 
and  the  Portuguese,  England  has  not  a  thought 
to  bestow  on  the  occupation  of  the  Dardanelles, 
and  the  keys  of  the  Levant  are,  without  either 
observation  or  regret,  passing  to  the  hands  of 
Russia. 

These  events  are  so  extraordinary,  that  they 
almost  make  the  boldest  speculator  hold  his 
breath.  Great  as  is  the  change  in  external 
events  which  we  daily  witness,  the  alteration 
in  internal  feeling  is  still  greater.  Changes 
which  would  have  convulsed  England  from 
end  to  end,  dangers  which  would  have  thrown 
European  diplomacy  irf^  agonies  a  few  years 
ago,  are  now  regarded  with  indifference.  The 
progress  of  Russia  through  Asia,  the  capture 
of  Erivan  and  Erzeroum,  the  occupation  of  the 
Dardanelles,  are  now  as  little  regarded  as  if 
we  had  no  interest  in  such  changes;  as  if  we 
had  no  empire  in  the  East  threatened  by  so 
ambitious  a  neighbour;  no  independence  at 
stake  in  the  growth  of  the  Colossus  of  northern 
Europe. 

The  reason  is  apparent,  and  it  affords  the 
first  great  and  practical  proof  which  Enijland 
has  yet  received  of  the  fatal  blow,  which  the 
recent  changes  have  struck,  not  only  at  her 
internal  prosperity,  but  her  external  independ- 
ence. England  is  now  powerless;  and,  what 
is  Avorse,  the  European  powers  Icnow  it.  Her 
government  is  so  incessantly  and  exclnsivoly 
occupied  in  maintaining  its  ground  against  tlie 
internal  enemies  whom  the  Reform  Bill  lias 
raised  up  into  appalling  strength;  the  neces- 
sity of  sacrificing  something  to  the  insatiable 
passions  of  the  revolutionists  is  so  apparent, 
that  every  other  object  is  disregarded.  The 
allies  by  whose  aid  they  overthrew  the  con- 
stitution, have  turned  so  nercely  upon  them, 
that  they  are  forced  to  strain  every  nerve  to 
resist  these  domestic  enemies.  Who  can  think 
of  the  occupation  of  Scutari,  when  the  malt  lax 
is  threatened  with  repeal!  Who  care  fur  the 
thunders  of  Nicholas,  when  the  threats  of 
O'Connell  are  ringing  in  their  ears?  The 
English  government,  once  so  stable  and  stead- 
fast in  its  resolutions,  when  rested  on  the  firm 
rock  of  the  Aristocracy,  has  become  unstable 
as  water  since  it  was  thrown  for  its  support 
upon  the  Democracy.  Its  designs  are  as 
changeable,  its   policy  as   fluctuating,  as  the 


volatile  and  inconsiderate  mass  from  which  it 
sprung;  and  heace  its  menaces  are  disre- 
garded, its  ancient  relations  broken,  its  old 
allies  disgusted,  and  the  weight  of  its  influence 
being  no  longer  felt,  projects  the  most  threat- 
ening to  its  independence  are  without  hesita- 
tion undertaken  by  other  states. 

Nor  is  the  supineness  and  apathy  of  the 
nation  less  important  or  alarming.  It  exists 
to  such  an  extent  as  clearly  to  demonstrate, 
that  not  only  are  the  days  of  its  gloiy  num- 
bered, but  the  termination  even  of  its  inde- 
pendence may  be  foreseen  at  no  distant  period. 
Enterprises  the  most  hostile  to  its  interestSj 
conquests  the  most  fatal  to  its  glory,  are  ur 
dertaken  by  its  rivals  not  only  without  the 
disapprobation,  but  with  the  cordial  suppon, 
of  the  majority  of  the  nation.  Portugal,  for  a 
century  the  ally  of  England,  for  whose  defence 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  Englishmen  had  died 
in  our  own  times,  has  been  abandoned  without 
a  murmur  to  the  revolutionary'  spoliation  and 
propagandist  arts  of  France.  Holland,  the 
bulwark  of  England,  for  whose  protection  the 
great  war  with  France  was  undertaken,  has 
been  assailed  by  British  fleets,  and  threatened 
by  British  power ;  and  the  shores  of  the 
Scheldt,  which  beheld  the  victorious  legions  of 
Wellington  land  to  curb  the  power  of  Napo- 
leon, have  witnessed  the  union  of  the  tricolour 
and  British  flags,  to  beat  down  the  indepen 
dence  of  the  Dutch  provinces.  Constantino 
pie,  long  regarded  as  the  outpost  of  India 
against  the  Russians,  is  abandoned  without 
regret ;  and,  amidst  the  strife  of  internal  fac- 
tion, the  fixing  of  the  Moscovite  standards  on 
the  shores  of  the  Bosphorus,  the  transference 
of  the  finest  harbour  in  the  world  to  a  growing 
maritime  power,  and  of  the  entrepot  of  Europe 
and  Asia  to  an  already  formidable  commercial 
state,  is  hardly  the  subject  of  obseiwation. 

The  reason  cannot  be  concealed,  and  is  loo 
clearly  illustrative  of  the  desperate  tendency 
of  the  recent  changes  upon  all  the  classes  of 
the  empire.  With  the  revolutionists  the  pas- 
sion for  change  has  supplanted  every  other 
feeling,  and  the  spirit  of  innovation  has  extin- 
guished that  of  patriotism.  They  no  longer 
Idague  in  thought,  or  word,  or  wish,  exclusive- 
ly with  their  own  countrymen  ;  they  no  longer 
regard  the  interests  and  glory  of  England,  as 
the  chief  objects  of  their  solicitude ;  what  they 
look  to  is  the  revolutionary  party  in  other 
states  ;  what  they  sympathize  with,  the  pro- 
gress of  the  tricolour  in  overturning  other  dy- 
nasties. The  loss  of  British  dumininn,  the 
loss  of  British  colonics,  the  downfall  of  British 
power,  the  decay  of  British  gloiy,  the  loss  of 
British  independence,  is  to  them  a  matter  of 
no  regret,  provided  the  tricolour  is  triumphant, 
and  tlic  cause  of  revolution  is  making  progresj 
in  the  world.  Well  and  truly  did  Mr.  Burke 
say,  that  the  spirit  of  patriotism  and  Jacobin 
ism  could  not  coexist  in  the  same  state;  and 
that  the  greatest  national  disasters  are  lightly 
passed  over,  provided  they  bring  with  them 
the  advance  of  domestic  ambition. 

The  Conservatives,  on  the  other  hand,  are 
so  utterly  desperate  in  regard  to  the  future 
prospects  of  the  empire,  from  the  vacillation 
and  violence  of  the  Democratic  party  who  avfl 


268 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


iDstalled  in  sovercignt)^  that  external  events, 
even  of  the  most  threatening  character,  are 
rcarded  by  tliem  but  as  dust  in  the  balance, 
when  compared  with  the  domestic  calamities 
which  are  staring  us  in  the  face.     What  al- 
though the  ingratitude  and  tergiversation  of 
England  to  Holland  have  deprived  us  of  all 
respect  among   foreign   states  1      That   evil, 
great  as  it  is,  is  nothing  to  the  domestic  em- 
barrassments which  overwhelm  the  country 
from  the  unruly  spirit  which  the  Whigs  fos- 
tered with  such  sedulous  care  during  the  Re- 
form contest.     What  although  the  empire  of 
the  Mediterranean,  and  ultimately  our  Indian 
possessions,   are   menaced  by   the   ceaseless 
groM'th  of  Russia;  the  measures  which  go- 
vernment have  in  contemplation  for  the  ma- 
nagement of  that  vast  dominion,  will  sever  it 
from  the  British  empire  before  any  danger  is 
frit  from  external  foes  ;  and  long  ere  the  Mos- 
covite  eagles  are  seen  on  the  banks  of  the  In- 
dus, the  insane  measures  of  the  Ten  Pounders 
will  in  all  probability  have  banished  the  Bri- 
nsh  standards  from  the  plains  of  Hindostan. 

Every  thing,  in  short,  announces  that  the 
external  Vv-eight  and  foreign  importance  of 
Great  Britain  are  irrecoverably  lost;  and  that 
the  passing  of  the  Reform  Bill  will  ultimately 
prove  to  have  been  the  death-warrant  of  the 
British  empire.  The  Russians  are  at  Con- 
stantinople !  the  menaces,  the  entreaties  of 
England,  are  alike  disregarded;  and  the  ruler 
of  the  seas  has  submitted  in  two  years  to  de- 
scend to  the  rank  of  a  second-rate  power. 
That  which  a  hundred  defeats  could  have 
«iardly  effected  to  old  England,  is  the  very  iirst 
result  of  the  innovating  system  upon  which 
new  England  has  entered.  The  Russians  are 
at  Constantinople!  How  would  the  shade  of 
Chatham,  or  Pitt,  or  Fox  thrill  at  the  an- 
nouncement !  But  it  makes  no  sort  of  im- 
pression on  the  English  people:  as  little  as 
the  robbery  of  the  Portuguese  fleet  by  the 
French,  or  the  surrender  of  the  citadel  of  Ant- 
werp to  the  son-in-law  of  Louis  Philippe.  In 
this  country  we  have  arrived,  in  an  incon- 
ceivably short  space  of  time,  at  that  weakness, 
disunion,  and  indifference  to  all  but  revolu- 
tionary objects,  which  is  at  once  the  forerun- 
ner and  the  cause  of  national  ruin. 

But  leaving  these  mournful  topics,  it  is  more 
instructive  to  turn  to  the  causes  which  have 
precipitated,  in  so  short  a  space  of  time,  the 
fall  of  the  Turkish  empire.  Few  more  curious 
or  extraordinary  phenomena  are  to  be  met 
with  in  the  page  of  history.  It  will  be  found 
that  the  Ottomans  have  fallen  a  victim  to  the 
same  passion  for  innovation  and  reform  which 
have  proved  so  ruinous  both  in  this  and  a 
neighbouring  country;  and  that,  while  the 
bulwarks  of  Turkey  were  thrown  down  by 
the  rude  hand  of  Mahmoud,  the  States  of  West- 
ern Europe  were  disabled,  by  the  same  frantic 
course,  froni  rendering  him  any  effectual  aid. 
How  Tvell  in  every  age  has  the  spirit  of  Jaco- 
binism and  revolutionary  passion  aided  the 
march,  and  hastened  the  growth  of  Russia! 

The  fact  of  the  long  duration  of  Turkey,  in 
the  midst  of  the  monarchies  of  Europe,  and 
Vhe  stubborn  resistance  which  she  opposed  for 
a  series  c  f  ages  tq  the  attacks  of  the  two  great- 


est of  its  military  powers,  is  of  itself  suficienl 
to  demonstrate  that  the  accounts  on  which  we 
had  been  accustomed  to  rely  of  the  conditioa 
of  the  Ottoman  empire  were  partial  or  exag- 
gerated. No  fact  is  so  universally  demonstrated 
by  history  as  the  rapid  and  irrecoverable  de- 
cline of  barbarous  powers,  Avhen  the  career 
of  conquest  is  once  terminated.  Where  is 
now  the  empire  of  the  Caliphs  or  the  Moors'] 
What  has  survived  of  the  conquests,  one  hun- 
dred years  ago,  of  Nadir  Shahl  How  long 
did  the  empire  of  Aurengzebe,  the  throne  of 
the  Great  Mogul,  resist  the  attacks  of  England, 
even  at  the  distance  of  ten  thousand  miles 
from  the  parent  state  ?  Hoav  then  did  it  hap- 
pen that  Turkey  so  long  resisted  the  spoiler  1 
What  conservative  principle  has  enabled  the 
Osmanleys  so  long  to  avoid  the  degradation 
which  so  rapidly  overtakes  all  barbarous  and 
despotic  empires;  and  what  has  communi- 
cated to  their  vast  empire  a  portion  of  the 
undecaying  vigour  which  has  hitherto  been 
considered  as  the  grand  characteristic  of  Eu- 
ropean civilization  1  The  answer  to  these 
questions  will  both  unfold  the  real  causes  of 
the  long  endurance,  and  at  length  the  sudden 
fall,  of  the  Turkish  empire. 

Though  the  Osmanleys  were  an  Asiatic 
power,  and  ruled  entirely  on  the  principles  of 
Asiatic  despotism,  yet  their  conquests  were 
effected  in  Europe,  or  in  those  parts  of  Asia 
in  which,  from  the  influence  of  the  Crusades, 
or  of  the  Roman  institutions  which  survived 
their  invasion,  a  certain  degree  of  European 
civilization  remained.  It  is  difficult  utterly  to 
exterminate  the  institutions  of  a  counliy  Avhere 
they  have  been  long  established;  those  of  the 
Christian  provinces  of  the  Roman  empire  have 
in  part  survived  all  the  dreadful  tempests 
which  for  the  last  six  centuries  have  passed 
over  their  surface.  It  is  these  remnants  of 
civilization,  it  is  the  institutions  which  stili 
linger  among  the  vanquished  people,  which 
have  so  long  preserved  the  Turkish  provinoes 
from  decay ;  and  it  is  these  ancient  bulwark^;, 
which  the  innovating  passions  of  Mahmoud 
have  now  destroyed. 

1.  The  first  circumstance  which  upheld, 
amidst  its  numerous  defects,  the  Ottoman  em- 
pire, was  the  rights  conceded  on  the  first  con- 
quest of  the  country  by  Mahomet  to  the  dcre 
beys  or  ancient  nobles  of  Asia  Minor,  and" 
which  the  succeeding  sultans  have  been  care 
ful  to  maintain  inviolate.  These  dere  beys  all 
capitulated  with  the  conqueror,  and  obtained 
the  important  privileges  of  retaining  their 
lands  in  perpetuity  for  their  descendants,  and 
c»f  paying  a.  fixed  tribute  in  money  and  men  to 
the  sultan.  In  other  words,  they  were  a  here- 
ditary noblesse;  and  as  they  constituted  the 
great  strength  of  the  empire  in  its  Asiatic  pro- 
vinces, they  have  preserved  their  privilege 
through  all  succeeding  reigns.  The  following 
is  the  description  given  of  them  by  the  intelli- 
gent traveller  whose  work  is  prefixed  to  this 
article: — 

"  The  dere  beys,"  says  Mr.  Slade,  "  literally 
lords  of  the  valleys,  an  expression  peculiarly 
adapted  to  the  country,  which  presents  a  series 
of  oval  valleys,  surrounded  by  ramparts  of 
hills,  were  the  cr.'iginalpossessoi-s  of  those  parts 


THE  FALL  OF  TURKEY. 


263 


ol  A'iia  Minor,  which  submitted,  inider  feudal 
conditions,  to  the  Ottomans.  Between  the 
conquest  of  Brussa  and  the  conquest  of  Con- 
stantinople, a  lapse  of  more  tlian  a  century, 
chequered  by  the  episode  of  Tamerlane,  their 
faith  was  precarious ;  but  after  the  latter  event, 
Mahomet  IL  bound  their  submission,  and 
finally  settled  the  terms  of  their  existence.  He 
confirmed  them  in  their  lands,  subject,  how- 
ever, to  tribute,  and  to  quotas  of  troops  in  v,-ar; 
and  he  absolved  the  head  of  each  family  for 
ever  from  personal  service.  The  last  clause 
was  the  most  important,  as  thereby  the  sultan 
had  no  power  over  their  lives,  nor  consequent- 
ly, could  be  their  heirs,  that  despotic  power 
being  lav.-ful  over  those  only  in  the  actual  ser- 
vice of  the  Porte.  The  families  of  the  dere 
beys,  therefore,  became  neither  impoverished 
nor  extinct.  It  would  be  dealing  in  truisms  to 
enumerate  the  advantages  enjoyed  by  the  dis- 
tricts of  these  noblemen  over  the  rest  of  the 
empire;  they  were  oases  in  the  desert:  their 
owners  had  more  than  a  life-interest  in  the 
soil,  they  were  born  and  lived  among  the  peo- 
ple, and,  being  hereditarily  rich,  had  no  occa- 
sion to  create  a  private  fortune,  each  year, 
after  the  tribute  due  was  levied.  Whereas,  in 
a  pashalic  the  people  are  strained  every  5^ear 
to  double  or  treble  the  amount  of  the  impost, 
since  the  pasha,  who  pays  for  his  situation, 
must  also  be  enriched.  The  devotion  of  the 
dependents  of  the  dere  beys  was  great:  at  a 
whistle,  the  Car'osman-Oglous,  the  Tchapan- 
Oglous,  the  Ellezar-Oglous,  (the  principal 
Asiatic  families  that  survive,)  could  raise, 
each,  from  ten  thousand  to  twenty  thousand 
horsemen,  and  equip  them.  Hence  the  facility 
with  which  the  sultans,  up  to  the  present  cen- 
tnry,  drew  such  large  bodies  of  cavalry  into 
the  field.  The  dere  beys  have  always  fur- 
nished, and  maintained,  the  greatest  part;  and 
there  is  not  one  instance,  since  the  conquest 
of  Constantinople,  of  one  of  these  great  fami- 
lies raising  the  standard  of  revolt.  The  pashas 
invariably  have.  The  reasons,  respectively, 
are  obvious.  The  dere  bey  waj  sure  of  keep- 
ing his  possessions  by  right :  the  pasha  of 
losing  his  by  custom,  unless  he  had  money  to 
bribe  the  Porte,  or  force  to  intimidate  it. 

"These  provincial  nobles,  whoso  rights  had 
been  respected  during  four  centuries,  by  a 
series  of  twenty-four  sovereigns,  had  two 
crimes  in  the  eyes  of  Mahraoud  H. ;  they  held 
their  properly  from  their  ancestors,  and  they 
liad  riches.  To  alter  the  tenure  of  the  former, 
the  destination  of  the  latter,  was  his  object. 
The  dere  beys — unlike  the  seraglio  dependents, 
brought  up  to  distrust  their  own  shadows — had 
no  causes  for  suspicion,  and  therefore  became 
easy  dupes  of  the  grossest  treachery.  The 
unbending  spirits  were  removed  to  another 
world,  the  flexible  were  despoiled  of  their 
wealth.  Some  few  await  their  turn,  or,  their 
eyes  opened,  prepare  to  resist  oppression. 
Car'osman  Oglou,  for  example,  was  summon- 
ed to  Constantinople,  where  expensive  em- 
ployments, forced  on  him  during  several  years, 
reduced  his  ready  cash ;  while  a  follower  of 
the  seraglio  resided  at  his  city  of  Magnesia,  to 
collect  his  revenues.  His  peasants,  in  conse- 
q^uence,  ceased  to  cultivate  their  lands,  from 


whence  they  no  longer  hoped  to  reap  profit  j 
and  his  once  flourishing  possessions  soon  be 
came  as  desolate  as  any  which  had  always 
been  under  the  gripe  of  pashas." 

This  passage  throws  the  strongest  light  on 
the  former  condition  of  the  Turkish  empire 
They  possessed  an  hereditary  noblesse  in  their 
Asiatic  provinces ;  a  body  of  men  whose  iii- 
terests  were  permanent;  who  enjoyed  their 
rights  by  succession,  and,  therefore,  were  per- 
manently interested  in  preserving  their  pos- 
sessions from  spoliation.  It  was  their  feudal 
tenantry  who  flocked  in  such  multitudes  to  the 
standard  of  Mohammed  when  any  great  crisis 
occurred,  and  formed  those  vast  armies  who 
so  often  astonished  the  European  powers,  and 
struck  terror  into  the  boldest  hearts  in  Christ- 
endom. These  hereditary  nobles,  however, 
the  bones  of  the  empire,  whose  estates  were 
exempt  from  the  tyranny  of  the  pashas,  have 
been  destroyed  by  Mahmoud.  Hence  the  dis- 
affection of  the  Asiatic  provinces,  and  the  rea- 
diness with  which  they  opened  their  arms  to 
the  liberating  standards  of  Mehemet  Ali.  It  is 
the  nature  of  innovation,  whether  enforced  by 
the  despotism  of  a  sultan  or  a  democracy,  to 
destroy  in  its  fervour  the  institutions  on  which 
public  freedom  is  fcunded. 

2.  The  next  circumstance  Avhich  contributed 
to  mitigate  the  severity  of  Ottoman  oppression 
was  the  privileges  of  the  provincial  cities, 
chiefly  in  Europe,  which  consisted  in  being 
governed  by  magistrates  elected  by  the  people 
themselves  from  among  their  chief  citizens. 
This"  privilege,  a  relic  of  the  rights  of  the 
Munlcipea  over  the  whole  Roman  empire,  was 
established  in  all  the  great  towns ;  and  its  im- 
portance in  moderating  the  otherwise  intoler- 
able weight  of  Ottoman  oppression  was  incal- 
culable The  pashas,  or  temporary  rulers 
appointed  by  the  sultan,  had  no  authority,  or 
only  a  partial  one  in  these  free  cities,  and 
hence  they  formed  nearly  as  complete  an 
as3'lum  for  industry  in  Europe  as  the  estates 
of  the  dere  beys  di  I  in  Asia.  This  important 
right,  however,  could  not  escape  the  reforming 
passion  of  Mahmoud ;  and  it  was  accordingly 
overturned. 

"In  conjunction  with  subverting  the  dere 
beys,  Mahmoud  attacked  the  privileges  of  the 
great  provincial  cities,  (principally  in  Europe,) 
which  consisted  in  the  election  of  ayans  (ma- 
gistrates) by  the  people,  from  among  the  n6ta- 
bles.  Some  cities  were  solely  governed  by 
them,  and  in  those  ruled  by  pashas,  they  had, 
in  most  cases,  sufficient  influence  to  restrain 
somewhat  the  full  career  of  despotism.  They 
were  the  protectors  of  rayas,  as  well  as  of 
Mussulmans,  and,  for  their  own  sakes,  resist- 
ed exorbitant  imposts.  The  change  in  the 
cities  where  their  authority  has  becu  abolished 
(Adrianople,  c.  c;.)  is  deplorable;  trade  has 
since  languished,  and  population  lias  diminish- 
ed. They  were  instituted  by  Solyman,  (the 
lawgiver,)  and  the  protection  which  they  have 
invariably  allurded  the  Christian  subjects  of 
the  Porte,  entitles  them  to  a  Christian's  good 
word.  Their  crime,  that  of  the  dere  beys,  vras 
being  possessed  of  authority  not  emanating 
from  the  sultan. 

"Had  Mahmoud  IL  intrusted   the  gcvcrn 


270 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


mem  of  the  provinces  to  the  dere  beys,  and 
strengthened  the  authority  of  the  ayans,  he 
would  have  truly  reformed  his  empire,  by 
restoring  it  to  its  brightest  state,  have  gained 
the  love  of  his  subjects,  and  the  applauses  of 
humanity.  By  the  contrary  proceeding,  sub- 
verting two  bulwarks  (though  dilapidated)  of 
national  prosperity — a  provincial  nobility  and 
magistracy — he  has  shown  himself  a  selfish 
tyrant." 

3  In  addition  to  an  hereditary  nobility  in 
the  dere  beys,  and  the  privileges  of  corpora- 
tions in  the  right  of  electing  their  ayans,  the 
Mussulmans  possessed  a  powerful  hierarchy 
in  the' itkma;  a  most  important  body  in  the 
Ottoman  dominions,  and  whose  privileges 
have  gone  far  to  limit  the  extent  of  its  des- 
potic government.  This  important  institution 
has  been  little  understood  hitherto  in  Europe ; 
but  they  have  contributed  in  a  most  important 
manner  to  mitigate  the  severity  of  the  sultan 
in  those  classes  who  enjoyed  no  special  pro- 
tection. 

"  In  each  of  the  Turkish  cities,"  says  Mr. 
Slade,  "  reside  a  muphti  and  a  rnollah.  A 
knowledge  of  Arabic,  so  as  to  be  able  to  read 
the  Koran  in  the  original,  is  considered  suffi- 
cient for  the  former,  but  the  latter  must  have 
run  a  legal  career  in  one  of  the  medressehs, 
(universities  of  Constantinople.)  After  thirty 
years'  probation  in  a  medresseh,  the  student 
becomes  of  the  class  of  muderis,  (doctors  at 
law,)  from  which  are  chosen  the  mollahs, 
comprehended  under  the  name  of  ulema. 
Students  who  accept  the  inferior  judicial  ap- 
pointments can  never  become  of  the  ulema. 

"The  ulema  is  divided  into  three  classes, 
according  to  a  scale  of  the  cities  of  the  empire. 
The  first  class  consists  of  the  cazi-askers, 
(chief  judges  of  Europe  and  Asia;)  the  Stam- 
boul  effendisi,  (mayor  of  Constantinople ;)  the 
mollahs  qualified  to  act  at  Mecca,  at  Medina, 
at  Jerusalem,  at  Bagdat,  at  Salonica,  at  Alep- 
po, at  Damascus,  at  Brussa,  at  Cairo,  at  Smyr- 
na, at  Cogni,  at  Galata,  at  Scutari.  The  se- 
cond class  consists  of  the  mollahs  qualified  to 
act  at  the  twelve  cities  of  next  importance. 
The  third  class  at  ten  inferior  cities.  The 
administration  of  minor  towns  is  intrusted  to 
cadis,  who  are  nominated  by  the  cazi-askers  in 
their  respective  jurisdictions,  a  patronage 
which  produces  great  wealth  to  these  two 
officers. 

"  In  consequence  of  these  powers  the  mollah 
of  a  city  may  prove  as  great  a  pest  as  a  needy 
pasha;  but  as  the  mollahs  are  hereditarily 
wealthy,  they  are  generally  moderate  in  their 
perquisitions,  and  often  protect  the  people 
against  the  extortions  of  the  pasha.  The 
cadis,  however,  of  the  minor  towns,  who  have 
not  the  advantage  of  being  privately  rich,  sel- 
dom fail  to  join  with  the  aga  to  skin  the  'ser- 
pent that  crawls  in  the  dust.' 

"The  mollahs,  dating  from  the  reign  of  So- 
lyman — zenith  of  Ottoman  prosperity — were 
not  slow  in  discovering  the  value  of  their 
situations,  or  in  taking  advantage  of  them ; 
|iid  as  their  sanctity  protected  them  from  spo- 
-iation,  they  were  enabled  to  leave  their  riches 
to  their  children,  who  were  brought  up  to  the 
Barae  career,  and  were,  by  privilege,  allowed 


to  finish  their  studies  at  the  medresseh  in  eigh- 
years  less  time  than  the  prescribed  number  of 
)'ears,  the  private  tuition  which  they  were  sup- 
posed to  receive  from  their  fathers  making  up 
for  the  deficiency.  Thus,  besides  the  influence 
of  birth  and  wealth,  they  had  a  direct  facility 
in  attaining  the  degree  of  muderi,  which  their 
fellow-citizens  and  rivals  had  not,  and  who 
were  obliged  in  consequence  to  accept  inferior 
judicial  appointments.  In  process  of  time  the 
whole  monopoly  of  the  ulema  centred  in  a 
certain  number  of  families,  and  their  constant 
residence  at  the  capital,  to  which  they  return 
at  the  expiration  of  their  term  of  office,  has 
maintained  their  power  to  the  present  day. 
Nevertheless,  it  is  true  that  if  a  student  of  a 
medresseh,  not  of  the  privileged  order,  pos- 
sess extraordinary  merit,  the  ulema  has  gene- 
rally the  tact  to  admit  him  of  the  body :  wo  to 
the  cities  to  which  he  goes  as  mollah,  since 
he  has  to  create  a  pi-ivate  fortune  for  his  family. 
Thus  arose  that  body — the  peerage  of  Turkey — 
known  by  the  name  of  ulema,  a  body  uniting 
the  high  attributes  of  law  and  religion;  dis- 
tinct from  the  clergy,  yet  enjoying  all  the  ad- 
vantages connected  with  a  church  paramount; 
free  from  its  shackles,  yet  retaining  the  perfect 
odour  of  sanctity.  Its  combination  has  given 
it  a  greater  hold  in  the  state  than  the  dere  beys, 
though  possessed  individually  of  more  power, 
founded  too  on  original  charters,  sunk  from'  a 
want  of  union." 

The  great  effect  of  the  ulema  has  arisen 
from  this,  that  its  lands  are  safe  from  confis- 
cation or  arbitrary  taxation.  To  power  of 
every  sort,  excepting  that  of  a  triumphant  de- 
mocracy, there  must  be  some  limits  ;  and  great 
as  the  authority  of  the  sultan  is,  he  is  too  de- 
pendent on  the  religious  feelings  of  his  subjects 
to  be  able  to  overturn  the  church.  The  conse- 
quence is  that  the  vacouf  or  church  lands  have 
been  always  free  both  from  arbitrary  taxation 
and  confiscation;  and  hence  they  have  formed 
a  species  of  mortmain  or  entailed  lands  in  the 
Ottoman  dominions,  enjoying  privileges  to 
which  the  other  parts  of  the  empire,  excepting 
the  estates  of  the  dere  beys,  are  entire  sti-angers. 
Great  part  of  the  lands  of  Turkey,  in  many 
places  amounting  to  one-third  of  the  whole, 
were  held  by  this  religious  tenure;  and  the 
device  was  frequently  adopted  of  leaving  pre 
perty  to  the  ulema  in  trust  for  particular  fami- 
lies, whereby  the  benefits  of  secure  hereditary 
descent  were  obtained.  The  practical  advan- 
tages of  this  ecclesiastical  property  are  thus 
enumerated  by  Mr.  Slade. 

"The  vacouf  (mosque  lands)  have  been 
among  the  best  cultivated  in  Turkey,  by  being 
free  from  arbitrary  taxation.  The  mektebs  (pub- 
lic schools)  in  all  the  great  cities,  where  the  ru- 
diments of  the  Turkish  language  and  the  Koran 
are  taught,  and  where  poor  scholars  receive 
food  gratis,  are  supported  by  the  ulema.  The 
medressehs,  imarets,  (hospitals,)  fountains, 
&c.,  are  all  maintained  by  the  ulema;  add  to 
these  the  magnificence  of  the  mosques,  theii 
number,  the  royal  sepultures,  and  it  will  be 
seen  that  Turkey  owes  much  to  the  existence 
of  this  body,  which  has  been  enabled,  by  its 
power  and  its  union,  to  resist  royal  cupidity. 
Without  it,  where  would  be  the  establishments 


I 


THE  FALL  OF  TURKEY 


271 


above  mentioned?  Religions  property  has 
been  an  object  of  attack  in  ever)'  countr)'.  At 
one  period,  by  the  sovereign,  to  increase  his 
power;  at  another,  by  the  people,  'to  build  for- 
tunes on  its  downfall.  Mahomet  IV.,  after  the 
disastrous  retreatof  his  grand  vizir,  CaraMus- 
tapha,  from  before  Vienna,  1683,  seized  on  the 
riches  of  the  principal  mosques,  which  arbi- 
trary act  led  to  his  deposition.  The  ulema 
would  have  shown  a  noble  patriotism  in  giv- 
ing its  wealth  for  the  service  of  the  state,  but 
it  was  right  in  resenting  the  extortion,  which 
would  have  served  as  a  precedent  for  succeed- 
ing sultans.  In  fine,  rapid  as  has  been  the 
decline  of  the  Ottoman  empire  since  victory 
ceased  to  attend  its  arms,  I  venture  to  assert, 
that  it  would  have  been  tenfold  more  rapid  but 
f<yr  the  priiilegcd  orders — the  dere  beys  and  (he 
ulema.  Without  their  powerful  weight  and 
influence — effect  of  hereditary  wealth  and 
sanctity — the  Janissaries  would  long  since  have 
cut  Turkey  in  slices,  and  have  ruled  it  as  the 
Mamelukes  ruled  Egypt. 

"  Suppose,  now,  the  influence  of  the  ulema 
to  be  overturned,  what  would  be  the  conse- 
quence ]  The  mollaships,  like  the  pashalics, 
would  then  be  sold  to  the  highest  bidders,  or 
given  to  the  needy  followers  of  the  seraglio. 
These  must  borrow  money  of  the  bankers  for 
their  outfit,  which  must  be  repaid,  and  their 
own  purses  lined,  by  their  talents  at  extor- 
tian." 

It  is  one  of  the  most  singular  proofs  of  the 
tendency  of  innovation  to  blind  its  votaries  to 
the  effects  of  the  measures  it  advocates,  that 
the  ulema  has  long  been  singled  out  for  de- 
struction by  the  reforming  sultan,  and  the 
change  is  warmh'  supported  by  many  of  the 
inconsiderate  Franks  who  dwell  in  the  east. 
Such  is  the  aversion  of  men  of  every  faith  to 
the  vesting  of  property  or  influence  in  the 
church,  that  they  would  willinglj'  see  this  one 
of  the  last  barriers  which  exist  against  arbi- 
trary power  done  away.  The  power  of  the 
sultan,  great  as  it  is,  has  not  yet  ventured  on 
this  great  innovation ;  but  it  is  well  known 
that  he  meditates  it,  and  it  is  the  knowledge 
of  this  circumstance  which  is  one  great  cause 
of  the  extreme  unpopularity  which  has  ren- 
dered his  government  unable  to  obtain  any 
considerable  resources  from  his  immense  do- 
minions. 

4.  In  every  part  of  the  empire,  the  superior 
felicity  and  well-being  of  the  peasantry  in  Ihc 
mountains  is  conspicuous,  and  has  long  at- 
tracted the  attention  of  travellers.  Clarke 
observed  :*,  in  the  mountains  of  Greece,  Ma- 
riti,  and  others  in  Syria  and  Asia  Minor,  and 
Mr.  Slade  and  Mr.  Walch  in  the  Balkan,  and 
the  hiliy  country  of  Bulgaria.  "  No  peasantry 
in  the  world,"  says  the  former,  "arc  so  well 
off  as  that  of  Bulgaria.  The  lowest  of  them 
has  abundance  of  every  thing — meat,  poultry, 
eggs,  milk,  rice,  cheese,  wine,  bread,  good 
clothing,  a  warm  dwelling,  and  a  horse  to  ride. 
It  is  true  he  has  no  newspaper  to  kindle  his 
passions,  nor  a  knife  and  fork  to  cat  with,  nor 
ti  bedstead  to  lie  on;  but  these  arc  the  customs 
pf  the  country,  and  a  pasha  is  equally  unhappy. 
Where,  then,  is  the  tyranny  under  which  the 
Christian  subjects  of  the  Porte  are  generally 


supposed  to  groan  1  Not  among  the  Bulga* 
rians  certainly.  I  wish  that  in  every  country 
a  traveller  could  pass  from  one  end  to  the 
other,  and  find  a  good  supper  and  a  warm  fire 
in  every  cottage,  as  he  can  in  this  part  of 
European  Turkey."*  This  description  applies 
generally  to  almost  all  the  mountainous  pro- 
vinces of  the  Ottoman  empire,  and  in  an  espe- 
cial manner  to  the  peasants  of  Parnassus  and 
Olympia,  as  described  by  Clarke.  As  a  con- 
trast to  this  delightful  state  of  society,  we  may 
quote  the  same  traveller's  account  of  the  plains 
of  Romelia.  "  Romelia,  if  cultivated,  would 
become  the  granary  of  the  East,  whereas  Con- 
stantinople depends  on  Odessa  for  dail^^  bread. 
The  burial-grounds,  choked  with  weeds  and 
underwood,  constantly  occurring  in  eveiy  tra- 
veller's route,  far  remote  from  habitations,  are 
eloquent  testimonials  of  continued  depopula- 
tion. The  living  too  are  far  apart;  a  town 
every  fifty  miles,  and  a  village  every  ten  miles, 
is  close,  and  horsemen  meeting  on  the  high- 
way regard  each  other  as  objects  of  curiosity. 
The  cause  of  this  depopulation  is  to  be  found 
in  the  pernicious  government  of  the  Otto- 
mans."-!- The  cause  of  this  remarkable  dif- 
ference lies  in  the  fact,  that  the  Ottoman  op- 
pression has  never  yet  fully  extended  into  the 
rnountainous  parts  of  its  dominions ;  and, 
consequently,  they  remained  like  permanent 
veins  of  prosperitj',  intersecting  the  countrj' 
in  every  direction,  amidst  the  desolation  which 
generally  prevailed  in  the  pashalics  of  the 
plain. 

5.  The  Janissaries  were  another  institution 
which  upheld  the  Turkish  empire.  They 
formed  a  regular  standing  army,  who.  although 
at  times  extremely  formidable  to  the  sultan, 
and  exercising  their  influence  with  all  the 
haughtiness  of  Prrctorian  guards,  were  yet  of 
essential  service  in  repelling  the  invasion  of 
the  Christian  powers.  The  strength  of  the 
Ottoman  armies  consisted  in  the  Janissaries, 
and  the  Delhis  and  Spahis ;  the  former  be- 
ing the  regular  force,  the  latter  the  contingents 
of  the  dere  beys.  Every  battle-field,  from 
Constantinople  to  Vienna,  can  tell  of  the  va- 
lour of  the  Janissaries,  long  and  justly  re- 
garded as  the  bulwark  of  the  empire;  and  the 
Russian  battalicns,  with  all  their  firmness, 
were  frequently  broken,  even  in  the  last  war, 
by  the  desperate  charge  of  the  Delhi.s.  Now, 
however,  both  are  destroyed;  the  vifcicrf 
severity  of  the  sultan  has  annihilat&i  the 
dreaded  battalions  of  the  former — the  ruin  of 
the  dere  beys  has  closed  the  siippl}-  of  the 
latter.  In  these  violent  and  impolitic  reforms 
is  to  be  found  the  immediate  cause  of  the  de- 
struction of  the  Turkish  empire. 

Of  the  revolt  which  led  to  the  destniclion  of 
this  great  body,  and  the  polic)*  which  led  to  it, 
Ihc  following  striking  account  is  given  by  Mr. 
Slade: 

"  Every  campaign  during  the  Greek  vjara 
body  was  embarked  on  board  the  fleet,  and 
landed  in  small  parties,  purposely  unsupported, 
on  the  theatre  of  war:  none  returned,  so  that 
only  a  few  thousand  remained  at  Constanti- 
nople, when.  May  30,  182G,  the  Sultan  issued  a 


•  Slade.  ii.  97. 


f  Ibid.  I&. 


S72 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS   ESSAYS. 


faatti  sclierifT  concerning  the  formation  of  '  a 
new  victorious  army.'     This  was  a  flash  of 
'ightning  in  the  eyes  of  the  Janissaries.    They 
saw  why  their  companions  did  not  return  from 
Greece;  they  saw  that  the  old,  hitherto  abor- 
tive, policy,  dormant  since  eighteen  years,  was 
revived  ;   they  saw  that  their  existence  was 
threatened;  and  they  resolved  to  resist,  con- 
fiding in  the  prestige  of  their  name.     June  15, 
following,  they   reversed    their    soup-kettles, 
(signal  of  revolt,)  demanded  the  heads  of  the 
miuisi:3rs,  and  the  revocation  of  the  said  fir- 
man.   But  Mahmoud  was  prepared  for  them. 
Husseyin,  the  aga  of  the  Janissaries,  was  in 
his  intft'ests,  and  with  him  the  yamaks,  (gar- 
risons of  the  castles  of  the  Bosphorus,)   the 
Galiondgis,  and  the  Topchis.  Collecting,  there- 
fore, on   the  following  morning,  his  forces  in 
the  Atmeidan,  the  sand-jack  scheriff  was  dis- 
»layed,  and  the  nlema  seconded  him  by  calling 
on  the  people  to  support  their  sovereign  against 
the  rebels.     Still,  noways  daunted,  the  Janis- 
saries advanced,  and  summoned  their  aga,  of 
whom  they  had  no  suspicion,  to  repeat  their 
demands  to  the  sultan,  threatening,  in  case  of 
non-compliance,  to  force  the  seraglio   gates. 
Husseyin,  who  had  acted  his  part  admirably, 
and  with  consummate  duplicity,  brought  them 
to  the  desired  point — open  rebellion — flattering 
them  with  success,  now  threw  aside  the  mask. 
He  stigmatized  them  as  infidels,  and  called  on 
them,  in  the  name  of  the  prophet,  to  submit  to 
the  sultan's  clemency.     At  this  defection  of 
their  trusted  favourite  chief,  their  smothered 
rage  burst  out ;  they  rushed  to  his  house,  razed 
it  in  a  moment,  did  the  same  by  the  houses  of 
the  other  ministers,  applied  torches,  and  in 
half  an  hour  Constantinople   streamed  with 
blood  beneath  the  glare  of  flames.     Mahmoud 
hesitated,  and  was  about  to  conciliate ;    but 
Husseyin   repulsed    the   idea  with   firmness, 
knowing  that  to  eflfect  conciliation,  his  head 
must  be  the  first  ofl^ering.    '  Now  or  never,'  he 
replied  to  the  sultan,  'is  the  time !     Think  not 
that  a  few  heads  will  appease  this  sedition, 
which  has  been  too  carefully  fomented  by  me, 
—the  wrongs  of  the  Janissaries  too  closely 
dvv-elt  on,  thy  character  too  blackly  stained,  thy 
treachery  too  minutely  dissected,— to  be  easily 
laid.     Remember  that  this  is  the  second  time 
that  thy  arm  has  been  raised  against  them,  and 
they  will  not  trust  thee  again.   Remember,  too, 
that  thou  hast  now  a  son,  that  son  not  in  thy 
power,  whom  they  will  elevate  on  thy  down- 
fall.   Now  IS  the  time!     This  evening's  sun 
must  set  for  the  last  time  on  them  or  us.    Re- 
tire from  the  city,  that  thy  sacred  person  may 
be  safe,  and  leave  the  rest  to  me.'     Mahmoud 
consented,  and  went  to  Dolma  Bachtche,  (a 
palace  one  mile  up  the  Bosphorus,)  to  await 
the  result.    Husseyin,  then  free  to  act  without 
fear  of  interruption,  headed  his  yamaks,  and 
vigorously  attacked  the  rebels,  who,  cowardly 
as  they  wen-  insolent,  oflered  a  feeble  resist- 
ance, when  they  found  themselves  unsupported 
by  the  mob,  retreated  from  street  to  street,  and 
tinaily  took   refuge  in   the  Atmeidan.     Here 
•heir  career  ended.    A  masked  battery  on  the 
nill  beyond  opened  on  them,  troops  enclosed 
them  in,  and  fire  was  applied  to  the  wooden 
buildings.    Desperation  then  gave  them  the 


courage  that  might  have  saved  them  at  first, 
and  they  strove  with  madness  to  force  a  pas« 
sage  from  the  burning  pile;  part  were  con 
sumed,  part  cut  down;  a  few  only  got  out, 
among  them  five  colonels,  who  threw  them- 
selves at  the  aga's  feet,  and  implored  grace. 
They  spoke  their  last." 

Five  thousand  fell  under  this  grand  blow  in 
the  capital  alone  ;  twenty-five  thousand  perish- 
ed throughout  the  whole  empire.  The  next 
day  a  hatti  scherilT  was  read  in  the  mosques, 
declaring  the  Janissaries  infamous,  the  order 
abolished,  and  the  name  an  anathema. 

This  great  stroke  made  a  prodigious  sensa- 
tion in  Europe,  and  even  the  best  informed 
were  deceived  as  to  its  effects  on  the  future 
prospects  of  the  Ottoman  empire.  By  many 
it  'was  compared  to  the  destruction  of  the 
Strelitzes  by  Peter  the  Great,  and  the  resurrec- 
tion of  Turkey  anticipated  from  the  great 
reform  of  Mahmoud,  as  Moscovy  arose  from 
the  vigorous  measures  of  the  czar.  But  the 
cases  and  the  men  were  totally  diflerent.  Peter, 
though  a  despot,  was  practically  acquainted 
with  his  country.  He  had  voluntarily  descend- 
ed to  the  humblest  rank,  to  make  himself  mas- 
ter of  the  arts  of  life.  When  he  had  destroyed 
the  Prcetorian  guards  of  Moscow,  he  built  up 
the  new  military  force  of  the  empire,  in  strict 
accordance  with  its  national  and  religious 
feelings,  and  the  victory  of  Pultowa  was  the 
consequence.  But  what  did  Sultan  Mah- 
moud ?  Having  destroyed  the  old  military 
force  of  Turkey,  he  subjected  the  new  levies 
which  were  to  replace  it  to  such  absurd  regula- 
tions, and  so  thoroughly  violated  the  political 
and  religious  feelings  of  the  country,  that  none 
of  the  Osmanleys  M^ho  could  possibly  avoid  il 
would  enter  his  ranks,  and  he  was  obliged  to 
fill  them  up  with  mere  boys,  who  had  not  yet 
acquired  any  determinate  feelings — a  \vretched 
substitute  for  the  old  military  force  of  the  em- 
pire,  and  which  proved  totally  unequal  to  the 
task  of  facing  the  veteran  troops  of  Russia. 
The  impolicy  of  his  conduct  in  destroying  and 
re-building,  is  more  clearly  evinced  by  nothing 
than  the  contrast  it  aflfords  to  the  conduct  of 
Sultan  Amurath,  in  originally  forming  these 
guards. 

"  Strikingly,"  says  Mr.  Slade,  "  does  the  con- 
duct of  Mahmoud,  in  forming  the  new  levies, 
contrast  with  that  of  Amurath  in  the  formation 
of  the  Janissaries ;  the  measures  being  parallel, 
inasmuch  as  each  was  a  mighty  innovation, 
no  less  than  the  establishment  of  an  entire  new 
military  force,  on  the  institutions  of  the  coun- 
try. But  Amurath  had  a  master  mind.  Instead 
of  keeping  his  new  army  distinct  from  the  na- 
tion, he  incorporated  it  with  it,  made  it  conform 
in  all  respects  to  national  usages;  and  the  suc- 
cess was  soon  apparent  by  its  spreading  into 
a  vast  national  guard,  of  which,  in  later  times, 
some  thousands  usurped  the  permanence  of 
enrolment,  in  which  the  remainder,  through 
indolence,  acquiesced.  Having  destroyed  these 
self-constituted  battalions,  Mahmoud  should 
have  made  the  others  available,  instead  of  out 
lawing  them,' as  it  were;  and,  by  respecting 
their  traditionary  whims  and  social  rights,  he 
would  easily  have  given  his  subjects  a  taste 
for  European  discipline.    They  never  objectei 


THE  FALL  OF  TURKEY. 


273 


to  it  in  principle,  but  their  untutored  minds 
could  not  understand  why,  in  order  to  use  the 
musket  and  bayonet,  and  manoeuvre  together, 
it  was  necessary  to  leave  off  wearing  beards 
and  turbans. 

"But  Mahmoud,  in   his   hatred,  wished  to 
condemn  them  to  oblivion,  to  eradicate  every 
token  of  their  pre-existence,  not  knowing  that 
trampling  on  a  grovelling  party  is  the  surest 
way  of  giving  it  fresh  spirit ;  and  trampling 
on  the  principles  of  the  party  in  question,  was 
trampling  on  the  principles  of  the  Avhole  na- 
tion.   Li   his   ideas,  the   Oriental   ttsages   in 
eating,  dressing,  &c.,  were  connected  with  the 
Janissaries,  had  been  invented  by  them,  and 
therefore  he  proscribed  them,  prescribing  new 
modes.    He  changed  the  costume  of  his  court 
from   Asiatic   to  European;   he  ordered   his 
soldiers  to  shave  their  beards,  recommending 
his  courtiers  to  follow  the  same  example,  and 
he  forbade  the  turban, — that  valued,  darling, 
beautiful  head-dress,  at  once  national  and  reli- 
gious.    His  folly  therein  cannot  be  sufficiently 
repi-obated  :  had  he  reflected  that  Janissarism 
was  onl}'^  a  branch  grafted  on  a  wide-spreading 
tree,  that  it  sprung  from  the  Turkish  nation, 
not  the  Turkish  nation  from  it,  he  would  have 
seen  how  impossible  was  the  more  than  Her- 
culean task  he  assumed,  of  suddenly  transform- 
ing national  manners  consecrated  by  centuries, 
—a  task  from  which  his  prophet  would  have 
shrunk.    The  disgust  excited  by  these  sump- 
tuary laws  may  be  conceived.     Good  Mussul- 
mans declared  them  unholy  and  scandalous, 
and  the  Asiatics,  to  a  man,  refused  obedience  ; 
but  as  Mahmoud's  horizon  was. confined  to  his 
court,  he  did  not  know  but  what  his  edicts 
were  received  with  veneration. 

"  If  Mahmoud  had  stopped  at  these  follies  in 
the  exercise  of  his  newly-acquired  despotic 
power,  it  would  have  been  well.  His  next 
step  was  to  increase  the  duty  on  all  provisions 
in  Constantinople,  and  in  the  great  provincial 
cities,  to  the  great  discontent  of  the  lower 
classes,  which  was  expressed  by  firing  the 
city  to  such  an  extent  that  in  the  first  three 
months  six  thousand  houses  Avere  consumed. 
The  end  of  October,  1826,  was  also  marked  by 
a  general  opposition  to  the  new  imposts ;  but 
repeated  executions  at  length  brought  the 
people  to  their  senses,  and  made  tliem  regret 
the  loss  of  the  Janissaries,  who  had  been  their 
protectors  as  well  as  tormentors,  inasmuch  as 
they  had  never  allowed  the  price  of  provisions 
to  be  raised.  These  disturbances  exasperated 
the  sultan.  He  did  not  attribute  them  to  the 
right  cause,  distress,  but  to  a  perverse  spirit 
of  Janissarism,  a  suspicion  of  harbouring 
which  was  death  to  any  one.  He  farther  ex- 
tended his  financial  operations  by  raising  the 
miri  (land  tax)  all  over  the  empire,  and,  in 
ensuing  years,  by  granting  monopolies  on  ail 
articles  of  commerce  to  the  highest  bidder. 
In  consequence,  lands,  which  had  produced 
abundance,  in  1830  lay  waste.  Articles  of 
export,  as  opium,  silk,  <Scc.,  gave  the  growers  a 
handsome  revenue  when  they  could  sell  them 
to  the  Frank  merchants,  but  at  the  low  prices 
fixed  by  the  monopolists  they  lose,  and  the 
cultivation  languishes.  Sultan  Mahmoud  kills 
the  goose  for  the  eggs.  In  a  word,  he  adopted 
18 


in  full  the  policy  of  Mehemet  Ali,  which  sup- 
posed the  essence  of  civilization  and  of  politi- 
cal science  to  be  contained  in  the  word  taxa- 
tion: and  having  driven  his  chariot  over  the 
necks  of  the  dere  beys,  and  of  the  Janissaries, 
he  resolved  to  tie  his  subjects  to  its  wheels, 
and  to  keep  them  in  dire  slavery.  Hence  a 
mute  struggle  began  throughout  the  empire 
between  the  sultan  and  the  Turks,  the  former 
trying  to  reduce  the  latter  to  the  condition  of 
the  Egyptian  fellahs,  the  latter  unwilling  to 
imitate  the  fellahs  in  patient  submission.  The 
sultan  flatters  himself  (1830)  that  he  is  suc- 
ceeding, because  the  taxes  he  imposed,  and 
the  monopolies  he  has  granted,  produce  him 
more  revenue  than  he  had  formerly.  The 
people,  although  hitherto  they  have  been  able 
to  answer  the  additional  demands  by  opening 
their  hoards,  evince  a  sullen  determination  not 
to  continue  doing  so,  by  seceding  gradually 
from  their  occupations,  and  barelj'-  existing. 
The  result  must  be,  if  the  sultan  cannot  com- 
pel them  to  work,  as  the  Egyptians,  under  the 
lashes  of  task-masters,  either  a  complete  stag- 
nation of  agriculture  and  trade,  ever  at  a  low 
ebb  in  Turkey,  or  a  general  rebellion,  produced 
by  misery." 

The  result  of  these  precipitate  and  monstrous 
innovations  strikingly  appeared  in  the  next  war 
with  Russia.  The  Janissaries  and  dere  beys 
were  destroyed — ihe  Mussulmans,  everywhere 
disgusted;  the  turban,  the  national  dress — the 
scimitar,  the  national  weapon,  were  laid  aside 
in  the  army;  and  instead  of  the  fierce  and  va 
liant  Janissaries  wielding  that  dreaded  wea 
pon,  there  was  to  be  found  only  in  the  army 
boys  of  sixteen,  wearing  caps  in  the  European 
style,  and  looked  upon  as  little  better  than  he- 
retics by  all  true  believers. 

"  Instead  of  the  Janissaries,"  says  Mr.  Slade, 
"the  sultan  reviewed  for  our  amusement,  on 
the  plains  of  Ramis  Tchiftlik,  his  regular 
troops,  which  were  quartered  in  and  about 
Constantinople,  amounting  to  about  four  thou- 
sand five  hundred  foot,  and  six  hundri'd  horse; 
though  beyond  being  dressed  and  armed  uni- 
formly, scarcely  meriting  the  name  of  soldiers. 
What  a  sight  for  Count  Orlolf,  then  ambassa- 
dor-extraordinary, filling  the  streets  of  Pera 
with  his  Cossacks  and  Circassians!  The 
Count,  whom  the  sultan  often  amused  with  a 
similar  exhibition  of  his  weakness,  used  to 
say,  in  reference  to  the  movements  of  these 
successors  of  the  Janissaries,  that  the  cavab-y 
were  employed  in  linldiiiff  on,  the  infantry  l:ncw  a 
little,  and  the  artillery  callopcd  about  as  thnugJi  It- 
loni;iii!r  in  nn  party.  Yet  over  such  troops  do 
the  Russians  boa^^t  of  having  gained  victories  ! 
In  no  one  thing  did  Sultan  .Mahmoud  make  a 
greater  mistake,  than  in  changing  the  mode  of 
mounting  the  Turkish  cavalry,  which  before 
liad  perfect  seats,  with  perfect  command  over 
their  horses,  and  only  required  a  little  order  to 
transform  the  best  irregular  horse  in  the  world 
into  the  best  regular  horse.  But  Mahmoud,  ia 
all  his  changes,  took  the  raa.sk  for  the  man,  (he 
rind  for  the  fruit.  Eurunenn  cavalry  rode  flat 
saddles  witli  long  stirrups;  therefore  he  thought 
it  necessary  that  his  cavalry  should  do  the  same. 
European  infantry  wore  tight  jackets  and  close 
caps ;  therefore  the  same.     Were  Chis  blind 


S74 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


idoption  of  forms  only  useless,  or  productiv^e 
only  of  physical  inconvenience,  patience;  but 
it  proved  a  moral  evil,  creating  unbounded  dis- 
gust. The  privation  of  the  turban  particularly 
affected  the  soldiers ;  first,  on  account  of  the 
feeling  of  insecurity  about  the  head  with  a  fez 
on ;  secondly,  as  being  opposed  to  the  love  of 
dress,  which  a  military  life,  more  than  any 
other,  engenders." 

"Malunoud,"  says  the  same  author,  "will 
learn  that  in  having  attacked  the  customs  of 
his  nation — customs  descended  to  it  from 
Abraham,  and  respected  by  Mohammed — he 
has  direcliy  undermined  the  divine  right  of  his 
family,  that  right  being  only  so  considered  by 
custom — by  its  harmonizing  with  all  other  che- 
rished usages.  He  will  learn,  that  in  having 
wantonly  trampled  on  the  unwritten  la^\•s  of 
the  land,  those  traditionary  rights  which  were 
as  universal  household  gods,  he  has  put  arms 
in  the  hands  of  the  disaffected,  which  no  rebel 
has  hitherto  had.  Neither  Ali  Pasha  nor  Pass- 
wan  Oglou  could  have  appealed  to  the  fanati- 
cism of  the  Turks  to  oppose  the  sultan.  Me- 
hemet  Ali  can  and  will.  Ten  years  ago,  the 
idea  even  of  another  than  the  house  of  Othman 
reigning  over  Turkey  would  have  been  heresy : 
the  question  is  now  openly  broached,  simply 
because  the  house  of  Othman  is  separating  it- 
self frum  the  nation  which  raised  and  support- 
ed it.  Reason  may  change  the  established  ha- 
bits of  an  old  people ;  despotism  rarely  can." 

How  completely  has  the  event,  both  in  the 
Russian  and  Egyptian  wars,  demonstrated  the 
truth  of  these  principles !  In  the  contest  in 
Asia  Minor,  Paskewitch  hardly  encountered 
any  opposition.  Rage  at  the  destruction  of  the 
Janissaries  among  their  numerous  adherents 
— indignation  among  the  old  population,  in 
consequence  of  the  ruin  of  the  dere  beys,  and 
the  suppression  of  the  rights  of  the  cities — 
lukewarmness  in  the  church,  from  the  antici- 
pated innovations  in  its  constitution — general 
dissatisfaction  among  all  classes  of  Mohamme- 
dans, in  consequence  of  the  change  in  the  na- 
tional dress  and  customs,  had  so  completely 
weakened  the  feeling  of  patriotism,  and  the 
sultan's  authority,  that  the  elements  of  resist- 
ance did  not  exist.  The  battles  were  mere  pa- 
rades— the  sieges  little  more  than  the  summon- 
ing of  fortresses  to  surrender.  In  Europe,  the 
ruinous  effects  of  the  innovations  were  also 
painfully  apparent.  Though  the  Russians  had 
to  cross,  in  a  dry  and  parched  season,  the  path- 
less and  waterless  plains  of  Bulgaria;  and 
though,  in  consequence  of  the  unhealthiness 
of  the  climate,  and  the  wretched  arrangements 
of  their  commissariat,  thev  lost  two  hundred 
thousand  men  by  sickness  and  famine  in  the 
first  campaign,  yet  the  Ottomans,  though 
fighting  in  their  own  country,  and  for  their 
hearths,  were  unable  to  gain 'any  decisive  ad- 
vantage. And  in  the  next  campaign,  when 
they  were  conducted  Avith  more  skill,  and  the 
possession  of  Varna  gave  them  the  advantage 
of  a  seaport  for  their  supplies,  the  weakness  of 
the  Turks  was  at  once  apparent.  In  the  battle 
of  the  11th  June,  the  loss  of  the  Turks  did  not 
exceed  4000  men,  the  forces  on  neither  side 
imounted  to  forty  thousand  combatants,  and 
yet  this  defeat  proved  fatal  to  the  empire.     Of 


this  battle,  our  author  gives  the  following  chv 
racteristic  and  graphic  account: 

"  In  this  position,  on  the  west  side  of  the 
Koulevscha  hills,  Diebitsch  found  himself  at 
daylight,  June  11th,  with  thirty-six  thousand 
men,  and  one  hundred  pieces  of  cannon.  Ht 
disposed  them  so  as  to  deceive  the  enemy 
He  posted  a  division  in  the  valley,  its  right 
loaning  on  the  cliff,  its  left  supported  by  re- 
doubts;  the  remainder  of  his  troops  he  drew 
up  behind  the  hills,  so  as  to  be  unseen  from 
the  ravine ;  and  then  with  a  well-grounded 
hope  that  not  a  Turk  M'ould  escape  him,  wait- 
ed the  grand  vizir,  who  was  advancing  up  the 
defile,  totally  unconscious  that  Diebitsch  was 
in  any  other  place  than  before  Silistria.  He 
had  broke  up  from  Pravodi  the  day  before,  on 
the  receipt  of  his  despatch  from  Schumla,  and 
was  followed  by  the  Russian  garrison,  which 
had  been  reinforced  by  a  regiment  of  hussars; 
but  the  general  commanding  it,  instead  of 
obeying  Diebitsch's  orders,  and  quietly  track- 
ing him  until  the  battle  should  have  com- 
menced, harassed  his  rear.  To  halt  and  drive 
him  back  to  Pravodi,  caused  the  vizir  a  delay 
of  four  hours,  without  which  he  would  have 
emerged  from  the  defile  the  same  evening,  and 
have  gained  Schumla  before  Diebitsch  got  into 
position. 

"  In  the  course  of  the  night  th*e  vizir  was  in- 
formed that  the  enemy  had  taken  post  betM-een 
him  and  Schumla,  and  threatened  his  retreat. 
He  might  still  have  avoided  the  issue  of  a  bat- 
tle, by  making  his  way  transversely  across  the 
defiles  to  the  Kamptchik,  sacrificing  his  bag- 
gage and  cannon ;  but  deeming  that  he  had 
only  Roth  to  deal  with,  he,  as  in  that  case  was 
his  duty,  prepared  to  force  a  passage;  and  the 
fe-w  troops  that  he  saw  drawn  up  in  the  valley, 
on  gaining  the  little  wood  fringing  it,  in  the 
morning,  confirmed  his  opinion.  He  counted 
on  success,  yet,  to  make  more  sure,  halted  to 
let  his  artillery  take  up  a  flanking  position  on  i 
the  north  side  of  the  valley.  The  circuitous 
and  bad  route,  however,  delaying  this  ma- 
nceuvre,  he  could  not  restrain  the  impatience  of 
the  delhis.  Towards  noon,  'Allah,  Allah  her,' 
they  made  a  splendid  charge ;  they  repeated  it, 
broke  two  squares,  and  amused  themselves 
nearly  two  hours  in  carving  the  Russian  in- 
fantry, their  own  infantry,  the  while,  admiring 
them  from  the  skirts  of  the  wood.  Diebitsch,  jfc] 
expecting  every  moment  that  the  vizir  would  "'  ■ 
advance  to  complete  the  success  of  his  cavalry 
— thereby  sealing  his  own  destruction — or- 
dered Count  Pahlen,  Avhose  division  was  in  the 
valley,  and  who  demanded  reinforcements,  to 
maintain  his  ground  to  the  last  man.  The 
Count  obeyed,  though  suffering  cruelly;  but 
the  vizir,  fortunately,  instead  of  seconding  his 
adversary's  intentions,  quietly  remained  on  the 
eminence,  enjoying  the  gallantry  of  his  delhis, 
and  waiting  till  his  artillery  should  be  able  to 
open,  when  he  might  descend  and  claim  the 
victory  with  ease.  Another  ten  minutes  would 
have  sufficed  to  envelope  him ;  but  Diebitsch, 
ignorant  of  the  cause  of  his  backwardness,  and 
supposing  that  he  intended  amusing  him  till 
night,  whereby  to  effect  a  retreat,  and  unwilling 
to  lose  more  men,  suddenly  displayed  his 
whole  force,  and  opened  a  tremendous  fire  on 


THE  FALL  OF  TURKEY. 


876 


the  astonished  Turks.  In  an  instant  the  rout 
was  general,  horse  and  foot ;  the  latter  threw 
away  their  arms,  and  many  of  the  nizam  dge- 
ditt  were  seen  clinging  to  the  tails  of  the  del- 
hi's  horses  as  they  clambered  over  the  hills. 
So  complete  and  instantaneous  was  the  flight, 
that  scarcely  a  prisoner  was  made.  Kedschid 
strove  to  check  the  panic  by  personal  valour, 
but  in  vain.  He  was  compelled  to  draw  his 
sabre  in  self-defence :  he  fled  to  the  Kamp- 
tchik,  accompanied  by  a  score  of  personal  re- 
tainers, crossed  the  mountains,  and  on  the 
fourth  day  re-entered  Schumla. 

"  This  eventful  battle,  fought  by  the  cavalry 
on  one  side,  and  a  few  thousand  infantry  on 
the  other,  decided  the  fate  of  Turkey — im- 
mense in  its  consequences,  compared  with  the 
trifling  loss  sustained,  amounting,  on  the  side 
of  the  Russians,  to  three  thousand  killed  and 
wounded ;  on  that  of  the  Turks,  killed,  v;ound- 
ed,  and  prisoners,  to  about  four  thousand.  Its 
eSect,  however,  was  the  same  as  if  the  whole 
Turkish  army  had  been  slain." 

We  have  given  at  large  the  striking  account 
of  this  battle,  because  it  exhibits  in  the  clearest 
point  of  view  the  extraordinary  weakness  to 
which  a  power  was  suddenly  reduced  which 
once  kept  all  Christendom  in  awe.  Thirty-six 
thousand  men  and  a  hundred  pieces  of  cannon 
decided  the  fate  of  Turkey;  and  an  army  of 
Ottomans,  forty  thousand  strong,  after  sustain- 
ing a  loss  of  four  thousand  men,  was  literally 
annihilated.  The  thing  almost  exceeds  belief. 
To  such  a  state  of  weakness  had  the  reforms 
of  Sultan  Mahmoud  so  soon  reduced  the  Otto- 
man power.  Such  was  the  prostration,  through 
innovation,  of  an  empire,  which,  only  twenty 
years  before,  had  waged  a  bloody  and  doubtful 
war  with  Russia,  and  maintained  for  four  cam- 
paigns one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  men  on 
the  Danube. 

6.  Among  the  immediate  and  most  power- 
ful causes  of  the  rapid  fall  of  the  Ottoman  em- 
pire, unquestionably,  must  be  reckoned  the 
Greek  Revolution,  and  the  extraordinary  part 
which  Great  Britain  took  in  destroying  the 
Turkish  navy  at  Navarino. 

On  this  subject  we  wish  to  speak  with 
caution.  We  have  the  most  heartfelt  wish  for 
the  triumph  of  the  Cross  over  the  Crescent, 
and  the  liberation  of  the  cradle  of  civilizalifin 
from  Asiatic  bondage.  But  with  every  desire 
■for  the  real  welfare  of  the  Greeks,  wc  must  be 
permitted  to  doubt  whether  the  Revolution  was 
the  way  to  effect  it,  or  the  cause  of  hnmaiiily 
has  not  been  retarded  by  the  premature  cllbrt 
for  its  independence. 

Since  the  wars  of  the  French  Revolution 
began,  the  condition  and  resources  of  the 
Greeks  had  improved  in  as  ra^iid  a  progression 
as  those  of  the  Turks  have  declined.  Various 
causes  have  contributed  tn  this. 

"  The  islanders,"  says  Mr.  Slade,  "  it  may  be 
said,  have  always  been  independent,  and  in 
possession  of  the  coasting  trade  of  the  empire. 
The  wars  attendant  on  the  French  Revolution 
gave  them  the  carrying  trade  of  ihc  Mediterra- 
nean ;  on  the  Euxine  alone  they  had  above  two 
hundred  sail  under  the  Russian  flag.  Their 
vessels  even  navigated  as  far  as  England. 
Mercantile   houses   were   established    in   the 


principal  ports  of  the  continent  of  Europe ;  the 
only  duty  on  their  commerce  was  five  per 
cent,  ad  vtihrcm,  to  the  sultan's  custom-houses. 
The  grea.t  demand  of  the  English  merchants 
for  Turkish  silk,  when  Italian  silk,  to  which  it 
is  superior,  was  difficult  to  procure,  enriched 
the  Greeks  of  the  interior,  who  engrossed  the 
entire  culture.  The  continental  system  obliged 
us  to  turn  to  Turkey  fir/  corn,  large  quantities 
of  which  were  exported  from  Macedonia,  from 
Smyrna,  and  from  Tarsus,  to  the  equal  profit 
of  the  Grecian  and  Turkish  agriculturists. 
The  same  system  also  rendered  it  incumbent 
on  Germany  to  cultivate  commercial  relations 
with  Turkey,  to  the  great  advantage  of  the 
Greeks,  who  were  to  be  seen,  in  consequence, 
numerously  frequenting  the  fairs  at  Leipsic. 
Colleges  were  established  over  Greece  and  the 
islands,  by  leave  obtained  from  Selim  III.; 
principally  at  Smyrna,  Scio,  Salonica,  Yanina, 
and  Hydra;  and  the  wealthy  sent  their  children 
to  civilized  Europe  for  education,  without  op- 
position from  the  Porte,  which  did  not  foresee 
the  mischief  that  it  would  thereby  gather. 

"In  short,  the  position  of  the  Greeks,  in  1810, 
was  such  as  would  have  been  considered 
visionary  twenty  years  previous,  and  would, 
if  then  offered  to  them,  have  been  hailed  as  the 
completion  of  their  desires.  But  the  general 
rule,  applicable  to  nations  as  well  as  to  indi- 
viduals, that  an  object,  however  ardently 
aspired  after,  when  attained,  is  chiefly  valued 
as  a  stepping-stone  to  higher  objects,  naturally 
afl^ectcd  them:  the  possession  of  unexpected 
prosperity  and  knowledge  opened  to  them 
further  prospects,  gave  them  hopes  of  realizing 
golden  dreams,  of  revenging  treasured  wrongs 
— showed  them,  in  a  Avord,  the  vista  of  inde- 
pendence." 

These  causes  fostered  the  Greek  Insur- 
rection, which  was  secretly  organized  for 
years  before  it  broke  out  in  1821,  and  was  then 
spread  universally  and  rendered  unquenchable 
by  the  barbarous  murder  of  the  Greek  patri- 
arch, and  a  large  proportion  of  the  clergy  at 
Constantinople,  on  Easter  Day  of  that  year. 
The  result  has  been,  that  Greece,  after  seven 
years  of  the  ordeal  of  fire  and  sword,  has  ob- 
tained its  independence  ;  and  liy  the  destruction 
of  her  navy  at  Navarino,  Turkey  has  lost  the 
means  of  making  any  efl'cciual  resistance  on 
the  Black  Sea  to  Russia.  Whether  Greece  has 
been  benefited  by  the  change,  time  alone  can 
show.  But  it  is  certain  that  such  have  been 
the  distractions,  jealousies,  and  robberies  of 
the  Greeks  upon  each  other  since  that  time, 
that  numbers  of  them  have  regretted  that  the 
dominion  of  their  ctnintry  has  passed  from  the 
infidels. 

But  whali'vcr  may  be  tliought  on  this  sub- 
ject, iiolhiii?  can  be  more  obvious  than  that 
the  Greek  Rcvolnlion  was  utterly  fatal  to  the 
naval  power  of  'i'urkey  ;  because  it  deprived 
them  at  once  of  the  class  from  which  alone 
sailors  could  be  obtained.  The  whole  com 
mercc  of  the  Ottomans  was  carried  on  by  the 
Greeks,  and  their  sailors  constituted  the  entire 
seamen  of  their  fleet.  Nothing,  accordingly 
can  he  more  lamentable  than  the  condition  of 
the  Turkish  fleet  since  that  lime.  ThecataS' 
trophe  of  Navarino  deprived  them  of  Uicil 


276 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


Dest  ships  and  bravest  sailors  ;  the  Greek  revolt 
drained  ofl"  tlie  ^vhole   population  who  were 
wont  to  man  their  fleets.     Mr.  Slade  informs 
us  that  when  he  navigated  on  board  the  Capi- 
tan  Pasha's  ship  with  the  Turkish    fleet  in 
1829,  the  crews  were  composed  almost  entirely 
of  landsmen,  who  were  forced  on  board  with- 
out the  slightest  knowledge  of  nautical  alTairs  ; 
and  that  such  was  their  timidity  from  inex- 
perience of  that  element,  that  a  few  English 
frigates  would  have  sent  the  whole  squadron, 
containing  six  ships  of  the  line,  to  the  bottom. 
The  Russian  fleet  also  evinced  a  degree  of 
ignorance  and  timidity  in  the  Euxine,  which 
could  hardly  have  been  expected,  from  their 
natural  hardihood  and   resolution.    Yet,  the 
Moscovite  fleet,  upon  the  whole,  rode  triumph- 
ant ;  by  their  capture  of  Anapa,  they  struck  at 
the  great  market  from  whence  Constantinople 
is  supplied,  while,  by  the  storming  of  Sizepolis, 
they  gave  a  point  d'appui  to  Diebitsch  on  the 
coast  within  the  Balkan,  without  which   he 
could  never  have  ventured  to  cross  that  formi- 
dable range.     This  ruin  of  the  Turkish  marine 
by  the  Greek  Revolution  and  the  battle  of  Na- 
varino,  was  therefore  the  immediate  cause  of 
the  disastrous  issue  of  the  second  Russian  cam- 
paign ;  and  the  scale  might  have  been  turned, 
and  it  made  to  terminate  in  equal  disasters  to 
the  invaders,  if  five  English  ships  of  the  line 
had   been    added   to   the   Turkish  force ;    an 
addition,  Mr.  Slade  tells  us,  which  would  have 
enabled  the  Turks  to  burn  the  Russian  arsenals 
and  fleet  at  Swartopol,  and  postponed  for  half 
a  century  the  fall  of  the  Ottoman  empire. 

Nothing,  therefore,  can  be  more  instructive 
than  the  rapid  fall  of  the  Turkish  power ;  nor 
more  curious  than  the  coincidence  between  the 
despotic  acts  of  the  reforming  eastern  sultan 
and  of  the  innovating  European  democracies. 
The  measures  of  both  have  been  the  same ; 
both  have  been  actuatedby  the  same  principles, 
and  both  yielded  to  the  same  ungovernable 
ambition.  The  sultan  commenced  his  reforms 
by  destro3dng  the  old  territorial  noblesse,  ruin- 
ing the  privileges  of  corporations,  and  subvert- 
ing the  old  military  force  of  the  kingdom ;  and 
he  is  known  to  meditate  the  destruction  of  the 
Mohammedan  hierarch}-,  and  the  confiscation 
of  the  property  of  the  church  to  the  service  of  the 
public  treasury.  The  Constituent  Assembly, 
before  they  had  sat  six  months,  had  annihilated 
the  feudal  nobility,  extinguished  the  privileges 
of  corporations,  uprooted  the  military  force  of 
the  monarchy,  and  confiscated  the  whole  pro- 
perty of  the  church.  The  work  of  destruction 
•went  on  far  more  smoothly  and  rapidly  in  the 
hands  of  the  great  despot'ic  democracy,  than 
of  the  eastern  sultan  ;  by  the  whole  forces  of 
the  state  drawing  in  one  direction,  the  old 
machine  was  pulled  to  pieces  with  a  rapidity 
to  which  there  is  nothing  comparable  in  the 
annals  even  of  Oriental  potentates.  The  rude 
hand  even  of  Sultan  Mahmoud  took  a  lifetime 
to  accomplish  that  which  the  French  demo- 
tracy  eflx'cted  in  a  few  months  ;  and  even  his 
ruthless  power  paused  at  devastations,  which 
they  unhesitatingly  adopted  amidst  the  applause 
of  the  nation.  Despotism,  absolute  despotism, 
•was  the  ruling  passion  of  both  ;  the  sultan  pro- 
claimed the  principle  that  all  authority  flows 


from  the  throne,  and  that  every  influence  mus* 
be  destroyed  which  does  not  emanate  from  tha 
source;  "The  Rights  of  Man"  publicly  an- 
nounced the  sovereignty  of  the  people,  and 
made  every  appointment,  civil  and  military, 
flow  from  their  assemblies.  So  true  it  is  that 
despotism  is  actuated  by  the  same  jealousies, 
and  leads  to  the  same  measures  on  the  part  of 
the  sovereign  as  the  multitude ;  and  so  just  is  the 
observation  of  Aristotle:  "The  character  of 
democracy  and  despotism  is  the  same.  Both 
exercise  a  despotic  authority  over  the  better 
class  of  citizens  ;  decrees  are  in  the  first,  what 
ordinances  and  arrests  are  in  the  last.  Though 
placed  in  diff"erent  ages  or  countries,  the  court 
favourite  and  democrat  are  in  realitythe  same 
characters,  or  at  least  they  always  bear  a  close 
analogy  to  each  other;  they  have  the  principal 
authority  in  their  respective  forms  of  govern- 
ment; favourites  with  the  absolute  monarch, 
demagogues  Avith  the  sovereign  multitude."* 

The  immediate  efiect  of  the  great  despotic 
acts  in  the  two  countries,  however,  was  widely 
ditferent.  The  innovations  of  Sultan  Mah- 
moud being  directed  against  the  wishes  of  the 
majority  of  the  nation,  prostrated  the  strength 
of  the  Ottomans,  and  brought  the  Russian  bat- 
talions in  fearful  strength  over  the  Balkan. 
The  innovations  of  the  Constituent  Assembly 
being  done  in  obedience  to  the  dictates  of  the 
people,  produced  for  a  time  a  portentous  union 
of  revolutionary  passions,  and  cai'ried  the  Re- 
publican standards  in  triumph  to  every  capital 
of  Europe.  It  is  one  thing  to  force  reform 
upon  an  unwilling  people;  it  is  another  and  a 
very  diflTerent  thing  to  yield  to  their  wishes  in 
imposing  it  upon  a  reluctant  minority  in  the 
state. 

But  the  ultimate  efi'ect  of  violent  innova- 
tions, whether  proceeding  from  the  despotism 
of  the  sultan '  or  the  multitude,  is  the  same. 
In  both  cases  they  totally  destroy  the  frame  of 
society,  and  prevent  the  possibility  of  freedom 
being  permanently  erected,  by  destroying  the 
classes  whose  intermixture  is  essential  to  its 
existence.  The  consequences  of  destroying 
the  dere  beys,  the  ayams,  the  Janissaries,  and 
ulema  in  Turkey,  will,  in  the  end,  be  the  same 
as  ruining  the  church,  the  nobility,  the  corpo- 
rations, and  landed  proprietors  in  France. 
The  tendency  of  both  is  identical,  to  destroy 
all  authority  but  that  emanating  from  a  single 
power  in  the  state,  and  of  course  to  render  that 
power  despotic.  It  is  immaterial  whether  that 
single  power  is  the  primary  assemblies  of  the 
people,  or  the  divan  of  the  sultan  ;  whether  the 
influence  to  be  destroyed  is  that  of  the  church 
or  the  ulema,  the  dere  beys  or  the  nobility.  In 
either  case  there  is  no  counterpoise  to  its  au- 
thority, and  of  course  no  limit  to  its 'oppres- 
sion. As  it  is  impossible,  in  the  nature  of 
things,  that  power  should  long  be  exercised  by 
great  bodies,  as  they  necessarily  and  rapidly 
fall  under  jlespots  of  their  own  creation,  so  it 
is  evident  that  the  path  is  cleared,  not  only  for 
despotism,  but  absolute  despotism,  as  com- 
pletely by  the  innovating  democracy  as  the 
resistless  sultan.  There  never  was  such  a 
pioneer  for  tyranny  as    the   Constituent  As- 

*  Arist.  de  Pol.  iv.  c.  4. 


THE   FALL   OF   TURKEY. 


277 


sembly,   they   outstripped    Sultan    Mahmoud 
himself 

It  is  melancholy  to  reflect  on  the  deplorable 
i-tate  of  weakness  to  which  England  has  been 
reduced  since  revolutionary  passions  seized 
upon  her  people.  Three  years  ago,  the  British 
name  was  universally  respected;  the  Portu- 
guese pointed  with  gratitude  to  the  well-fought 
fields,  where  English  blood  was  poured  forth 
like  water  in  behalf  of  their  independence  ;  the 
Dutch  turned  with  exultation  to  the  Lion  of 
Waterloo,  the  proud  and  unequalled  monu- 
ment of  English  fidelity;  the  Poles  acknow- 
ledged with  gratitude,  that,  amidst  all  their 
sorrows,  England  alone  had  stood  their  friend, 
and  exerted  its  influence  at  the  Congress  of 
Vienna  to  procure  for  them  constitutional 
freedom;  even  the  Turks,  though  mourning 
the  catastrophe  of  Navarino,  acknowledged 
that  British  diplomacy  had  at  length  interfered 
and  turned  aside  from  Constantinople  the 
sword  of  Russia,  after  the  barrier  of  the  Bal- 
kan had  been  broke  through.  Now,  how  wo- 
ful  is  the  change!  The  Portuguese  recount, 
with  undisguised  indignation,  the  spoliation 
of  their  navy  by  the  tricolour  fleet,  then  in 
close  alliance  with  England;  and  the  fostering 
by  British  blood  and  treasure,  of  a  cruel  and 
insidious  civil  war  in  their  bosom,  in  aid  of 
the  principle  of  revolutionary  propagandism. 
The  Dutch,  with  indignant  rage,  tell  the  tale 
of  the  desertion  by  England  of  the  allies  and 
principles  for  which  she  had  fought  for  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  years,  and  the  shameful  union 
of  the  Leopard  and  the  Eagle,  to  crush  the 
independence  and  partition  the  territories  of 
Holland.  The  Polish  exiles  in  foreign  lands 
dwell  on  the  heart-rending  story  of  their 
wrongs,  and  narrate  how  they  were  led  on  by 
deceitful  promises  from  France  and  England 
to  resist,  till  the  period  of  capitulation  had 
gone  by;  the  eastern  nations  deplore  the  occu- 
pation of  Constantinople  by  the  Russians,  and 
hold  up  their  hands  in  astonishment  at  the  in- 
fatuation which  has  led  the  mistress  of  the 
seas  to  permit  the  keys  of  the  Dardanelles  to 
be  placed  in  the  grasp  of  Moscovitc  ambition. 
It  is  in  vain  to  conceal  the  fact,  that  by  a  mere 
change  of  ministry,  by  simply  letting  ioosr- 
revolntionary  passions,  England  lias  descended 
to  the  rank  of  a  third-rale  power.  She  has 
sunk  at  once,  without  any  external  disasters, 
from  the  triumphs  of  Trafalgar  and  Waterloo, 
to  the  disgrace  and  the  humiliation  of  Charles 
n.  It  is  hard  to  say  whether  she  is  mo.si 
despised  or  insulted  by  her  ancient  allies  or 
enemies;  whether  contempt  and  hatred  are 
strongest  among  those  she  aided  or  resisted 
in  the  late  stniggle.  Russia  di'fic-s  her  in  the 
east,  and,  secure  in  the  revolutionary  pas- 
sions by  which  her  people  are  distracted,  pur- 
sues with  now  undisguised  anxiety  her  lontr- 
cherished  and  stubbornly-resisted  schemes  of 
ambition  in  the  Dardanelles.  France  drags 
her  a  willing  captive  at  her  chariot-wheds, 
and  compels  the  arms  which  once  struck  down 
Napoleon  to  aid  her  in  all  the  mean  revolu- 
tionary aggressions  she  is  pursuing  on  the 
surrounding  states.  Portugal  and  Holland, 
Bmarlin;;-  under  the  wounds  received  from 
heir  oldest  ally,  wait  for  the  n'oment  of  British 


weakness  to  wreak  vengeance  for  the  wrongs 
inflicted  under  the  infatuated  guidance  of  the 
whig  democracy.  Louis  XIV.,  humbled  by 
the  defeats  of  Blenheim  and  Ramillies,  yet 
spurned  with  indignation  at  the  proposal  that 
he  should  join  his  arms  to  those  of  his  ene 
mies,  to  dispossess  his  ally,  the  King  of 
Spain;  but  England,  in  the  hour  of  her  great- 
est triumph,  has  submitted  to  a  greater  degra- 
dation. She  has  deserted  and  insulted  the 
nation  which  stood  by  her  side  in  the  field  of 
Vittoria;  she  has  joined  in  hostility  against 
the  power  which  bled  with  her  at  Waterloo, 
and  deserted  in  its  last  extremity  the  ally 
whose  standards  waved  triumphant  with  her 
on  the  sands  of  Egypt. 

The  supineness  and  weakness  of  ministers 
in  the  last  agony  of  Turkey  have  been  such  as 
would  have  exceeded  belief,  if  woful  experi- 
ence had  not  taught  us  to  be  surprised  at  no- 
thing which  they  can  do.  France  acted  with 
becoming  foresight  and  spirit;  they  had  an 
admiral,  with  four  ships  of  the  line,  to  watch 
Russia  in  the  Dardanelles,  when  the  crisis  ap- 
proached. What  had  England!  One  ship  of  the 
line  on  the  way  from  Malta,  and  a  few  frigates 
in  the  Archipelago,  were  all  that  the  mistress 
of  the  waves  could  alTord,  to  support  the  hon- 
our and  interests  of  England,  in  an  emergency 
more  pressing  than  any  which  has  occurred 
since  the  battle  of  Trafalgar.  Was  the  crisis 
not  foreseen  ]  Everyman  in  the  country  of 
any  intelligence  foresaw  it,  from  the  moment 
that  Ibrahim  besieged  Acre.  Can  England 
only  fit  out  one  ship  of  the  line  to  save  the 
Dardanelles  from  Russia?  Is  this  the  fore- 
sight of  the  Whigs,  or  the  eff'ect  of  the  dock- 
yard reductions  1  Or  has  the  reform  act 
utterly  annihilated  our  strength,  and  sunk  our 
name  1 

It  is  evident  that  in  the  pitiable  shifts  to 
which  government  is  now  reduced,  foreign 
events,  even  of  the  greatest  magnitude,  have 
no  sort  of  weight  in  its  deliberations.  Resting 
on  the  quicksands  of  popular  favour;  intent 
only  on  winning  the  applause  or  resisting  the 
indignation  of  the  rabble;  dreading  the  strokes 
of  their  old  allies  among  the  political  unions; 
awakened,  when  too  late,  to  a  sense  of  the 
dreadful  danger  arising  from  the  infatuated 
course  they  have  pursued  ;  hesitating  between 
losing  the  support  of  the  revolutionists  aiul 
pursuing  the  anarchical  projects  which  they 
avow  ;  unable  to  command  the  strength  of  the 
nation  for  any  fiueign  policy;  having  sown 
the  seeds  of  interminable  dissension  between 
the  difl"ercnt  classes  of  society,  and  spread  far 
and  wide  the  modern  passiiui  for  innovation 
in  lieu  of  the  nni-irnt  patriotism  of  Eiiglaml ; 
they  have  sunk  it  at  once  into  the  gulf  of  de- 
gradation. By  the  passions  they  have  excited 
in  the  empire,  its  strength  is  utterly  destroyed, 
and  well  do  foreign  nations  perceive  its  weak- 
ness. They  know  that  Ireland  is  on  the  verge 
of  rebellion;  that  the  We-t  Indies,  with  the 
torch  and  the  tomahawk  at  their  throats,  are 
waiting  only  for  the  first  national  reverse  to 
throw  ofi"  their  allegiance;  that  the  spiendid 
empire  of  India  is  shaking  under  the  demo- 
cratic rule  to  which  it  is  about  to  be  subjectet' 
on  the  expiry  of  the  charier ;  that  the  dock 


278 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


vards,  stripped  of  their  stores  to  make  a  show 
of  economy,  and  conceal  a  sinking  revenue, 
could  no  longer  fit  out  those  mighty  fleets 
which  so  recently  went  forth  from  their  gates, 
conquering  and  to  conquer.  The  foreign  his- 
torians of  the  French  revolutionary  war  de- 
plored the  final  seal  it  had  put  upon  the 
maritime  superiority  of  England,  and  declared 
that  human  sagacity  could  foresee  no  possible 
extrication  of  the  seas  from  her  resistless  do- 
minion: but  how  vain  are  the  anticipations 
of  human  wisdom!  The  fickle  change  of 
popular  opinion  subverted  the  mighty  fabric ; 
a  Whig  ministry  succeeded  to  the  helm,  and 
before  men  had  ceased  to  tremble  at  the  thun- 
der of  Trafalgar,  England  had  become  con- 
temptible on  the  waves ! 

From  this  sad  scene  of  national  degradation 
and  decay,  from  the  melancholy  spectacle  of 
the  breaking  up,  from  revolutionary  passion 
and  innovation,  of  the  greatest  and  most  bene- 
ficent empire  that  ever  existed  upon  earth,  we 
turn  to  a  more  cheering  prospect,  and  joyfully 
inhale  from  the  prospects  of  the  species  those 
hopes  which  we  can  no  longer  venture  to 
cherish  for  our  own  country. 

The  attention  of  all  classes  in  this  country 
has  been  so  completely  absorbed  of  late  years 
by  the  progress  of  domestic  changes,  and  the 
march  of  revolution,  that  little  notice  has  been 
bestowed  on  the  events  we  have  been  consider- 
ing; yet  they  are  more  important  to  the  future 
fate  of  the  species,  than  even  the  approaching 
dismemberment  of  the  British  empire.  We 
are  about  to  witness  the  overthrow  of  the  Mo- 
hammedan religion  ;  the  emancipation  of  the 
cradle  of  civilization  from  Asiatic  bondage ; 
the  accomplishment  of  that  deliverance  of  the 
Holy  Sepulchre,  for  which  the  Crusaders  toiled 
and  bled  in  vain  ;  the  elevation  of  the  cross  on 
the  Dome  of  St.  Sophia  and  the  .walls  of  Je- 
rusalem. 

That  this  great  event  was  approaching  has 
been  long  foreseen  by  the  thoughtful  and  the 
philanthropic.     The  terrors  of  the  Crescent 
have  long  since  ceased:  it  first  paled  in  the 
Gulf  of  Lepanto :  it  waned  before  the  star  of 
Sobieski  under  the  walls  of  Vienna,  and  set  in 
flames  in  the  Bay  of  Navarino.     The  power 
which  once  made   all  Christendom   tremble, 
,  which  shook  the  imperial  throne,  and  pene- 
trated from  the  sands  of  Arabia  to  the  banks 
of  the  Loire,  is  now  in  the  agonies  of  dissolu- 
tion ;  and  that  great  deliverance  for  which  the 
banded  chivalry  of  Europe  fought   for   cen- 
turies, and  to  attain  which  millions  of  Chris- 
tian bones  whitened  the  fields  of  Asia,  is  now 
about  to  be  eflectcd  through  the  vacillation  and 
indifference  of  their  descendants.     That  which 
the  courage  of  Richard  Conur  de  Lion,  and  the 
enthusiasm  of  Godfrey  of  Bouillon,  could  not 
achieve;  Avhich  resisted  the  arms  of  the  Tem- 
plars and  the  Hospitallers,  and  rolled  back  from 
Asia  the  tide  of  European  invasion,  is  now  in 
the  act  of  being  accomplished.     A  more  me- 
morable instance  was  never  afforded  of  the 
manner  in  which  the   passions  and  vices  of 
men  are  made  to  work  out  the  intentions  of 
an  overruling  Providence,  and  of  the  vanity 
.if  all  human  attempts  to  prevent  that  cease- 


less spread  of  religion  which  has  been  decreed 
by  the  Almighty. 

That  Russia  is  the  power  by  whom  this 
great  change  was  to  be  effected,  by  whose  arm 
the  tribes  of  Asia  were  to  be  reduced  to  sub- 
jection,  and  the  triumph  of  civilization  over 
barbaric  sway  effected,  has  long  been  appa- 
rent. The  gradual  but  unceasing  pressure 
of  the  hardy  races  of  mankind  upon  the  effe- 
minate, of  the  energy  of  northern  poverty  on 
the  corruption  of  southern  opulence,  rendered 
it  evident  that  this  change  must  ultimately  be 
effected.  The  final  triumph  of  the  Cross  over 
the  Crescent  was  secure  from  the  moment  that 
the  Turcoman  descended  to  the  plains  of  Asia 
Minor,  and  the  sway  of  the  Czar  was  estab- 
lished in  the  deserts  of  Scythia.  As  certainly 
as  water  will  ever  descend  from  the  mountains 
to  the  plain,  so  surely  will  the  stream  of  per- 
manent conquest,  in  every  age,  flow  from  the 
northern  to  the  southern  races  of  mankind. 

But  although   the   continued  operation   of 
these  causes  was  evident,  and  the  idthnate  as» 
cendent  of  the  religion  of  Christ,  and  the  insti- 
tutions   of   civilization,  over    the   tenets   of 
Mohammed,  and  the   customs   of  barbarism, 
certain ;  yet  many  difierent  causes,  till  within 
these  few  years,  contributed  to  check  their  ef- 
fects, and  to  postpone,  apparently,  for  an  in- 
definite   period,   the   final    liberation   of    the 
eastern  world.     But   the  weakness,  insanit)', 
and  vacillation  of  England  and  France,  while 
they  will  prove  fatal  to  them,  seem  destined  to 
subject  the  east  to  the  sway  of  Russia,  and  re- 
new, in  the  plains  of  Asia,  those  institutions 
of  which  Europe  has  become  unworthy.     The 
cause  of  religion,  the  spread  of  the  Christian 
faith,  has  received  an  impulse  from  the  vices 
and  follies,  which  she  never  received  from  the 
sword  of  western  Europe.     The  infidelity  and 
irreligion   of  the   French   philosophers   have 
done  that  for  the  downfall  of  Islamism  wliich 
all  the  enthusiasm  of  the  Crusaders  could  not 
accomplish.     Their  first  effect  was  to  light  up 
a  deadly  war  in  Europe,  and  array  the  civilized 
powers  of  the  world  in  mortal  strife  against 
each  other;  but  this  was  neither  their  only  nor 
their  final  effect.     In  this  contest,  the  arms  of 
civilization  acquired  an  unparalleled  ascend- 
ency over  those  of  barbarism;  and  at  its  close, 
the  power  of  Russia  was  magnified  fouifold. 
Turkey  and  Persia  were  unable  to  withstand  the 
empire  from  which  the  arms  of  Napoleon  rolled 
back.     The   overthrow   of  Mohammedanism, 
the  liberation  of  the  finest  provinces  of  Europe 
from  Turkish  sway,  flowed  at  last,  directly  and 
evidently,  from  the  rise  of  the  spirit  which  at 
first  closed  all  the  churches  of  France,  and 
erected  the  altar  of  reason  in  the  choir  of  Notre 
Dame.     We  are  now  witnessing  the  conclu- 
sion of  the  drama.     When  England  descended 
from  her  high  station,  and  gave  way  to  revo- 
lutionary passions  ;  when  irreligion  tainted  her 
people,  and  respect  for  the  institutions  of  their 
fathers  no  longer  influenced  her  government, 
she,  too,  Avas  abandoned  to  the  consequences 
of  her  vices;  and  from  her   apostasy,  fresh 
support  derived  to  the  cause 'of  Christianity. 
French  iiTeligion  had  quadrupled  the  military 
strength  of  Russia :  but  the  English  navy  s»iU 


THE  SPANISH  KE VOLUTION  OF  1820. 


270 


exisled  to  uphold  the  tottering  edifice  of  Turk- 
ish power.  English  irreligion  and  infidelity 
overturned  her  constitution,  and  the  barrier 
was  swept  away. 

The  British  navy,  paralysed  by  democracy 
and  divisions  in  the  British  islands,  can  no 
longer  resist  Moscovite  ambition,  and  the  pros- 
tration of  Turkey  is  in  consequence  complete. 
The  eftects  will  in  the  end  be  fatal  to  England; 
but  they  may  raise  up  in  distant  lands  other 
empires,  which  may  one  day  rival  even  the 
glories  of  the  British  name.  The  cross  may 
cease  to  be  venerated  at  Paris,  but  it  Avill  be  | 
elevated  at  St.  Sophia:  it  may  be  ridiculed  in  ' 


London,  but  it  will  resume  its  sway  at  Antioch 
Considerations  of  this  kind  are  fitted,  if  any 
can,  to  console  us  for  the  degradation  and  ca- 
lamities of  our  own  country:  they  show,  that 
if  one  nation  becomes  corrupted,  Providence 
can  derive,  even  from  its  vices  and  ingrati- 
tude, the  means  of  raising  up  other  states  to 
the  glory  of  which  it  has  become  unworthy: 
and  that  from  the  decay  of  civilization  in  its 
present  seats,  the  e)'e  of  hope  may  anticipate  its 
future  resurrection  in  the  cradle  from  whence 
it  originally  spread  its  blessings  throughout 
the  world. 


THE  SPAjNISII  EEYOLUTION  OF  1820/ 


Tn?.iiE  is  no  subject  with  which  wc  are  more 
completely  unacquainted,  or  which  has  been 
more  perverted  by  artful  deception  on  the  part 
of  the  revolutionary  press  throughout  Europe, 
than  the  convulsions,  which,  since  the  general 
peace,  have  distracted  the  Spanish  Peninsula. 
Circumstances  have  been  singularly  favour- 
able to  the  universal  diffusion  of  erroneous 
views  on  this  subject.  The  revolutionary 
.party  had  a  fair  field  for  the  adoption  of  every 
kind  of  extravagance,  and  the  propagation  of 
every  species  of  falsehood,  in  a  country  where 
the  ruling  class,  who  opposed  the  movement, 
had  committed  great  errors,  been  guilty  of 
black  ingratitude,  and  were  totally  incapable 
of  counteracting,  by  means  of  the  press,  those 
erroneous  misrepresentations,  with  which  the 
indefatigable  activity  of  the  revolutionary 
party  overwhelmed  the  public  mind  in  every 
part  of  the  world.  Their  exertions,  and  the 
success  which  they  have  met  with,  in  this  re- 
spect, have  accordingly  been  unprecedented; 
and  there  is  no  subject  on  which  historic  truth 
will  be  found  to  be  so  dilTercnt  from  journal 
misrepresentation,  as  the  transactions  of  the 
Peninsula  during  the  last  fifteen  years. 

That  Ferdinand  VII.  is  a  weak  man  ;  that, 
under  the  government  of  the  priests,  he  has 
violated  his  promises,  behaved  cruelly  towards 
his  deiivrrors.and  been  guilty  of  black  ingrali- 
tude  towards  the  h'-mic  dcfcndi-rs  of  his  throne 
during  his  exile,  may  be  considered  as  histori- 
cally certain.  How,  then,  has  it  happened  that 
the  Revolution  hns  retrograded  in  a  country 
where  so  much  was  required  to  he  done  in  the 
way  of  real  amelioratinn,  and  the  wishes  of  so 
large  a  portion  of  its  inhabitants  were  unani- 
mous in  favour  of  practical  improvement] 
How  can  wc  explain  the  fact,  that  the  French, 
in  1823.  led  by  the  Duke  dWngnuIeme,  under 
the  weak  and  vacillating  direction  of  the  Bour- 
Dons,  Iraver.^ed  the  Peninsula  from  end  to  end, 
without  even  the  shadow  of  resistance,  and  es- 
tablished their  standard  on  the  walls  of  Cadiz, 
after  the  heroic  resistance  which  the  peasantry 
»f  the   Peninsula  made  to  CJallic  aggression 

•  Kgsai  IlisInriqiiR  siir  In  Rnvoliitinn  d'RupnRnp.  par 
iC  Vlroinffi  <Ic  Marlieniic.  Pnrifl,  Pinnril,  ls.12.  llluck- 
►ood's  Magaxiiic,  Sc|itcinl)or,  1832. 


under  Napoleon,  and  the  universal  hatred 
which  their  presence  had  excited  in  every  part 
of  that  desolated  and  blood-stained  country'? 
Immense  must  have  been  the  injustice,  enor- 
mous the  folly,  ruinous  the  sway  of  the  revolu- 
tionary party,  when  it  so  soon  cured  a  whole 
nation  of  a  desire  for  change,  which  all  at  first 
felt  to  be  necessary,  which  so  many  were 
throughout  interested  in  promoting,  and  which 
was  begun  with  such  unanimous  support  from 
all  classes. 

The  Revolutionists  explain  this  extraordi- 
nary fact,  by  saying  that  it  was  entirely  owing 
to  the  influence  of  the  priests,  who,  seeing  that 
their  power  and  possessions  were  threatened 
by  the  proposed  innovations,  set  themselves 
vigorously  and  successfully  to  oppose  them. 
But  here  again  historical  fiicts  disprove  party 
misrepresentations.  It  will  be  found,  upon 
examination,  that  the  priests  at  the  outset  made 
no  resistance  whatever  to  the  establishment  of 
the  constitution  on  the  most  democratic  basis; 
that  the  experiment  of  a  highly  popular  form 
of  government  was  tried  with  the  unanimous 
approbation  of  (/// r/ds.'trs,-  and  that  the  subse- 
qiuMit  general  horror  at  the  constitutionalists, 
and  the  easy  overthrow  of  their  government, 
was  owing  to  the  madness  of  the  popular  rulers 
themselves,  to  the  enormous  injustice  which 
they  committed,  the  insane  projects  of  innova- 
tion in  which  they  indulged,  and  the  weighty 
interests  in  all  ranks,  on  which,  in  the  prose- 
cution of  their  frantic  career,  they  were  com- 
pelled to  trench.  Spain,  when  the  veil  is 
drawn  aside  which  party  delusions  has  so  long 
spread  before  its  transactions,  will  be  found  to 
add  another  confirmation  to  the  eternal  truths, 
that  the  career  of  innovation  necessarily  snd 
rapidly  destroys  itself;  that  the  misery  it  im- 
mciliately  produces  renders  the  great  body  of 
men  at  length  deaf  to  the  delusive  premises  by 
which  its  imimoters  never  fail  to  bnlsier  up  its 
fiirlunes,  and  that  there  i.s  no  such  fata!  enemy 
to  real  freedom  a.s  the  noisy  supporter*  of  de- 
mocratic ambition. 

The  work,  whose  title  is  prefixed  to  this  ar- 
ticle, is  well  calculated  to  disabuse  the  public 
mind  in  regard  to  these  important  transactions. 
The  author  is  one  of  the  liberal  party  in  France 


S80 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


and  bestows  liberal  and  unqualified  abuse 
npou  all  the  really  objectionable  parts  of  Fer- 
dinand's conduct.  At  the  same  time,  he  un- 
folds, in  clear  and  graphic  colours,  the  ruinous 
precipitance  and  fatal  innovations  of  the  Re- 
volutionists, and  distinctly  demonstrates  that 
it  was  not  the  priests  nor  the  nobles,  but  their 
own  injustice,  and  the  wide-spread  ruin  pro- 
duced by  their  own  measures,  which  occa- 
sioned tile  speedy  downfall  of  the  absurd  con- 
stitution which  they  had  established. 

We  all  recollect  that  the  new  constitution 
of  Spain  Avas  framed  in  the  Isle  of  Leon,  in 
1812,  when  the  greater  part  of  the  Peninsula 
was  overrun  by  the  French  troops.  M.  Mar- 
tignac  gives  the  following  account  of  the  origi- 
nal formation  of  the  Cortes  in  that  island,  to 
whom  the  important  task  of  framing  a  consti- 
tution was  devolved : — 

"  The  greater  part  of  the  Spanish  territory 
was  at  this  period  overrun  by  the  French ; 
Cadiz,  Gallicia,  Murcia,  and  the  Belearic  Isles, 
alone  elected  their  representatives :  No  condi- 
tion ivas  imposed  on  the  cledors,  but  every  one  ivho 
presented  liimsclf  ivas  allowed  to  vole.  The  depu- 
ties from  the  other  provinces  were  elected  by 
an  equally  universal  suffrage  of  all  their  inhabi- 
tants M'ho  had  taken  refuge  in  the  Isle  of  Leon ; 
and  thus  the  Cortes  was  at  length  assembled. 
Such  was  the  origin  of  the  assembly  which 
gave  to  Spain  its  democratic  constitution. 

"  We  cannot  now  read  without  surprise, 
mingled  with  pity,  the  annals  of  that  assembly, 
and  the  monuments  it  has  left  for  the  instruc- 
tion of  all  nations,  a  prey  to  the  same  passions, 
and  the  victims  of  the  same  fury.  The  bloody 
annals  of  our  Convention  can  alone  give  an 
idea  of  it ;  but  to  the  revolutionary  fanaticism 
which  they  shared  with  us,  we  must  add,  the 
influence  of  a  burning  sun  over  their  heads, 
and  the  force  of  implacable  animosities,  nou- 
rished by  the  Moorish  blood  which  flowed  in 
their  veins.  All  the  recollections  of  our  dis- 
asters were  there  cited,  not  as  beacons  to  be 
avoided,  but  examples  to  be  followed:  all  the 
men  whose  names  are  never  pronounced 
amongst  us  but  with  an  involuntary  feeling  of 
horror,  were  there  cited  as  heroes,  and  pro- 
posed as  models  ;  all  the  measures  of  proscrip- 
tion and  destruction  which  vengeance,  inspir- 
ed by  hatred,  could  suggest,  were  there  pro- 
posed and  supported.  One  declared  that  in  his 
eyes  the  hatchet  of  the  executioner  was  the 
sole  argument  which  he  would  deign  to  propose 
to  the  logic  of  his  adversaries ;  another,  and 
that  was  a  priest,  ofiered  to  take  the  axe  into 
his  own  hands;  a  third,  indignant  at  the  scan- 
dal which  Spain  had  so  long  exhibited,  ex- 
claimed, 'We  have  been  assembled  for  six 
months,  and  not  one  head  has  as  yet  fallen.' 

"  In  the  midst  of  these  manifestations  of  a 
furious  delirium,  some  prudent  and  sagacious 
voices  were  heard,  and  united  among  each 
other  to  moderate  the  popular  effervescence, 
which  such  pains  had  been  taken  to  excite. 
Among  those  who  executed  with  most  success 
this  honourable  task,  the  voice  of  Arguelles 
was  especially  distinguished  ;  of  that  Arguel- 
les, whose  mind,  chastened  by  reflection,  and 

nlighteijed  by-study,  had  subdued   these  ex- 
U'avagant  ideas ;  whose  eloquence  at  once  cap- 


tivated and  entranced  his  auditors ;  and  who, 
in  a  time  and  a  place  where  any  thing  ap- 
proaching to  moderation  was  stigmatized  as 
blasphemy,  had  obtained  the  extraordinarj 
surname  of  the  Divine. 

"  Nothing,  however,  could  arrest  the  torrent 
of  democracy  which  had  now  broken  through 
all  its  bounds.  The  Cortes  had  been  convoked 
to  overturn  the  foundations  of  the  Spanish 
monarchy,  and  consummate  the  Avork  of  the 
Revolution,  and  nothing  could  prevent  the 
task  being  accomplished.  From  the  day  of 
their  first  meeting,  they  had  proclaimed  the 
principle,  that  sovereignty  resides  in  the  na- 
tion ;  and  all  their  acts  were  the  consequences 
of  that  principle.  The  national  and  rational 
party,  whose  conviction  and  good  sense  it  out- 
raged, were  far  from  adopting  so  extravagant 
a  proposition,  and  in  ordinary  circumstances 
they  would  have  rejected  it;  but  all  their  pro- 
testations and  remonstrances  were  overturned, 
by  pointing  to  their  young  king,  a  captive  in 
a  foreign  land,  and  incessantly  invoking  the 
principle  of  popular  sovereignty,  as  the  sole 
method  of  awakening  that  general  enthusiasm, 
which  might  ultimately  deliver  him  from  his 
fetters.  The  peril  of  foreign  subjugation  was 
such,  that  nothing  tending  to  calm  the  public 
effervescence  could  be  admitted;  and  the  firm- 
est royalists  were,  by  an  unhappy  fatality,  com- 
pelled to  embrace  principles  subversive  of  the 
throne. 

"The  Cortes,  therefore,  was  compelled  to 
advance  in  the  career  on  which  it  had  entered, 
deliberating  on  the  great  interests  of  Spain 
under  the  irresistible  influence  of  a  furious  and 
democratic  press,  and  under  the  pressure  of  po- 
pular speeches  delivered  bj^  the  visionary  and 
enthusiastic  from  all  the  provinces,  who  soon 
made  Cadiz  their  common  centre. 

"It  was  in  the  midst  of  that  fiery  furnace 
that  the  constitution  of  Spain  was  forged :  in 
the  bosom  of  that  crisis,  the  centre  of  that  fer- 
mentation, in  the  absence  of  all  liberty  ofthoiight 
and  action,  from  the  vehemence  of  the  popular  party, 
that  the  solemn  act  was  adopted  which  was  to 
regulate  the  destiny  of  a  great  people." — I. 
94—97. 

A  constitution  struck  out  in  such  a  period 
of  foreign  danger  and  domestic  deliverance, 
under  the  dread  of  French  bayonets  and  the 
pressure  of  revolutionary  ftuy,  could  hardly 
be  expected  to  be  either  rational  or  stable,  or 
adapted  to  the  character  and  wants  of  the  peo- 
ple. It  was  accordingly  in  the  highest  degree 
democratical;  not  only  infinitely  more  so  than 
Spain  could  bear,  but  more  so  than  any  state 
in  Europe,  not  excepting  England  or  France, 
could  adopt  with  the  slightest  chance  of  safety. 
Its  leading  articles  were  as  follows : — 

"  1.    The  sovereignty  resides  in  the  nation. 

"  2.  The  Cortes  is  to  be  elected  by  the  uni- 
versal suffrage  of  the  whole  inhabitants. 

"  3.  It  possesses  cdonc  the  legislative  power, 
which  comprises  the  sole  power  of  pre  posing 
laws.  It  votes  the  taxes  and  the  levies  for  the 
army;  lays  down  all  the  regulations  for  the 
armed  force;  names  the  supreme  judges; 
creates  and  institutes  a  regent,  in  case  of  mi- 
nority or  incapacity,  of  which  last  it  alone 
is  the  judge,  and  exercises  a   direct  control 


THE   SPANISH  REVOLUTION   OF    1820. 


28 


v/ver  the  ministers  and  all  other  functionaries, 
whose  responsibility  it  alone  regulates.  Dur- 
ing the  inter\'^als  of  its  sessions,  it  is  repre- 
sented by  a,  pcnnancnt  dcputalmi,  charged  with 
the  execution  of  the  laws,  and  the  power  of 
convoking  it,  in  case  of  necessity. 

"4.  The  king  is  inviolable.  He  sanctions 
the  laws ;  but  he  can  only  refuse  his  assent 
twice,  and  to  different  legislatures.  On  the 
third  bill  being  presented,  he  7nust  give  his  con- 
tent. He  has  the  right  of  pardon ;  but  that 
right  is  circumscribed  within  certain  limits 
fixed  by  law. 

"5.  The  king  names  the  public  functiona- 
ries, but/)W)i  a  list  presented  lo  him  by  the  council 
of  state.  The  whole  functionaries  are  subject 
to  a  supreme  tribunal,  the  members  of  which 
are  all  appointed  by  the  Cortes. 

"6.  The  king  cannot  leave  the  kingdom 
•without  the  leave  of  the  Cortes  ;  and  if  he  mar- 
ries without  their  consent,  he  is  held  b)'^  that 
act  alone  to  have  abdicated  the  throne. 

"  7.  There  is  to  be  constantly  attached  to 
the  king's  person  a  council  of  forty  members. 
Three  counsellors  are  for  life,  named  by  the 
king,  but  from  a  list  furnished  b}'  the  Cortes, 
in  which  there  can  only  be  four  of  the  great 
nobles,  and  four  ecclesiastics.  It  is  this  coun- 
cil wh'ich  presents  the  lists  for  all  employments 
in  church  and  state  to  the  king,  for  his  selec- 
tion. 

"8.  No  part  of  the  new  constitution  is  to  be 
revised  in  any  of  its  parts,  but  by  the  votes  of 
three  successive  legislatures,  and  b)-  a  decree 
of  the  Cortes,  not  subject  lo  the  royal  sanction." 
I.  97—99. 

Such  was  the  &,>anish  constitution  of  1812, 
to  the  restoration  of  which,  all  the  subsequent 
convulsions  of  the  Revolutionary  parly  have 
been  directed.  It  was  evidently  in  the  highest 
decree  dfnwcraliral ;  so  much  so,  indeed,  that  the 
President  of  the  American  Congress  has  fully 
as  much  real  power.  The  Cortes  was  elected 
by  univcrtal  suffrni^c  ;  there  was  no  upper  cham- 
ber or  House  of  Peers  to  restrain  its  excesses; 
it  was  alone  investcil  with  the  right  of  v<iting 
the  taxes,  raixiui;  the  finny,  and  establisliin:,'  its 
regulations;  it  controlled  and  directed  all  the 
public  functionaries,  and  its  powers  were  en- 
joyed, during  the  periods  of  its  prorogation, 
by  a.  jirrninncnl  rowviittre,  which  had  the  power 
at  any  time,  of  its  own  aulhority,  to  reassemble 
the  whole  body.  By  means  of  the  Council  of 
State  substantially  elected  by  the  Cortes,  and 
the  lists  which  it  presented  to  the  king  for  the 
choice  of  all  public  functionaries,  it  was  in- 
vested with  the  power  of  naming  all  olficcrs, 
civil, military, ••cclosiaslical,  ami  judicial;  and, 
to  complete  this  mass  of  democratic  absurdity, 
this  constitution  could  not  be  altered  in  any 
of  its  parts  but  by  the  concurring  act  of  three 
successive  legislatures,  and  a  decree  of  the 
Cortes,  not  subject  lo  the  royal  sanction.  It  is 
needless  to  s.ay  any  thing  of  this  constitution; 
if  was  much  more  democraiical  than  the  con- 
stitution of  France  in  1790,  which  was  so  soon 
overturned  by  the  Revolutionists  of  that  coun- 
try, and  was  of  such  a  kind  as  could  not,  by 
possibility,  have  failed  to  precipitate  the  Pe- 
ninsula into  all  the  horrors  of  anarchy. 

The  ultimate  fate  of  such  a  mass  of  revolu- 


tionary madness,  in  a  country  so  little  accus- 
tomed  to  bear  the  excitement,  and  so  little 
aware  of  the  duties  of  freedom  as  Spain,  might 
easily  have  been  anticipated.  Its  early  recep- 
tion in  the  different  classes  of  the  community 
is  thus  described  by  our  author: — 

"To  those  who  are  aware  of  the  true  spiri- 
of  that  graA-e  and  constant  nation,  and  who 
were  not  blinded  by  the  passions  or  the  excita- 
tion of  political  fanaticism,  it  was  easy  to  fore* 
see  the  reception  which  a  constitution  would 
receive,  by  which  all  the  habits  of  the  nation 
were  violated,  and  all  their  affections  wounded. 

"  At  Cadiz,  Barcelona,  and,  in  general,  in  all 
the  great  commercial  towns,  the  party  who 
had  urged  forward  the  Revolution  readily  pre- 
vailed over  the  adherents  of  old  institutions, 
and  these  towns  expressed  their  adhesion  with 
enthusiasm;  but  in  the  smaller  boroughs  in 
the  country,  and,  above  all,  in  the  provinces 
of  the  interior,  where  the  new  ideas  had  not 
yet  made  any  progress,  this  total  prostration 
of  the  Roj-alty — this  substitution  of  a  new 
power  instead  of  that  which  had  been  the 
object  of  ancient  veneration,  was  received 
with  a  coldness  which  soon  degenerated  into 
discontent  and  open  complaints. 

"  In  vain  the  innovators  sought  to  persuade 
the  people,  whose  dissatisfaction  could  no  lon- 
ger be  concealed,  that  the  new  constitution 
was  but  a  restoration  of  the  ancient  principles  of 
the  monarchy,  adapted  to  the  new  wants  and 
exigencies  of  society ;  in  vain  had  they  taken 
care,  in  destroying  things,  to  preserve  names ; 
this  deceitful  address  deceived  no  one,  and 
abated  nothing  of  the  public  discontent. 

"The  clergy,  discontented  and  disquieted  at 
the  prospect  of  a  future  which  it  was  now  easy 
to  foresee — the  great  proprietors,  who  were 
subjected  to  new  burdens,  at  the  same  time 
that  they  were  deprived  of  their  ancient  rights 
— the  members  of  all  the  provincial  councils 
which  were  despoiled  of  their  ancient  juris- 
dictions, added  to  the  public  discontent.  The 
creation  of  a  direct  lax,  unknown  till  that  day, 
appeared  to  the  inliabilanis  of  the  countr}'  an 
intolerable  burden — a  sarrilicc  without  any 
compensation;  and  as  the  burden  of  the  war 
became  more  heavy  as  it  continued  in  dura- 
tion, these  two  causes  of  suffering  worked  the 
discontent  of  the  people  up  to  perfect  fury." — 
100,  Kll. 

'J'lie  universal  discontent  at  the  new  constt 
tution  broke  out  into  open  expressions  of  de 
testation,  when  the  king,  liberated  from  the 
grasp  of  Napoleon,  entered  Sp.iin  in  1814. 

"The  king  entered  Spjiin  in  the  midst  of  the 
transports  of  public  joy  at  his  deliverance,  and 
advanced  to  ValeiuMa,  where  he  was  pro- 
claimed by  the  army  under  General  Elio. 

"  From  the  frontiers  to  Valencia,  Ferdinand 
heard  nothing  but  one  continued  anathema  and 
malediction  against  the  constitution.  From 
all  sides  he  received  petitions,  memorials,  ad- 
dresses, in  which  lie  was  besought  to  annul 
what  had  been  done  during  his  captivity,  and 
to  reign  over  Spain  as  his  fathers  had  reigned. 
There  was  not  a  village  through  which  he 
passed  which  did  not  express  a  similar  wish, 
subscribed  by  men  of  all  ranks,  and  even  by 
the  members  of  the  municipalities  created  bv 


282 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAFS. 


the  constitution.  The  army  held  the  same 
langiiagre ;  and  those  who  had  shed  their  blood 
for  the  ^defence  of  the  throne,  demanded,  with 
loud  cries,  'that  the  throne  should  be  pre- 
served pure,  and  without  spot;  and  that,  as 
formerly,  it^should  be  powerful,  firm,  and  ho- 
noured.' 

"The  minority  of  the  Cortes  joined  their 
voice  to  the  many  others  which  met  the  king's 
ears,  and  presented  the  same  wishes  and  peti- 
tions. These  members  with  that  view  signed 
a  petition,  since  well  known  under  the  name 
of  the  Protestation  of  the  Fathers.  Sixty-nine 
deputies,  named  by  the  constitution,  suppli- 
cated the  king  to  destroy  the  act  to  which  all 
classes  had  so  recently  been  bound  by  a  so- 
lemn oath."— L  107—109. 

The  result  of  this  unanimous  feeling  was 
the  famous  decree  of  Valencia  of  May  6, 1814, 
by  which  the  monarch  annulled  the  constitu- 
tion which  he  had  recently  accepted  in  exile. 
The  Cortes  made  several  eftorts  to  resist  the 
change,  but  the  public  indignation  over- 
whelmed them  all. 

"  Resistance  to  the  royal  edict  was  speedily 
found  to  be  a  chimera.  The  torrent  accumu- 
lated as  it  advanced,  and  no  person  in  the 
state  was  able  to  stand  against  it.  After  the 
publication  of  the  Edict  of  Valencia,  the  king 
marched  to  Madrid ;  and  he  found,  wherever 
he  went,  the  people  in  a  state  of  insurrection 
against  the  constitutional  authorities,  the  pil- 
lars of  the  constitution  overturned  and  broken, 
and  the  absolute  king  proclaimed.  Everywhere 
the  soldiers,  sent  by  the  Cortes  to  restrain  the 
transports  of  the  people,  joined  their  acclama- 
tions to  theirs.  It  was  in  the  midst  of  that 
cortege,  which  was  swelled  by  the  population 
of  ev-,ry  village  through  which  he  passed,  that 
Ferdinand  traversed  the  space  between  Va- 
lencia and  Madrid  ;  and  it  was  surrounded  by 
a  population  more  ardent  and  impassioned 
even  than  that  of  the  13th  May,  that  he  made 
one  of  those  memorable  entries  into  his  capi- 
tal which  seemed  to  promise  a  long  and  tran- 
quil futurity. 

"Thus  fell  this  imprudent  and  ephemeral 
constitution,  cradled  amidst  troiTbles  and  war, 
prepared  without  reflection,  discussed  without 
freedom,  founded  on  opinions  and  sentiments 
which  were  strangers  to  the  soil,  applied  to  a 
people  for  whom  it  was  neither  made  nor 
adapted,  and  which  could  not  survive  the  cri- 
sis in  which  it  had  been  conceived."— I  120 
121.  ' 

Thus  terminated  the  first  act  of  this  unhap- 
py drama.  From  the  rash  and  absurd  inno- 
vations, the  democratic  invasions  and  total 
destruction  of  the  old  form  of  government,  by 
the  revolutionary  party,  the  maintenance  e'ven 
of  moderate  and  regulated  freedom  had  become 
impossible.  In  two  years  the  usual  career  of 
revolution  had  been  run ;  liberty  had  perished 
under  the  frantic  innovations  of  its  own  sup- 
porters ;  it's  excesses  were  felt  to  be  more 
formidable  than  the  despotism  of  absolute 
power,  and  for  shelter  from  a  host  of  vulgar 
tyrants,  the  people  ran  to  the  shadow  of  Vhe 
throne. 

The  cruel  and  unjustifiable  use  which  the 
absolute  monarch  made  of  this  violent  reac- 


tion in  favour  of  monarchical  institutions,  the 
base  ingratitude  which  he  evinced  to  the  popu- 
lar supporters  of  his  throne  during  his  exile, 
and  the  enormous  iniquities  which  were  prac 
tised  upon  the  fallen  party  of  the  liberals,  are 
universally  known.  These  excesses  gave  ths 
revolutionary  party  too  good  reason  to  com- 
plain  ;  they  pointed  out  in  clear  colours  the 
perils  of  unfettered  power;  they  awakened  the 
sympathies  of  the  young  and  the  generous  in 
every  part  of  the  world,  in  favour  of  the  un- 
happy victims  of  regal  vengeance,  whose 
blood  was  shed  on  the  scaffold,  or  who  were 
languishing  in  captivity  ;  and  therefore,  if  any 
events  could  do  so,  they  left  a  fair  field  for  the 
efforts  of  the  constitutional  party.  Yet,  even 
with  such  advantages,  and  the  immense  addi- 
tion of  power  consequent  on  the  defection  of 
the  army,  the  revolutionary  party,  after  being 
again  called  to  the  helm  of  affairs,  again  pe- 
rished under  the  weight  of  their  own  revolu- 
tionary passions  and  absurd  innovations. 

The  events  which  soon  followed ;  the  insur- 
rection of  Riego,  the  revolt  of  the  troops  as- 
sembled in  the  Island  of  Leon  for  the  South 
American  expedition  in  1820,  and  the  compul- 
sory acceptance  of  the  democratic  constitution 
of  1812  by  the  absolute  king,  are  familiar  to 
all  our  readers.  The  effects  of  this  complete 
and  bloodless  triumph  of  democracy  are  what 
chiefly  concern  the  people  of  this  country,  and 
they  are  painted  in  lucid  colours  by  our  author. 

"  As  soon  as  the  constitution  had  been  ac- 
cepted of  by  the  king,  its  establishment  expe- 
rienced no  serious  resistance  in  the  kingdom. 
The  great  nobles,  accustomed  to  follow  the  or- 
ders of  a  master,  hesitated  not  to  follow  his 
example.  In  the  principal  towns,  all  those  en- 
gaged in  commerce,  industry,  and  the  liberal 
professions,  testified  their  adherence  with  the 
most  lively  satisfaction.  The  army  expressed 
its  devotion  to  the  constitutional  standard 
which  it  had  erected,  and  evinced  its  determi- 
nation to  support  it  by  the  formidable  weapons 
of  force.  The  needy  and  idle  ;  all  Avho  were 
bankrupt,  in  labouring  circumstances,  or  des- 
titute of  the  industrious  habits  necessary  to 
secure  a  subsistence,  flew  with  avidity  to  the 
support  of  a  system,  which  promised  them  the 
spoils  of  the  state.  The  dignified  clergy  and 
the  monks  beheld  with  grief  the  triumph  of  the 
theories  which  they  condemned ;  but  neverthe- 
less they  obeyed  in  silence.  The  magistracy 
followed  their  example.  As  to  the  people  pro- 
perly so  called,  that  is  to  say,  the  industrious 
inhabitants  of  the  towns,  the  peaceable  culti- 
vators of  the  fields,  they  regarded  the  change 
with  disquietude  and  distrust,  took  no  active 
share  in  promoting  it,  and  awaited  the  course 
of  events  to  decide  their  judgment." — I.  203. 

The  usual  effects  of  democratic  ascendency 
were  not  long  in  proclaiming  themselves. 

"  The  sixty-nine  deputies  of  the  old  Cortes, 
who  had  signed  the  address  to  the  king  recom- 
mending the  overthrow  of  the  constitution, 
were  everywhere  arrested  and  thrown  into 
pi'ison.  This  was  the  first  indication  of  what 
the  constitutionalists  understood  by  the  am- 
nesty which  they  had  proclaimed. 

"  Whilst  at  Madrid,  the  royal  government,  de« 
prived  of  all  moral   force,  feebly   struggled 


THE  SPAMSH  REVOLUTIOX  OF    1320. 


283 


against  the  popular  power,  -which  had  arisen 
by  its  side  ;  whilst  the  patriotic  societies  over- 
turned or  displaced  the  local  authorities,  in- 
sulted the  raajesty  of  the  throne  and  the  royal 
authority,  preached  license  and  proclaimed 
disorder;  whilst  violence  was  organized,  and 
anarchy  systematically  constituted,  the  pro- 
vinces did  not  alFord  a  more  cheering  ex- 
ample, and  in  that  circle  of  fire  into  which 
Spain  was  now  resolved,  the  extremities  show- 
ed themselves  not  less  inflamed  than  the  centre. 
There  could  be  discerned,  by  the  prophetic  e3-es 
of  wisdom,  the  black  speck  which  was  soon  to 
enlarge  and  overwhelm  the  kingdom  with  the 
horrors  of  civil  war. 

"In  a  great  proportion  of  the  provinces, 
separate  juntas  were  formed,  while  some  dis- 
regarded alike  the  authority  of  government 
and  that  of  the  supreme  assembly.  Each  of 
these  assemblies  deliberated,  interpreted,  acted 
according  to  the  disposition  of  the  majority  of 
its  members,  and  no  central  authority  felt  it- 
self sufficiently  strong  to  venture  to  subject  to 
any  common  yoke  the  local  parliaments,  each 
of  which,  iu  its  own  little  sphere,  had  more 
influence  than  the  central  alone  possessed." — 
I.  211. 

Amidst  the  general  transports  of  the  revolu- 
tionary party  at  this  unexpected  change,  the 
usual  and  invariable  attendant  or  revolution- 
ary convulsions,  embarrassments  of  finnnre,  werr; 
soon  experienced.  The  way  in  which  this  un- 
dying load  precipitated  the  usual  consequences 
of  revolutionary  triumph,  national  bankrupt- 
cy, and  a  confiscation  of  the  property  of  the 
church,  is  thus  detailed: — 

"No  sooner  was  the  new  Cortes  installed, 
than  numerous  and  important  cares  occupied 
their  attention.  Of  these,  the  most  pressing 
was  the  state  cf  the  fino.nccs.  Disinterestedness 
is  not  in  general  the  distinctive  character  of 
the  leaders  of  party,  and  the  countries  deliv- 
ered by  revolutions  usually  arc  not  long  of 
discovering  what  it  has  cost  them.  In  vain 
the  ministry,  in  vain  the  Cortes,  terrified  at //ir 
dnilij  inrrriitiiig  ihfu  it  in  the  puhlic  trcii<ivry,  and 
the  absence  of  all  resources  to  supply  it, 
sought  to  reduce,  by  economical  reductions, 
those  charges  which  the  slate  could  evidently 
no  loni;<T  support.  While  reductions  were 
cfTected  in  one  quarter,  acMltional  (thargcs 
multiplied  in  another.  All  those  who  could 
make  out  the  shadow  of  a  claim  of  loss  arising 
from  the  arbitrary  government ;  all  those  whose 
hands  had  touched,  to  raise  it  up,  the  pillar  of 
the  constitution,  had  restitutions  or  indemnilios 
to  claim,  with, nit  prejudice  to  arrears,  and  new 
places  to  demand.  Refusal  was  out  of  the 
question  ;  for  it  would  have  been  considered  as 
a  denial  of  justice,  an  act  of  ingratitude,  a 
proof  of  servility,  .'hn'uht  the  puhlir  transports 
the  revenue  was  iurr.^sanlh/  i;oini^  f/oicii." 

It  became  absolutely  itidispcnsable,  there- 
fore, to  provide  new  resources ;  but  where  was 
a  government  to  find  them,  destitute  of  credit, 
in  a  country  without  industry  and  without  com- 
merce 1  The  expedient  of  a  patriotic  loan  was 
tried,  hut  that  immediately  and  totally  failed. 
The  patriots  all  expected  to  receive,  not  to  be 
tailed  upon  to  give  money  to  government.  Re- 
^iourse  was  then,  from  sheer  necessity,  had  to 


the  most  fatal  of  all  measures, — to  one  of  those 
which  at  once  ruin  the  present,  and  destroy  all 
prospects  for  the  future.  They  made  a  separa- 
tion between  all  arrears,  or  existing  debt,  and 
the  current  expenses  of  the  year,  and  appro* 
priated  to  this  last  the  whole  revenue  of  the  st(tte,— 
that  is  to  say,  they  proclaimed  public  bank- 
ruptc}'  as  to  the  national  debt,  and  thus  inflicted 
on  public  and  private  credit  one  of  those  mor 
tal  stabs  from  which  they  never  recover. 

"Having  thus  got  quit  of  the  debt,  the  next 
object  was  to  bring  up  the  income  to  the  ex- 
penditure of  the  year.  For  this  purpose,  they 
re-established  the  direct  and  burdensome  land-tax, 
which  had  been  abandoned  on  the  restoration 
of  royalty,  in  18M,  and  created  various  new 
taxes,  most  of  which,  from  their  extreme  unpo- 
pularity, they  were  soon  compelled  to  abandon. 

"  They  next  established  on  the  frontier  a  line 
of  custom-houses,  with  a  rigour  of  prohibition 
Avhich  could  hardlj''  be  conceived  in  an  indus- 
trious country,  which  was  unintelligible  in 
Spain,  and  Avas  speedily  followed  by  the  esta- 
blishment, on  the  frontier,  of  a  system  of 
smuggling,  the  most  vast  and  organized  that 
ever  existed. 

"  Finally,  they  abolished  the  tithes  and  feudal 
tenths,  but  established  the  half  of  them  for  the 
sei-vire  of  the  state.  This  was  immediately  at 
tended  with  the  worst  eflects.  The  ecclesias 
tical  tithe  was  the  burden,  of  all  others,  which 
Tvas  most  regularly  and  cheerfully  paid  in 
Spain,  because  the  people  were  accustomed  to 
it,  and  they  conceived  that,  in  paying  it,  they 
discharged  at  once  a  legal  obligr.tion  and  a 
debt  of  conscience ;  but  when  it  was  converted 
into  a  burden  merely  available  to  the  ordinary 
wants  of  the  state,  it  was  no  longer  regarded 
in  that  light,  but  as  an  odious  charge,  and  its 
collection  was  instantiv  exposed  to  the  increas- 
ing embarrassments  of  the  other  imposts. 

"At  the  time  that  they  voted  these  difTerent 
financial  expedients,  their  total  inadequacy 
was  obvious  to  the  most  inconsiderate;  and  it 
soon  became  evident  that  additional  resources 
were  unaToidablc."— I.  2.30,  2.31. 

Thus  the  first  elfecl  of  the  triumph  of  revo 
lution  in  Spain,  was  the  imposition  of  a  heavy 
income-tax,  the  destruction  of  the  public  debt,  and 
the  confisrntioH  of  tithes,  and  a  large  portion  of  the 
land  rii;hts  of  the  hinsdom,  to  the  service  of  the 
treasury.  One  simple  and  irresistible  cause 
produced  these  eflects, — the  failure  of  the  re- 
venue,— invariably  consequent  on  the  suspen- 
sion of  industry,  the  failure  of  credit,  and  con- 
traction of  oxpeudilurr,  which  result  iVom 
popular  triumph.  , 

The  rapid  progress  of  innovation  iu  every 
other  department,  in  consequence  of  the  re-es- 
tablishment of  the  democratic  constitution, 
speedily  unhinged  all  the  institutions  of  society. 
Its  cflect  is  thus  detailed  by  our  author: — 

"  Independent  of  the  financial  measures  ot 
which  I  have  given  an  account,  and  whick 
were  .ittended  with  .so  little  good  cfi"ect.  the 
Corles  were  occupied  with  innumerable  pro- 
jects of  reform  in  legislation,  adminislrilion, 
and  police,  so  numcrou'J,  that  it  is  impossible 
to  give  any  account  of  them.  Devoured  with 
the  passion  for  destruction,  and  but  little  so 
licitous   about  restoring  with   prudence,  tbt) 


284 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


ardent  friends  of  refonn  did  not  allow  a  single 
day  to  pass  M-ithout  denouncing  some  abuse, 
>  declainiin"'  ag:ainst  some  remnants  of  despo- 
tism aiul  "arbitrary  power.  Projects  of  laws 
succeeded  each  other  without  interruption ; 
and  as  every  one  of  these  projects  was  held  to 
be  an  incontestible  and  urgent  necessity,  and  to 
hesitate  as  to  it  would  have  been  apparently  to 
call  in  question  the  principles  of  the  Revolu- 
tion, and  evince  a  certain  mark  of  aversion 
for  the  supremacy  of  the  people,  not  one  of 
them  was  either  adjourned  or  rejected.  Innu- 
merable commissions  were  established  to  ex- 
amine the  projects  of  innovation ;  reports 
made ;  laws  discussed  and  voted ;  and  the  old 
legislation  of  the  kingdom  daily  crumbled  into 
dust,  without  a  single  individual  in  the  country 
having  either  the  time  to  read,  or  an  opportu- 
nity to  consider  the  innumerable  institutions 
which  were  daily  substituted,  instead  of  those 
which  had  formerly  existed." — I.  235. 

Alt  tliese  projects  of  reform,  however,  and 
all  this  vast  confiscation  of  property,  both 
ecclesiastical  and  civil,  could  not  supply  the 
continually  increasing  deficit  of  the  treasury. 
Another,  and  still  greater  revolutionarj^  con- 
fiscation awaited  the  state,  and  to  this,  invin- 
cible necessity  speedily  led. 

"  From  the  commencement  of  the  next  ses- 
sion of  the  Cortes,  measures  had  been  taken  to 
facilitate  the  secularization  of  the  religious 
orders  of  both  sexes ;  and  many  of  them  had 
already  left  their  retreats,  and  rejoined  their 
friends  in  the  world. 

"At  length  matters  came  to  a  crisis.  On 
the  proposition  of  Colonel  Sancho,  a  law  was 
passed,  which  confiscated  the  ichole  properly  of  the 
regular  clergy  to  the  service  of  the  state.  This  law, 
adopted  by  the  Cortes,  was  submitted  to  the 
royal  sanction.  The  king  evinced  the  utmost 
repugnance  to  a  measure  so  directly  subversive 
of  all  the  religious  opinions  in  which  he  had 
been  educated.  Terrified  at  this  resistance, 
with  which  they  had  not  laid  their  account,  the 
revolutionary  party  had  recourse  to  one  of 
those  methods  which  nothing  can  either  au- 
thorize or  justify,  and  for  which  success  can 
offer  no  excuse. 

"  Convinced  that  they  could  obtain  only  by 
terror  what  was  refused  to  solicitation,  they 
took  the  resolution  to  excite  a  popular  sedition, 
organize  a  revolt,  and  excite  a  tumult  to  over- 
come the  firmness  of  the  king.  For  this  pur- 
pose, they  entered  into  communication  with  the 
runners  of  the  revolutionary  party,  took  into 
their  confidence  the  leading  orators  of  the 
clubs,  and  concerted  measures  in  particular 
with  the  banker,  Ikrtrand  du  Lys,  who  had 
always  at  his  command  a  band  of  adventurers, 
ready  to  go  wherever  disorder  was  to  be  com- 
mitted. 

"The  signal  was  given.  The  mobs  assem- 
bled: Bands  of  vociferating  wretches  traversed 
the  public  streets,  uttering  frightful  cries,  and 
directing  their  steps  to  the  arsenal.  A  slight 
demonstration  of  resistance  was  made ;  but  the 
report  was  speedily  spread  that  the  troops 
were  unable  to  make  head  against  the  contin- 
laliy  increasing  mass  of  the  insurgents,  and 
that  the  life  of  the  king  was  seriously  menaced. 
The  ministers  presented  themselves  in  that  cri- 


tical moment;  they  renewed  their  instances, 
spoke  of  the  public  peace,  order,  and  the  life  of 
the  king,  for  which  they  declared  they  could  not 
answer,  if  the  public  demands  were  refused  • 
and  finally  drew  from  him  a  reluctant  consent 
to  the  measure  of  spoliation. 

"  This  success,  so  dearly  bought,  was  by  no 
means  attended  with  the  good  effects  which  had 
been  anticipated  from  it.  The  people  would 
have  seen,  without  dissatisfaction,  a  share  of 
the  public  burdens  borne  by  the  ecclesiastical 
body;  but  a  total  abolition,  an  entire  extinction 
of  their  property,  appeared  to  them  a  cruel 
persecution,  a  work  of  heresy  and  impiety,  the 
horror  of  which  reacted  on  all  the  measures 
which  had  the  same  origin. 

"The  revolutionary  party  might  have  borne 
all  the  unpopularity  which  that  exorbitant 
measure  occasioned,  if  it  had  been  attended 
with  the  immense  consequences  which  had 
been  anticipated  in  relieving  the  finances  ;  but 
in  that  particular  also,  all  their  hopes  proved 
fallacious.  The  property  of  the  clergy,  wherx 
exposed  to  sale,  found  few  purchasers.  The 
known  opposition  of  the  Holy  See,  the  exas* 
peration  of  the  people,  the  dread  of  a  revolu- 
tion :  all  these  circumstances  rendered  the 
measure  perfectly  abortive,  and  caused  it  to 
add  nothing  to  the  resources  of  the  treasury." — 
L  247—249. 

This  is  the  usual  progress  of  revolutionary 
movements.  Terror!  terror !  terror!  That  is 
the  engine  which  they  unceasingly  put  in  force : 
Insurrections,  mobs,  tumults,  the  means  of 
obtaining  their  demands,  which  they  never  fail 
to  adopt.  Demonstrations  of  physical  strength, 
public  meetings,  processions,  and  all  the  other 
methods  of  displaying  their  numbers,  are  no- 
thing but  the  means  of  showing  the  opponents 
of  their  measures  the  fate  which  awaits  them, 
if  they  protract  their  resistance  bej'ond  a  cer- 
tain point.  Force  is  their  continual  argument ; 
the  logic  of  brickbats  and  stones ;  the  perspec- 
tive of  scatfolds  and  guillotines,  their  never- 
failing  resource.  Confiscation  of  the  property 
of  others,  the  expedients  to  which  they  always 
have  recourse  to  supply  the  chasms  Avhich  the 
disorganization  of  society  and  the  dread  of 
spoliation  have  occasioned  in  the  public 
revenue. 

The  usual  leprosy  of  revolutionary  convul- 
sions, Jacobin  societies,  and  democratic  clubs, 
were  not  long  of  manifesting  themselves  in 
this  unhappy  country. 

"  On  all  sides,  secret  societies  were  formed, 
whose  statutes  and  oaths  evinced  but  too 
clearly  the  objects  which  they  had  in  viev/. 
Besides  the  freemasons,  who  had  long  been 
established,  a  club  was  formed  which  took  the 
title  of  Confederation  of  Comnwn  Chevaliers, 
and  declared  themselves  the  champions  of  the 
perfect  equality  of  the  human  race,  and  eman- 
cipated themselves  in  the  very  outset  from  all 
the  restraints  of  philanthropy  and  moderation. 
To  judge,  to  condemn,  and  to  execute  every  in- 
dividual whatsoever,  without  excepting  the 
king  and  his  successors,  if  they  abused  their 
authority,  was  one  of  the  engagements,  a  part 
of  the  oath  which  they  took  on  entering  into 
the  society." 
"  On  the  side  of  these  secret  societies  oluba 


THE  SPANISH  REVOLUTION  OF  1820. 


285 


rapidly  arose,  ■n-hich  soon  became  powerful 
and  active  auxiliaries  of  anarch)',  wherever  it 
appeared.  The  most  tumultuous  and  danger- 
ous of  these  was  the  Coffee-house  of  the  Cross 
of  Malta.  There,  and  for  long,  the  king  was 
daily  exposed  to  insult  and  derision,  u-ilhout  his 
ministers  ever  taking  the  smallest  step  to  put  an  end 
to  a  scene  nf  scandal,  with  which  all  loyal  sub- 
jects in  the  rea.m  were  horrorstruck.  They 
hoped  by  thus  abandoning  the  royal  prey  to 
his  pursuers,  to  escape  themselves  from  the 
fury  of  party;  but  their  expectations  were 
cruelly  deceived.  Public  indignation  speedily 
assailed  them ;  the  bitterest  reproaches  were 
daily  addressed  to  them.  All  their  disgraceful 
transactions,  all  the  revolts  the)'  had  prepared 
to  overawe  the  sovereign,  were  recounted  and 
exaggerated.  The  transports  of  indignation 
were  so  violent,  that  soon  they  were  compelled 
to  close  this  club,  to  save  themselves  from  in- 
stant destruction." — I.  261,  262. 

The  Spanish  Revolution  was  fast  hastening 
to  that  deplorable  result,  a  Reign  of  Terror,  the 
natural  consequence  of  democratic  ascendency, 
when  its  course  was  cut  short  by  the  French 
invasion,  under  the  Duke  d'Angoulcme.  The 
details  on  this  subject  are  perfectly  new,  and 
in  the  highest  degree  instructive  to  the  British 
public. 

"  For  long  the  revolutionary  party  had  borne 
with  manifest  repugnance  the  system  of  mo- 
deration which  the  government  had  adopted, 
and  the  majority  of  the  Cortes  had  supported, 
during  the  last  session.  That  party  proceeded 
on  the  principle,  that  terror  alone  could  over- 
av^'e  the  enemies  of  the  Revolution,  and  that 
nothing  was  to  be  gained  with  them  by  mo- 
deration in  language  or  indulgence  in  action. 
It  saw  no  chance  of  safety,  but  in  a  system  of 
terror  powerfully  organized.  The  catastrophe 
of  Naples,  the  submission  of  Piedmont,  tlio  re- 
pression of  the  insurrection  attempted  in 
France,  furnished  them  with  a  favourable  op- 
portunity to  renew  their  efforts  ;  and  from  the 
reception  which  it  then  met  with,  it  was  evi- 
dent that  the  taste  for  blood  was  beginning  to 
manifp^t  itself  among  the  people. 

"  While  things  were  taking  this  direction  at 
Madrid,  and  the  people  were  awaiting  with  a 
somhr*'  disquietude  the  measures  which  wf-rc 
in  preparation,  the  Reign  of  Terror  and  Vio- 
]cr.zr  had  already  commenced  in  the  pnivinces, 
by  the  ciFccts  of  the  supreme  pnpiilnr  will,  and 
the  progress  of  anarchy  in  every  part  of  the 
kingdom. 

"  Individuals  of  every  age  and  sex  were 
arresti'd  and  imprisoned,  without  the  warrant 
of  any  of  the  constituted  authorities,  by  men 
without  a  public  character,  on  the  mere  orders 
of  the  chiefs  of  the  revolutionary  party,  who 
thus  usurped  tlic  most  important  functions  of 
goveniment.  They  threw  the  individuals  thus 
collected  together  into  the  first  vessels  which 
were  at  hand,  or  could  be  found  in  any  of  the 
ports  of  the  kiiigilom,  and  Iransprntnl  them,  some 
to  tiie  Balearic,  others  to  the  Canary  Islands, 
according  to  the  caprice  of  the  revolutionary 
rulers. 

"  This  is  perhaps  the  event  of  all  others  in 
'he  histor)'  of  modern  revolutions,  so  fertile  in 
crimes,  which  excites,  if  not  the  greatest  hor- 


ror, at  least  the  greatest  surprise  :  nothing  can 
give  a  better  idea  of  the  true  spirit  of  anarchy. 
Nothing  was  here  done  in  disorder,  or  in  one 
of  those  moments  when  the  exaltation  or  de- 
lirium of  the  moment  has  become  impossible 
to  repress.  It  was  calmly,  with  reflection,  at 
leisure,  and  with  the  aid  of  numbers,  who  were 
ignorant  of  the  spirit  which  ruled  the  move- 
ment, that  they  imprisoned,  led  forth  from 
prison,  tiirust  on  board  vessels,  and  despatched 
for  a  distant  destination,  a  multitude  of  citi- 
zens, proprietors,  fathers  of  famikes,  whom  no 
law  had  condemned,  no  trial  proved  guilty; 
and  all  this  by  the  means,  and  under  the  orders 
of  a  body  of  men  who  had  no  preten.sions  to 
any  legal  authority. 

"  These  acts  were  committed  in  open  day, 
at  the  same  time  at  Barcelona,  at  Valencia,  at 
Corunna,  and  Carthagena.  This  was  anarchy 
in  unbridled  sovereignty  ;  and  let  us  see  what 
the  legal  authorities  did  to  punish  a  series  of 
acts  so  fatal  to  their  influence,  and  of  such 
ruinous  example  in  a  country  already  devour 
ed  by  revolutionary  passions. 

"The  government  was  informed  of  all  that 
passed;  the  facts  were  public  and  incontest- 
able ;  they  were  acted  in  the  face  of  day,  in 
the  face  of  the  entire  population  of  cities.  No 
prosecution  was  directed  against  the  crimi- 
nals; no  punishment  was  pronounced;  no 
example  was  given.  A  few  inferior  function- 
aries, who  had  aided  in  the  atrocious  acts 
were  deprived  of  their  situations,  and  orders 
secretly  despatched  for  the  clandestine  recall 
of  the  exiles.  Such  was  the  sole  reparation 
made  for  an  injuiy  which  shook  the  social 
edifice  to  its  foundation,  and  trampled  tinder 
foot  all  the  rights  and  liberties  of  the  citizens." 
—I.  287—290. 

The  famous  massacres  in  the  prison  on 
September  2,  1792,  did  not  fail  to  find  their 
imitators  among  the  Spanish  revolutionists. 
The  following  anecdote  shows  how  precisely 
similar  the  democratic  spirit  is  in  its  tendency 
and  cfTecIs  in  all  ages  and  parts  of  the  world. 

"A  priest,  a  chaplain  of  the  king,  Don  Ma 
thias  Vinucsa,  was  accused  of  having  formed 
the  plan  of  a  counter-revolution.  This  absurd 
design,  which  he  had  had  the  imprudence  to 
publish,  was  easily  discovered,  and  Vinuesa 
was  arrested  and  brought  to  trial.  The  law 
punished  every  attempt  of  this  description 
which  had  not  yet  been  put  into  c.vccution, 
with  the  galleys,  and  Vinuesa  was,  in  virtue 
of  this  statute,  condemned  to  ten  years  of  hard 
labour  in  those  dreary  abodes.  This  sentence, 
of  a  kind  to  satisfy  the  most  ardent  passions, 
was  the  highest  whieh  the  law  would  author- 
ize;  but  it  was  very  far  indeed  from  coming 
up  to  the  wishes  of  the  revolutionary  clnbs. 

"On  the  4lh  May,  two  days  after  the  con- 
demnation of  the  prisoner,  a  crowded  meeting 
look  place  at  the  gale  of  the  Sim,  in  open  day, 
when  a  mock  trial  took  place,  and  the  priest 
was  by  the  club  legislators  condemned  (o 
death.  It  was  agreed  that  the  judges  should 
themselves  execute  the  sentence,  and  that 
measure  was  resolved  on  amidst  loud  accia 
mations.  Having  resolved  on  this,  they  quiet- 
ly took  their  siesta,  and  at  the  appointed  hour 
proceeded  to  carry  it  into  execution,  without 


J8C 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


the  lejal  authorities  taking  the  slightest  step 
to  prevent  the  outrage. 

"At  four  o'clock  the  mob  reassembled,  and 
proceeded  straight  to  the  prison  doors.  No 
one  opposed  their  tumultuous  array ;  they  pre- 
cented  themselves  at  the  gate,  and  announced 
their  mission.  Ten  soldiers,  who  formed  the 
ordinary  guard  of  the  prison,  made,  for  a  few 
minutes,  a  shadow  of  i-esistance,  which  gave 
no  sort  of  trouble  to  the  assailants.  The  bar- 
riers were  speedily  broken ;  the  conquerors 
inundated  the  prison  ;  with  hurried  steps  they 
sought  the  cell  where  the  condemned  priest 
was  confined,  and  instantly  broke  open  the 
door.  The  priest  appeared  with  a  crucifix  in 
his  hand;  he  fell  at  their  feet,  and  in  the  name 
of  the  God  of  mercy,  whose  image  he  present- 
ed, besought  them  to  spare  his  life.  Vain  at- 
tempt ! — to  breasts  which  acknowledged  no 
religion,  felt  no  pity,  what  availed  the  image 
of  God  who  died  to  save  us.  One  of  the  judges 
of  the  gate  of  the  Sun  advanced.  He  was 
armed  with  a  large  hammer,  and  struck  a 
severe  blow  at  the  head  bowed  at  his  feet. 
The  victim  fell,  and  a  thousand  strokes  soon 
completed  the  work  of  death.  Blood  has 
flowed,  the  victim  is  no  more. 

''  But  the  head  which  that  hammer  had  slain, 
could  not  sutfice  for  the  murderers.  Besides 
the  criminal  there  remained  the  judge.  He 
also  was  condemned  to  die,  for  having  only 
applied  the  existing  law,  and  not  foreseen  the 
judgment  which  the  tribunal  of  the  Sun  was 
to  pass  on  the  criminaL  The  assassins  made 
straight  to  his  house,  amidst  cries  of 'Death 
to  the  traitors.  Long  live  the  constitution !' 
They  traversed  the  town,  and  arrived  at  the 
house  of  the  judge ;  five  men  with  drawn 
swords  entered  the  house,  after  placing  senti- 
nels around  it,  to  prevent  the  possibility  of 
escape.  But  Heaven  did  not  permit  that  new 
murder  to  be  committed.  The  judge,  informed 
of  what  was  going  forward,  had  fled,  in  the 
interval  between  the  first  judgment  and  execu- 
tion, and  the  murderers,  after  covering  him 
with  execrations,  dispersed  themselves  through 
the  town  to  recount  their  exploits,  and  dwell 
with  exultation  on  the  commencement  of  the 
reign  of  terror. 

"In  the  evening,  the  clubs  resounded  with 
acclamations,  and  the  expressions  of  the  most 
intoxicating  joy;  and  popular  songs  were 
composed  and  published,  celebrating  the  first 
triumph  of  popular  justice.  No  one  ventured 
to  hint  at  punishing  the  criminals.  A  few  in- 
sulated individuals  ventured  to  condemn  them ; 
a  thousand  voices  rose  to  applaud  and  defend 
them.  The  press  joined  its  powerful  eflforts 
to  celebrate  that  memorable  day;  and,  in  fine, 
to  commemorate  the  public  exultation,  a  sort 
of  monument  was  erected  to  perpetuate  its  re- 
collection. Vinuesa  had  fallen  under  the  blows 
of  a  hammer;  his  murderers,  and  their  pro- 
tectors, created  a  decoration,  and  instituted  a 
sort  of  order,  called  the  order  nf  the  hammer. 
The  ensigns  of  this  new  honour  "were  speedily 
fabricated ;  they  consisted  in  a  little  hammer 
of  iron,  made  in  imitation  of  that  which  had 
struck  the  fatal  blow.  The  new  chevaliers 
proudly  decorated  their  bosoms  with  the  in- 
signia.   It  bore  an  inscription,  which,  when 


divested  of  revolutionary  jargon,  amounted  to 
this  :  '  On  the  4th  May,  1821,  four  or  five  hun 
dred  men  murdered  in  prison  an  old  priest, 
who  implored  their  pity.  Behold  and  honoul 
one  of  the  assassins.'  "— L  297—299. 

The  gradual  decline  of  the  moderate  party 
under  the  increasing  fervour  of  the  times,  and 
their  final  extinction  in  the  Cortes,  under  the 
incessant  attacks,  and  irresistible  majorities 
of  the  revolutionists,  is  thus  narrated: — 

"  In  the  second  session,  it  was  no  longer 
possible  to  recognize  the  Cortes  of  the  first. 
They  were  the  same  individuals,  but  not  the 
same  legislators,  or  the  same  citizens.  Worn 
out  by  a  continual  struggle  with  men  whom 
nothing  could  either  arrest  or  discourage ;  dis- 
gusted with  discussions,  in  which  they  were 
always  interrupted  by  the  hisses  or  groans  of 
the  galleries ;  irritated  by  the  attempts  at  civil 
war  which  were  daily  renewed  in  the  pro- 
Aances ;  heated  by  the  burning  political  at- 
mosphere in  which  they  found  themselves 
immovably  enclosed;  the  moderate  deputies, 
who,  in  the  preceding  year,  Ijad  formed  the 
majority  of  the  Cortes  to  combat  the  forces  of 
anarchy,  gave  up  the  contest,  and  yielded  ivilhout 
opposition  to  whatever  was  demanded  of  them. 

"The  most  dangerous  enemies  of  the  public 
peace,  be}^ond  all  question,  were  the  Patriotic 
Societies.  There  it  was  that  all  heads  were 
exalted — that  all  principles  were  lost  amidst 
the  extravagancies  of  a  furious  democracy — 
that  all  sinister  projects  were  formed,  and  all 
criminal  designs  entertained.  A  wise  law,  the 
work  of  the  first  Cortes,  had  armed  govern- 
ment with  the  power  to  close  these  turbulent 
assemblies,  when  they  threatened  the  public 
tranquillity.  But  this  feeble  barrier  could  not 
long  resist  the  increasing  vehemence  of  the 
revolutionists.  A  law  ^vas  proposed,  and 
speedily  passed,  which  divested  government 
of  all  control  over  these  popular  societies.  It 
placed  these  agglomerations  of  fire  beyond  the 
reach  of  the  police — forbid  the  magistrates  to 
be  present  at  their  debates — substituted  inter- 
nal regulations  for  external  control — and,  in- 
stead of  any  real  check,  recognised  only  the 
'  elusory  responsibility  of  the  presidents.' 

"Never,  perhaps,  did  human  folly  to  such  a 
degree  favour  the  spirit  of  disorder,  or  so 
weakly  deliver  over  society  to  the  passions 
which  devoured  it.  Hardly  was  the  law 
passed,  when  numbers  who  had  been  carried 
away  by  the  public  outcry,  were  terrified  at 
the  work  of  their  own  hands,  and  looked  back 
with  horror  on  the  path  on  Avhich  they  had  ad- 
vanced, and  the  vantage  ground  which  they 
had  for  ever  abandoned/'— L  302,  303. 

"  The  clubs  were  not  slow  in  taking  advan- 
tage of  the  uncontrolled  power  thus  conceded 
to  them.  The  most  violent  of  their  organs, 
which  was  at  once  the  most  dangerous  and 
the  most  influential,  because  he  incessantly 
espoused  the  cause  of  spoliation,  Romero  Al- 
fuente,  published  a  pamphlet  full  of  the  most 
furious  ebullitions  of  revolutionary  zeal,  in 
which  he  divulged  a  pretended  conspiracy 
against  the  constitutional  system,  who^e  rami- 
fications, diverging  from  Madrid,  extended  into 
the  remotest  provinces  and  foreign  statesi 
The  plans,  the  resources,  the  names,  of  tut. 


THE  SPANISH  REVOLUTION  OF  1820. 


287 


conspirators,  -were  given  with  atTcctcd  accu- 
racy ;  nothing  was  omitted  which  could  give 
to  the  discovery  the  air  of  truth.  The  electric 
spark  is  not  more  rapid  in  communicating  its 
shock,  than  was  that  infamous  libel.  Never 
had  the  tribune  of  the  Club  of  the  Golden 
Fountain  resounded  with  such  menacing  and 
sanguinary  acclamations.  They  went  even  so 
far  as  to  sa}'  that  the  polilkal  atmosphere  eot'.ld  not 
be  purified  but  by  the  blood  of  fourteen  or  fifteen 
thousayid  inhabilants  of  Madrid." — I.  351,  352. 

"In  the  midst  of  these  ebullitions  of  revolu- 
tionary fury,  the  provinces  were  subjected  to 
the  most  cruel  excesses  of  anarchy.  At  Cadiz, 
Seville,  and  Murcia,  the  people  broke  out  into 
open  revolt ;  the  authorities  imposed  by  the 
Cortes  were  all  overthrown,  and  the  leaders  of 
the  insurrection  installed  in  their  stead.  All 
tlie  vigour  and  reputation  of  Mina  could  not 
prevent  the  same  catastrophe  at  Corunna.  He 
resigned  his  command,  and  Latre.  the  insurrec- 
tionarv  leader,  stepped  into  his  place.  Every- 
where the  authority  of  government,  and  of  the 
Central  Cort^,  was  disregarded ;  the  most  vio- 
lent revoluiionists  got  the  ascendant,  and  so- 
ciety was  fast  descending  towards  a  stale  of 
utter  dissolution. 

"All  these  disorders,  all  these  excesses,  found  in  flic 
capital  nunmvus  and  ardent  defenders.  The  press, 
in  particular,  everywhere  applauded  and  encou- 
raged the  anarchists;  it  incessantly  exalted  the 
demagogues,  for  whom  it  proudly  accepted  the 
title  of  Descajnisados,  (shirtless,)  and  for  Avhose 
excesses  it  found  ample  precedents  among  our 
Sans  Culottes.  It  condemned  to  contempt,  or 
marked  out  for  proscription,  all  the  wise  men 
who  yet  strove  to  uphold  the  remnants  of  the 
Spanish  monarchy.  Occupied  without  inter- 
mission in  detracting  from  all  the  attributes  of 
the  monarchical  power;  in  dragging  in  the  gut- 
ter the  robe  of  royalty,  in  order  to  hold  it  up  to 
the  people  covered  with  mire;  it  invented  for 
all  the  mnnarchs  of  Europe  the  most  calum- 
nious epithets  and  ridiculous  comparisons,  and 
ofTered  to  the  factious  of  every  state  in  Europe, 
whatever  their  designs  were,  the  succours  of 
their  devouring  influence." — I.  357,  358. 

"Three  evils,  in  an  especial  manner,  spread 
the  seeds  of  dissolution  over  this  agitated 
countr}',  and  spread  their  ramifications  with 
the  most  frightful  rapidity.  These  were  the 
press,  with  its  inexpressilde  violence,  and  its 
complete  impunity;  the  petitions  which  ren- 
dered the  tribune  of  the  Cortes  the  centre  <»f 
denunciations,  the  focus  of  calumny,  and  the 
arena  where  all  the  furious  passions  contended 
with  each  other;  in  fine,  the  licentiousness  of 
the  patriotic  societies,  where  the  public  peace 
was  every  day,  or  rather  every  night,  drlivcrcd 
up  to  the  fury  of  an  unbridled  d'-inocracy.  The 
Cortes  were  perfectly  aware  of  these  causes  of 
anarchy ;  they  had  openly  denounced  them, 
and  declared  their  intention  of  applying  a 
prompt  remedy.  Still  nothing  was  (lone,  nml 
the  Assembly  was  dissolved  without  having 
''one  anv  thing  to  close  so  many  fountains  of 
anarchy.'"— I.  377. 

One  would  imagine  that  the  accumulation  of 
Bo  many  evils  woi.'d  have  produced  a  reaction 
'.n  the  public  mind;  that  the  universal  anxiety, 
distress,  and  sufTeriug,  would  have  opened  the 


eyes  of  the  people  to  their  real  interests,  and 
the  pernicious  tendency  of  the  course  into 
which  they  had  been  precipitated  by  their  de- 
magogues; and  that  the  new  elections  would 
have  produced  a  majority  in  favour  of  the  pru- 
dent and  restraining  measures,  from  which 
alone  public  safety  could  be  expected.  The 
case,  however,  was  just  the  reverse  :  the  revo- 
lutionary party,  by  violence  and  intimidation, 
almost  everywhere  gained  the  ascendency; 
and  the  fatal  truth  soon  became  apparent,  that 
democratic  ambition  is  insatiable ;  that  it  is 
blind  to  all  the  lessons  of  experience,  and  deaf 
to  all  the  cries  of  suffering;  that  like  a  mad- 
dened horse,  it  rushes  headlong  down  the  pre- 
cipice, and  never  halts  in  its  furious  career 
till  it  has  involved  itself  and  public  freedom  in 
one  common  ruin. 

"  The  new  Cortes  commenced  its  labours 
under  the  most  sinister  auspices;  the  circum- 
stances under  which  the  electiorts  had  taken 
place  were  sufficient  to  justify  the  most  serious 
apprehensions. 

"The  elections  in  the  south  had  taken  place 
under  the  immediate  influence  and  actual  pre- 
sence of  open  rebellion.  At  Grenada,  the  peo- 
ple by  force  intruded  into  the  electoral  college, 
and  openly  overwhelmed  the  election ;  in  all 
the  provinces  of  the  north,  the  proprietors  had 
absented  themselves  from  the  elections,  from 
hatred  at  the  Revolution,  and  a  sense  of  inabil- 
ity to  restrain  its  excesses.  At  Madrid,  even, 
all  the  partisans  of  the  old  regime  had  been 
constrained  to  abstain  from  taking  any  part  in 
the  vote,  notwithstanding  the  undoubted  right 
which  the  amnesty  gave  them.  In  many 
places,  actual  violence ;  in  all,  menaces  were 
employed,  with  too  powerful  edect,  to  keep 
from  the  poll  all  persons  suspected  of  modera- 
tion in  their  principles. 

"  In  the  whole  new  Cortes  not  one  great  pro- 
prietor nor  one  bishop  was  to  be  found.  The 
whole  body  of  the  noblesse  was  represented 
only  by  two  or  three  tilled  but  unknown  men; 
the  clergy  by  a  few  curates  and  canons,  well 
known  for  the  lightness  with  which  the  re- 
straints of  faith  sat  upon  them.  Only  one 
grandee  of  Spain  was  to  be  found  there,  the 
Duke  did  Parfpie,  wh<i  had  abandoned  the  pa- 
lace of  the  Escurial  for  the  Club  of  the  Foun- 
tain of  Gold;  and  had  left  the  halls  of  his  king 
to  become  the  flatterer  of  the  people. 

"Among  the  new  deputies  great  numbers 
were  to  be  found  who  jiad  signalized  them- 
.selves  by  the  violence  of  their  opinions,  and 
the  spirit  of  vengeance  against  all  muderate 
men,  by  which  they  were  animated.  The  first 
measure  of  the  Cortes  was  to  elect  Riego  for 
president,  a  nomination  which  confirmed  the 
hopes  of  the  anarchist  party,  and  excited  every- 
where the  most  extravagant  joy  among  the  par- 
tisans of  the  Revolution."— I.  383.  384. 

As  the  other  insanities  and  atrocities  of  the 
French  Revolution  had  found  their  ailmirera 
and  imitators  in  Spain,  so  the  overthrow  of  the 
constitutional  throne  of  Louis  XVI.,  on  the  lOlh 
August,  1702.  was  followed  by  too  close  a  pa- 
ralfel  in  the  Spanish  monarchy. 

The  public  distress,  and  the  violence  of  the 
revolutionary  faction  in  every  part  of  the  king 
dom,  at  length  produced   a  reaction.    Civi. 


338 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


war  commenced  in  Aragon,  Catalonia,  and  An- 
dalusia, and  Sjjanish  blood  soon  dyed  every 
part  of  the  Peninsula.  The  crisis  which  this 
induced  at  Madrid,  which  finally  laid  the 
tlirone  prostrate  at  the  feet  of  the  Revolution- 
ists, is  thus  described : 

"  The  session  was  about  to  finish,  the  clos- 
ing was  fixed  for  the  30th  June,  1822.  Great 
fermentation  reigned  at  Madrid,  and  everv  one, 
without  being  able  to  account  for  it,  was  aware 
that  a  crisis  was  approaching. 

"  The  king  seated  himself  in  his  carriage,  af- 
ter closing  the  session.  Cries  of  '  Long  live 
the  constitutional  king,'  were  heard  on  all 
sides,  mingled,  in  feebler  notes,  with  the  cry  of 
'  Long  live  the  absolute  king.'  The  guards  re- 
pulsed with  violence  those  who  raised  inflam- 
mator}'  or  seditious  cries,  and  blood  already 
began  to  flow.  The  tumult  redoubled  at  the 
moment  that  the  king  descended  from  his  car- 
riage. The  guard  wished  to  disperse  it ;  they 
experienced  resistance,  and  had  recourse  to 
their  arms.  The  exasperation  was  extreme 
among  the  soldiers ;  one  of  their  officers, 
named  Landaburo,  desirous  of  restraining 
them,  was  insulted  by  his  own  men.  He  drew 
his  sabre,  but  speedily  fell,  shot  dead  by  a  mus- 
ket from  the  ranks. 

"Landaburo  was  the  son  of  a  merchant  at 
Cadiz,  and  well  known  for  his  liberal  opinions. 
His  death  became  instantly  a  party  affair,  and 
excited  to  the  last  degree  the  fur,y  of  all  those 
who  professed  the  same  principles.  The  mi- 
litia were  soon  under  arms ;  the  troops  of  the 
garrison  and  the  artillery  united  themselves  to 
their  colours ;  the'  whole  officers  and  non- 
commissioned officers,  who  were  at  Madrid 
detached  from  their  regiments,  joined  their 
ranks.  The  artiller}''  put  their  pieces  in  posi- 
tion; the  municipal  body  declared  its  sittings 
permanent;  and  every  thing  announced  the 
speedy  approach  of  hostilities  between  the 
court  and  the  people. 

"Had  they  possessed  an  able  chief  and  a  de- 
termined will,  the  guards  might  have  made 
themselves  masters  of  Madrid.  They  were 
more  numerous,  better  armed,  more  inured  to 
war,  than  the  constitutional  bands  which  com- 
posed the  garrison.  They  occupied  the  bar- 
riers and  principal  posts.  Nothing  was  easier 
for  thern  than  to  have  made  themselves  mas- 
ters of  the  park  of  artillery,  and  the  possession 
of  the  park  would  have  rendered  all  resistance 
impossible.  Nothing,  however,  was  attempt- 
ed— nothing  was  thought  of. 

"  Of  the  six  battalions  of  which  it  was  com- 
posed, two  remained  to  protect  the  king;  the 
four  others,  afraid  of  being  shut  up  in  their 
barracks,  clandestinely  left  the  town  during 
the  obscurity  of  the  night;  but  this  movement 
was  executed  with  such  confusion,  that  the 
first  battalion,  when  they  arrived  at  the  ren- 
dezvous, opened  a  fire  upon  the  others  which 
were  approaching. 

"On  the  other  side,  the  constitutionalists  of 
all  descriptions  united  to  resist  the  common 
enemy.  The  militia  night  and  day  blockaded 
the  palace  ;  the  regular  soldiers  soon  obtained 
a  formidable  auxiliary;  this  Avas  a  band  com- 
posed of  men  Avithout  name,  without  charac- 
»<*r;   adventurers  and  enthusiasts,  who  were 


organized  under  the  name  of  the  Sacrea  Band 
Many  generals  presented  themselves,  also 
offering  their  services  and  their  swords ; 
among  this  number  were  Ballasteros  and 
Riego. 

"  Negotiations  and  indecision  continued  for 
six  days,  during  which  the  two  parties  re- 
mained constantly  encamped,  notwithstanding 
the  tropical  sun  of  the  dogdays,  venting  re 
proaches  at  each  other  sabre  in  hand,  the 
torches  lighted  awaiting  only  the  signal  of  the 
combat.  At  intervals  single  muskets  were 
discharged,  which  sounded  like  the  distant 
peals  of  thunder,  which  announced  the  ap- 
proach of  a  frightful  tempest. 

"At  length  the  attack  commenced.  The 
divisions  of  the  guard  at  a  distance  from  Mad- 
rid, marched  upon  the  capital,  but  they  were 
met  and  defeated  at  all  points  by  the  constitu- 
tional forces,  and  the  fugitives  in  great  num- 
bers fled  for  refuge  to  the  palace.  The  militia 
were  everywhere  victorious  ;  triumphant  and 
victorious,  they  surrounded  the  royal  abode, 
while  Te  Dcum  was  celebrated  on  the  Place  of 
the  Constitution,  and  the  walls  of  the  palace 
resounded  with  menaces  against  the  king.  A 
capitulation  was  proposed;  but  nothing  but 
an  unconditional  surrender  would  satisfy  the 
conquerors.  Two  battalions  agreed  to  it;  the 
others,  conceiving  that  a  snare  was  laid  for 
them,  fired  a  volley  upon  the  militia,  aban- 
doned the  palace,  and  rushed  out  of  the  city, 
where  they  were  soon  cut  to  pieces  by  the 
popular  dragoons  and  the  incessant  discharge 
of  grape-shot.  This  victory  was  decisive ; 
the  violent  party  now  reigned  in  uncontrolled 
supremacy,  and  nothing  remained  to  oppose 
even  the  shadow  of  resistance  to  their  domi- 
nation."—I.  420—424. 

Such  was  the  state  of  the  Revolution,  and 
the  prostration  of  the  throne,  when  the  inva- 
sion of  the  Duke  d'x\ngouleme  dissipated  the 
fumes  of  the  Revolutionists,  and  re-established 
the  absolute  throne. 

Several  reflections  arise  upon  the  events,  of 
which  a  sketch  has  been  here  given. 

In  the  first  place,  they  show  how  precisely 
similar  the  march  of  revolution  is  in  all  ages 
and  countries ;  and  how  little  national  charac- 
ter is  to  be  relied  on  to  arrest  or  prevent  its 
fatal  progress.  The  horrors  of  the  French 
Revolution,  it  was  said,  were  owing  to  their 
volatile  and  unstable  character,  and  the  pecu- 
liar combination  of  events  which  preceded  its 
breaking  out.  The  Spanish  Revolution,  not- 
withstanding their  grave  and  thoughtful  na- 
tional character,  and  a  totally  different  chain 
of  previous  events,  exhibited,  till  it  was  cut 
short  by  French  bayonets,  exactly  the  sams 
features  and  progress.  Recent  experience 
leaves  it  but  too  doubtful,  whether,  in  the 
sober  and  calculating  realm  of  England,  simi- 
lar passions  are  not  in  the  end  destined  to  pro- 
duce similar  effects. 

In  the  next  place,  the  historical  facts  now 
brought  forward  demonstrate  how  enormous 
is  the  delusion  which  the  revolutionary  party, 
by  means  of  a  false  and  deceitful  press,  spi'ead 
over  the  world  in  regard  to  all  the  transactions 
in  which  their  projects  are  concerned.  We 
put  it  to  the  candour  of  every  one  of  our  read* 


PARTITIO^'  OF  1HE  KINGDOM  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS, 


289 


ers,  whetncr  the  facts  now  detailed  do  not  put 
in  an  entirely  dificrent  point  of  view  from  any 
in  which  the}-^  had  yet  considered  it,  the  Spa- 
nish Revoliition?  Certainly  these  facts  were 
utterly  unknown  to  ns,  not  the  least  vigilant 
observers  of  continental  transactions,  and  the 
march  of  revolution  in  the  adjoining  states. 
The  truth  is,  that  what  Jeflerson  long  ago  said 
of  the  American,  has  become  true  of  the  Euro- 
pean press ;  events  are  so  utterly  distorted, 
falsehoods  are  so  unblushingly  put  forth,  hos- 
tile facts  are  so  sedulously  suppressed,  that  it 
I  is  utterlj''  impossible  from  the  public  journals 
to  gather  the  least  idea  of  what  they  reall)''  are, 
if  they  have  the  slightest  connection  with  re- 
volutionary ambition.  Till  the  false  light  of 
newspapers  has  ceased,  and  the  steady  light 
of  histor}'  begins,  no  reliance  whatever  can 
be  placed  on  the  public  accounts,  even  of  the 
most  notorious  transactions. 

Lastlj',  we  now  see  how  inconceivably  the 
British  people  were  deceived  in  regard  to  these 
transactions,  and  how  narrowly  we  escaped  at 
that  juncture  being  plunged  into  a  war,  to  up- 
hold what  is  nofr  proved  to  have  been,  not  the 
cause  of  freedom  and  independence,  but  of 
anarchy,  dciMcran/,  and  revolution.  We  all  re- 
collect the  vigorous  efforts  which  the  Move- 
ment party  in  this  country  made  to  engage  us 
m  a  war  with  France,  in  support  of  the  Spa- 


nish Revolution  ;  the  speech  of  Mr.  Brougham, 
on  the  opening  of  ihje  session  of  Parliament 
in  February,  182.3,  still  resounds  in  our  ears 
We  were  told,  and  we  believed,  that  the  Spa- 
nish constitution  conferred  upon  the  people  of 
the  Peninsula  moderated  freedom;  that  the' 
cause  of  liberty  was  at  stake ;  and  that  imless 
we  interfered,  it  would  be  trampled  down  un- 
der the  bayonets  of  the  Holy  Alliance.  And 
what  is  the  fact  as  mow,  proved  b)' historical 
documents  ?  Why,  that  it  was  the  cause  of 
Pure  Danocrarij  which  we  were  thus  called  on 
to  support ;  of  universal  suffrage,  Jacobin 
clubs,  and  a  furious  press ;  of  revolutionary 
confiscation,  democratic  anarchj'-,  and  unbri- 
dled injustice;  of  the  most  desolating  of  tyran- 
nies, the  most  ruinous  of  despotisms.  Such 
is  the  darkness,  the  thick  and  impenetrable 
darkness,  in  which  we  are  kept  in  regard  to 
passing  events  by  the  revolutionary  press  of 
Europe;  and  when  historic  truth  comes  to 
illuminate  the  transactions  of  our  times,  the 
Revolution  of  July,  the  Belgian  Insurrection, 
it  will  be  found  that  we  have  been  equally  de- 
ceived ;  and  that,  by  the  use  of  heart-stirring 
recollections,  and  heart-rending  fabrications, 
we  have  been  stimulated  to  engage  in  war,  to 
support  a  similar  system  of  revolutionary  cu- 
pidity and  democratic  ambition. 


PARTITION  OF  THE  KIN^GDOM  OF  THE 
NETIIEELAKDS.* 


It  is  related  by  Bourrienne,  that  it  was  dur- 
ing the  visit  of  Napoleon  to  the  shores  of  the 
ocean,  by  order  of  the  Director)',  in  February, 
1798,  to  prepare  for  the  invasion  of  England, 
that  he  first  was  struck  with  the  vast  impnrt- 
ance  of  Antwerp  as  a  naval  station  to  ellect 
that  great  object  of  Gallic  ambition.  The  im- 
pression then  made  was  never  afterwards 
effaced;  his  eagle  c)c  at  once  discerned,  that 
it  was  from  that  point,  that  the  army  destined 
to  conquer  Eriirland  was  to  sail.  Its  secure 
and  protertofl  situation,  guarded  alike  by  pow- 
erful fortresses  and  an  intricate  and  dangerous 
inland  navigation;  its  position  at  the  mouth 
of  the  Scheldt,  the  great  artery  of  the  Flemish 
provinces  of  the  empire;  its  proximity  on  the 
one  hand  to  the  military  resources  of  France, 
and  on  the  other  to  the  naval  arsenals  of  the 
r'nited  Provinces ;  its  near  neighbourhood  to 
the  Thames  and  the  Mcdway,  the  centre  of  the 
power  of  England,  and  the  most  vulnerable 
point  of  its  empire,  all  pointed  it  out  as  \\v 
great  central  depot  where  the  armament  for 
the  subjugation  of  this  country  was  to  be  as- 
sembled, as  the  advanced  work  of  French 
ambition  against  English  independence.  No 
sooner  had  he  seized  the  reins  of  power  than 
ne  turned  his  attention  to  the  strengthening 

♦  nirirkwood'H  Mnqazino,  Dor.  1^32.  Wrilirn  nl  llio 
timp  when  the  Fronrh  ariiiv.  niilcd  hy  the  lOnglisli  Jlcct, 
were  besieging  AiilwiTp 

19 


f>f  this  important  station  :  all  the  resources  of 
art,  all  the  wealth  of  the  imperial  treasury, 
were  lavished  upon  its  fortification;  ramparts 
after  ramparts,  bastion  after  bastion,  surround- 
ed its  ample  harbour;  docks  capable  of  hold- 
ing the  whole  navy  of  France  were  excavated, 
and  the  greatest  fleet  which  ever  menaced 
England  assembled  within  its  walls.  Before 
the  fall  of  his  power,  thirty-five  ships  of  the 
line  were  safely  moored  under  its  cannon  ;  lie 
held  to  it  with  tenacious  grasp  under  all  the 
vicissitudes  of  his  fortune,  and  wlu'n  the  Allies 
appro.nched  its  walls,  he  sent  the  ablest  and 
firmest  of  the  republicans,  Carnot,  to  prolong 
even  to  the  last  extremity  its  means  of  defence. 
"If  the  allies  were  encamped,"  said  he  in  the 
Legislative  Body,  on  the  :Hst  March,  1S13, 
"on  the  heights  of  Monlmarire,  I  would  not 
surrender  one  village  in  the  thirty-second 
military  division."  Though  hard  pressed  in 
the  centre  of  his  dominions,  he  still  clung  to 
this  important  'bulwark.  When  the  Old 
(inard  was  maintaining  a  desperate  strugi;lc 
in  the  plains  of  Champagne,  lie  drafted  not  a 
man  from  the  fortifications  of  the  Scheldt;  and 
when  the  conqueror  was  struck  to  the  earth, 
his  rigiit  hand  still  held  the  citadel  of  Ant- 
werp. 

In  all  former  times,  and  centuries  before  the 
labour  of  Napoleon  had  added  so  immensely 
to  its  importance,  the  Scheldt  had  been  thfi 


iQQ 


ALISON'S   MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


centre  of  the  most  important  preparations  for 
the  invasion  of  Englg.nd,  and  the  spot  on 
which  military  genius  always  fixed  from 
■whence  to  prepare  a  descent  on  this  island. 
An  immense  expedition,  rendered  futile  by  the 
•  weakness  and  vacillation  of  the  French  mo- 
narch, was  assembled  in  it  in  the  fourteenth 
century ;  and  sixty  thousand  men  on  the  shore 
of  the  Scheldt  awaited  only  the  signal  of 
Charles  VI.*  to  set  sail  for  the  shore  of  Kent. 
The  greatest  naval  victory  ever  gained  by  the 
English  arms  was  that  at  Sluys,  in  1340,  when 
Philip  of  France  lost  thirty  thousand  men  and 
two  hundred  and  thirty  ships  of  war,  in  an  en- 
gagement off  the  Flemish  coast  with  Edward 
III.,f  a  triumph  greater,  though  less  noticed  in 
history,  than  either  that  of  Cressy  or  Poictiers. 
When  the  great  Duke  of  Parma  was  commis- 
sioned by  Philip  IL  of  Spain  to  take  steps  for 
the  invasion  of  England,  he  assembled  the 
forces  of  the  Low  Countries  at  Antwerp ;  and 
the  Spanish  armada,  had  it  proved  successful, 
was  to  have  wafted  over  that  great  commander 
from  the  banks  of  the  Scheldt  to  the  opposite 
shore  of  Essex,  at  the  head  of  the  veterans 
who  had  been  trained  in  the  Dutch  war.  In 
an  evil  hour,  Charles  II.,  bought  by  French 
gold  and  seduced  by  French  mistresses,  enter- 
ed into  alliance  with  Louis  XIV.  for  the  co- 
ercion of  Holland ;  the  Lilies  and  the  Leopards, 
the  navies  of  France  and  England,  assembled 
together  at  Spithead,  and  made  sail  for  the 
French  coast,  while  the  armies  of  the  Grande 
Monarque  advanced  across  the  Rhine  into  the 
heart  of  the  United  Provinces.  The  conse- 
quence was,  such  a  prodigious  addition  to  the 
power  of  France,  as  it  took  all  the  blood  and 
treasure  expended  in  the  war  of  the  Succession 
and  all  the  victories  of  Marlborough,  to  reduce 
to  a  scale  at  all  commensurate  with  the  inde- 
pendence of  the  other  European  states.  Mr. 
Pitt,  how  adverse  soever  to  engage  in  a  war 
with  republican  France,  was  driven  to  it  by 
the  advance  of  the  tricolour  standard  to  the 
Scheldt,  and  the  evident  danger  which  threat- 
ened English  independence  from  the  posses- 
sion of  its  fortresses  by  the  French  armies ; 
and  the  event  soon  proved  the  wisdom  of  his 
foresight.  The  surrender  of  the  Low  Coun- 
tries, ari:ung  from  the  insane  demolition  of  its 
fortresses  by  the  Emperor  Joseph,  soon  brought 
the  French  armies  to  Amsterdam;  twenty 
years  of  bloody  and  destructive  war;  the 
slaughter  of  millions,  and  the  contraction  of 
eight  hundred  millions  of  debt  by  this  country, 
followed  the  victorious  march  of  the  French 
armies  to  the  banks  of  the  Scheldt;  while 
seventeen  years  of  unbroken  rest,  a  glorious 
peace,  and  the  establishment  of  the  liberties 
of  Europe  upon  a  firm  basis,  immediately  suc- 
ceeded their  expulsion  from  them  by  the  anns 
of  Wellington. 

Before  these  sheets  issue  from  the  press,  an 
English  and  French  fleet  will  have  sailed  from 
the  British  shores  to  co-operate  with  a  French 
army  ix  nES-roniNO  Antwkup  to  Frajjce. 
The  tricolour  flag  has  floated  alongside  of  the 
British  pendant ;  the  shores  of  Spithead,  which 


♦  Kismondi,  Hist,  de  France,  xi.  387. 
t  Hume,  ii.  230. 


never  saw  a  French  fleet  but  as  prizes^  Iiavs 
witnessed  the  infamous  coalition,  and  the  un- 
conquered  citadels  of  England  thundered  with 
salutes  to  the  enemies  who  fled  before  them 
at  Trafalgar !  Antwerp,  with  its  dockyards 
and  its  arsenals;  Antwerp,  with  its  citadel 
and  its  fortifications ;  Antwerp,  the  outpost  and 
stronghold  of  France  against  English  inde« 
pendence,  is  to  be  purchased  by  British  blood 
for  French  ambition !  Holland,  the  old  and 
faithful  ally  of  England ;  Holland,  which  has 
stood  by  us  in  good  and  evil  fortune  for  one 
hundred  and  fifty  years  ;  Holland,  the  bulwark 
of  Europe,  in  every  age,  against  Gallic  ag- 
gression, is  to  be  partitioned,  and  sacrificed  in 
order  to  plant  the  standards  of  a  revolutionary 
power  on  the  shores  of  the  Scheldt !  Deeply 
has  England  already  drunk,  deeper  still  is  she 
destined  to  drink  of  the  cup  of  national  hu- 
miliation, for  the  madness  of  the  last  two 
years. 

Disgraceful  as  these  proceedings  are  to  the 
national  honour  and  integrity  of  England; 
far  as  they  have  lowered  its  ancient  flag  be- 
neath the  degradation  it  ever  reached  in  the 
darkest  days  of  national  disaster,  their  impolicy 
is,  if  possible,  still  more  conspicuous.  Flan- 
ders, originally  the  instructor,  has  in  every  age 
been  the  rival  of  England  in  manufactures;; 
Holland,  being  entirely  a  commercial  state, 
and  depending  for  its  existence  upon  the  car- 
rying trade,  has  in  every  age  been  her  friend. 
The  interest  of  these  different  states  has  led  to 
this  opposite  policy,  and  must  continue  to  do 
so,  until  a  total  revolution  in  the  channels  of 
commerce  takes  place.  Flanders,  abounding 
with  coal,  with  capital,  with  great  cities,  and 
a  numerous  and  skilful  body  of  artisans,  has 
from  the  earliest  dawn  of  European  history, 
been  conspicuous  for  her  manufactures ;  Hoi 
land,  without  any  advantages  for  the  fabricat- 
ing of  articles,  but  immense  for  their  trans- 
port, has,  from  the  establishment  of  Dutch 
independence,  been  the  great  carrier  of  Eu- 
rope. She  feels  no  jealousy  of  English  ma- 
nufactures, because  she  has  none  to  compete 
with  them ;  she  feels  the  greatest  disposition 
to  receive  the  English  goods,  because  all 
those  which  are  sent  to  her  add  to  the  riches 
of  the  United  Provinces.  Belgium,  on  the 
other  hand,  is  governed  by  a  body  of  manu- 
facturers, who  are  imbued  with  a  full  propor- 
tion of  that  jealousy  of  foreign  competition 
which  is  so  characteristic  in  all  countries  of 
that  profession.  Hence,  the  Flemish  ports 
have  always  been  as  rigorously  closed  as  the 
Dutch  were  liberally  opened  to  British  manu- 
factures ;  and  at  this  moment,  not  only  are  the 
duties  on  the  importation  of  British  goods 
greatly  higher  in  Flanders  than  they  are  in 
Holland,  but  the  recent  policy  of  the  former 
country  has  been  as  much  to  increase  as  that 
of  the  other  has  been  to  lower  its  import  bur- 
dens. Since  the  Belgian  revolution,  the  duties 
on  all  the  staple  commodities  of  England,  coal, 
woollens,  and  cotton  cloths,  have  been  loivered 
by  the  Dutch  government ;  but  the  fervour  of 
their  revolutionary  gratitude  has  led  to  no  such 
measure  on  the  part  of  the  Belgians. 

This   difference   in   the   policy  of  the   two 
states  being  founded  on  their  habits,  interests 


PARTITION  OF  THE  KINGDOM  OF  THE  NETHEKLANDS. 


291 


and  physical  situation,  must  continue  perma- 
nently to   distinguish    them.     Dynasties  may 
rise  or  tail :  but  as  long  as  Flanders,  -with  its 
great  coal  mines  and  iron  foundcries,  is  the 
rival  of  England  in  those  departments  of  in- 
dustrj'  in  which  she  most  excels,  it  is  in  vain 
to  expect  that  any  cordial  reception  of  British 
manufactures  is  to  take  place  within  her  pro- 
rinces.    The  iron  forgers  of  Liege,  the  wool- 
1  "len  manufacturers    or    cotton    operatives    of 
I    Ghent  or  Bruges,  will  never  consent  to  the  free 
'    importation  of  the  cutler}'-  of  Birmingham,  the 
woollen  cloths  of  Yorkshire,  the  muslins  of 
j    Glasgow,  or  the  cotton  goods  of  Manchester. 
I    But  no  such  jealousy  is,  or  ever  Avill  be,  felt 
I    by  the  merchants  of  Amsterdam,  the  carriers 
I    of  Rotterdam,  or  the  shipmasters  of  Flushing. 
I    Flanders  always  has  been,  and  always  Avill 
desire  to  be,  incorporated  with  France,  in  or- 
der that  her  manufactures  may  feel  the  vivify- 
ing influence  of  the  great  home  market  of  that 
populous  country;  Holland  always  has  been, 
and  always  will  desire  to  be,  in  alliance  with 
England,  in  order  that  her  commerce  may  ex- 
perience  the   benefit   of  a  close   connection 
with  the  great  centre  of  the  foreign  trade  of 
ihe  world. 

Ever}'  one  practically  acquainted  with  these 
matters,  knows  that  Holland  is  at  this  moment 
almost  the  only  inlet  which  continental  jea- 
lousy will  admit  for  British  manufactures  to 
the  continent  of  Europe.  The  merchants  of 
London  know  whether  they  can  obtain  a  ready 
vent  for  their  manufactures  in  the  ports  of 
France  or  the  harbours  of  Flanders.  The  ex- 
port trade  to  France  is  inconsiderable;  that  to 
Flanders  trifling;  but  that  to  Holland  is  im- 
mense. It  takes  off  2,000,000/.  worth  of  our 
exports,  and  employs  350,000  tons  of  shipping, 
about  a  seventh  of  the  whole  shipping  of  Great 
Britain.  Were  it  not  for  the  facilities  to  Bri- 
tish importation,  afforded  by  the  commercial 
interests  of  the  Dutch,  our  manufactures  would 
be  well  nigh  excluded  from  the  continent  of 
Europe.  The  Scheldt,  when  guarded  by 
French  batteries,  and  studded  with  republican 
sails,  may  become  the  great  artery  of  Euro- 
pean, hut  unquestionably  it  will  not  lie  of  Eng- 
lish commerce.  The  great  docks  of  Antwerp 
may  be  amply  filled  with  the  tricolour  flag; 
but  they  will  .see  but  few  of  the  British  pen- 
dants. In  allyintr  ourselves  with  the  Belgians, 
we  are  seeking  ti>  gain  th*"  frii-ndship  of  our 
itiiral  rivals,  and  to  strengthen  what  will 
•on  become  a  province  of  our  hereditary 
'iiemies;  in  alienating  the  Dutch,  we  are 
'  sing  our  long-established  customers,  and 
'•ak<'iiing  the  state,  which,  in  every  a^'e,  has 
been  felt  to  be  the  outwork  of  British  inde- 
pend<"nce. 

But  it  is  not  the  ruinous  consequences  of 
'his  monstrous  coalition  of  the  two  great  re- 
iluiionary  powers  of  Europe  against  Ihe 
liberty  an(i  independence  of  the  smaller  slates 
which  are  chiefly  to  be  deplored.  It  is  the 
shameful  injustire  of  the  proceeding,  the  pro- 
fligate disregard  of  treaties  which  it  involves, 
the  open  abandonment  of  national  honour 
which  it  proclaims,  which  constitute  its  worst 
features.  We  have  not  yet  lived  so  long  un- 
j*r  democratic  rule  as  to  have  become  habitu- 


ated to  the  principles  of  iniquity,  to  have  beea 
accustomed,  as  in  revolutionary  France,  to 
have  spoliation  palliated  on  the  footing  of  ex- 
pedience, and  robbery  justified  by  the  weak- 
ness of  its  victim.  We  have  not  yet  learned 
to  measure  political  actions  by  their  success; 
to  praise  conquest  to  the  skies  when  it  is  on 
the  side  of  revolution,  and  load  patriotism 
with  obloquy  when  it  is  exerted  in  defence  of 
regulated  freedom.  We  are  confident  that  the 
British  seamen  under  any  circumstances  will 
do  their  duty,  and  we  do  not  see  how  Holland 
can  resist  the  fearful  odds  which  are  brought 
against  her;  but  recollecting  that  there  is  a 
moral  government  of  nations,  that  there  is  a 
God  who  governs  the  world,  and  that  the  sins 
of  the  fathers,  in  nations  as  well  as  individuals, 
will  be  visited  upon  the  children,  we  tremble 
to  think  of  its  consequences,  and  conscien- 
tiously believe  that  such  a  triumph  may  ulti- 
mately prove  a  blacker  day  for  England,  than 
if  the  army  of  Wellington  had  been  dispersed 
in  the  forest  of  Soignies,  or  the  fleet  of  Nelson 
swallowed  up  in  the  waves  of  Trafalgar. 

What  is  chiefly  astonishing,  and  renders  it 
painfully  apparent  that  revolutionary  ambition 
has  produced  its  usual  effect  in  confounding 
and  undermining  all  the  moral  feelings  of  man- 
kind in  this  country,  is  the  perfect  indifierence 
with  which  Ihc  part il ion  of  Holland  is  regarded 
by  all  the  Movement  party,  as  contrasted  with 
the  unmeasured  lamentations  with  which  they 
have  made  the  world  resound  for  the  partition 
of  Poland.  Yet  if  the  matter  be  impartially 
considered,  it  will  be  found  that  our  conduct 
in  leaguing  with  France  for  the  partition  of 
the  Netherlands,  has  been  miirli  more  infamous 
than  that  of  the  eastern  potentates  was  in  the 
subjugation  of  Poland.  The  slightest  historical 
retrospect  must  place  this  in  the  clearest  light. 

Poland  was  of  old,  and  for  centuries  before 
her  fall,  the  standing  enemy  of  Russia.  Twice 
the  Polish  armies  penetrated  to  the  heart  of  her 
empire,  and  the  march  of  Napoleon  to  the 
Kremlin  had  been  anticipated  five  centuries 
before  by  the  arms  of  the  Jagellons.  Austria 
had  been  delivered  from  Turkish  invasion  by 
John  Sobieski,  but  neither  that  power  nor 
Prussia  were  bound  to  guaranty  the  integrity 
of  the  Polish  dominions,  nor  had  they  ever 
been  in  alliance  with  it  for  any  length  of  time 
The  instability  of  I'olish  policy,  arising  from 
the  deuKicratic  stale  of  its  government,  the 
perpetual  vacillation  of  its  councils,  and  the 
weakness  and  ineflicicncy  of  its  external  con- 
duct, had  fi)r  centuries  been  such  that  no 
lengthened  or  sustained  operation  could  be  ex- 
pected frmn  its  forces.  It  n-mained  in  the 
midst  of  the  mililary  inonarchii-s  a  monument 
of  democratic  madness,  a  prey  to  the  most 
frightful  internal  anarchy,  and  unable  to  resist 
the  most  inconsiderable  external  aggression. 
Its  situation  and  discord  rendered  it  the  naturnl 
prey  of  its  more  vigorous  andeflicient  military 
neighbours.  In  coml)iniiig  for  its  partition, 
ihey  effected  what  was  on  their  ])art  an 
atrocious  act  of  injustice;  but  will  ultimately 
prove,  as  Lord  Brougham  long  ago  observed,* 
the  most  beneficial   change  for  the  ultimate 

♦  Colonial  Policy 


292 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


nappiness  of  its  people,  by  forcibly  repressing 
their  democratical  passions,  and  turning  its 
wild  but  heroic  spirit  into  the  channels  of 
rculated  and  useful  patriotism.  In  dividing 
Poland,  the  three  powers  incurred  the  guilt  of 
robbers  who  plunder  a  caravan,  which,  from 
internal  divisions,  is  unable  to  defend  itself ; 
Austria  was  guilty  of  black  ingratitude  in 
assailing  her  former  deliverer;  but  Russia 
violated  no  oaths,  brbke  no  engagements,  be- 
trayed no  treachery — she  never  owed  any  thing 
to  Poland — she  was  her  enemy  from  first  to 
last,  and  conquered  her  as  such.  We  attempt 
ao  vindication  of  this  aggression ;  it  was  the 
work  of  ruthless  violence,  alike  to  be  stigma- 
tized in  a  monarchical  as  a  republican  power. 
We  observe  only  how  Providence  overrules 
even  human  iniquity  to  purposes  finally  bene- 
ficent. 

But  what  shall  we  say  to  the  partition  of  the 
Netherlands,  effected  by  France  and  England 
in  a  moment  of  profound  peace,  when  its  do- 
minions were  guarantied  by  both  these  powers, 
and  it  had  done  nothing  to  provoke  the  hostility 
of  either  ?     Can  it  be  denied  that  we,  in  com- 
mon with  all  the  allied  powers,  guarantied  to 
the  King  of  the  Netherlands  his  newly  created 
dominions'!     The  treaty  of  1815  exists  to  dis- 
prove the  assertion.    Has  Holland  done  any 
injury  to  Great  Britain  or  France  to  justify 
their  hostility'?     Has  she  laid  an  embargo  on 
their  ships,  imprisoned  their  subjects,  or  con- 
fiscated their  property  1     Confessedly  she  has 
done  none  of  these  things.     Has  she  abandoned 
us  in  distress,  or  failed  to  succour  us,  as  by 
treaty  bound,  in  danger  1     History  proves  the 
•reverse:  for  one  hundred  and  fifty  years  she 
has  fought  by  our  side  against  our  common 
enemies ;  she  has  shared  alike  in  the  disaster 
of  Lafelt  and  Fontenoy,  and  the  triumphs  of 
Eamillies  and  Oudenarde,  of  Malplaquet  and 
Waterloo.      Has   she  injured  the  private  or 
public  interests  of  either  of  the  powers  who 
now  assail  her  1     Has  she  invaded  their  pro- 
vinces,  or   laid   siege   to  their  fortresses,  or 
blockaded  their  harbours  1     The  idea  of  HoU 
land,  with  her  2,500,000  souls,  attempting  any 
of  these  things  against  two  nations  who  count 
above  fifty  millions  of  inhabitants   in   their 
dominions,  is  as  ridiculous  as  it  would  be  to 
suppose  an  infant  in  its  nurse's  arms  to  make 
war  on  a  mounted  dragoon  of  five-and-twenty. 
What  then  has  she  done  to  provoke  the  par- 
tition of  the  lords  of  the  earth  and  the  ocean  1 
She  has  resisted  the  march  of  revolution,  and 
refused  to  surrender  her  fortresses  to  re^rQ. 
lutionary  robbery,  and  therein,  and  therein  alone, 
she  has  offended. 

But  this  is  not  all.  Unprincipled  as  such 
conduct  would  have  been,  if  it  had  been  the 
whole  for  which  this  country  had  to  blush,  it 
is  but  a  part  of  the  share  which  England  and 
France  have  taken  in  this  deplorable  trans- 
action. These  powers  were  not  only  allies  of 
tha  King  of  the  Netherlands  ;  they  had  not  only 
solemnly  guarantied  the  integrity  of  his  domi- 
nions, but  they  had  accepted,  with  the  other 
Rllied  powers,  the  office  of  mediators  and  arbiters 
between  nmi  and  his  revolted  subjects ;  and 
they  have  now  united  to  spoliate  the  party  u-ho 
tiade  the  reference.    To  the  violence  of  an  ordi- 


nary robber,  they  have  superadded  the  abando»  ' 
ment  of  a  friend  and  the  partiality  of  a  judges 
It  is  this  lamentable  combination  of  unprincipled 
qualities,  which  makes  our  conduct  in  this 
transaction  the  darkest  blot  on  our  annals,  and 
will  ultimately  render  the  present  era  one  for 
which  posterity  will  have  more  cause  to  blush 
than  for  that  when  John  surrendered  his  do- 
minions to  the  Papal  legate,  or  Charles  gifted 
away  to  French  mistresses  the  honour  and  the  i 
integrity  of  England. 

The  Revolution  of  the  Three  Glorious  Days, 
which  has,  for   the   last  two  years,   steeped  i 
France  in  misery  and  Paris  in  blood,  having  i 
excited  the  revolutionary  party  in  every  part! 
of  Europe  to  unheard-of  transports,  Brussels, ' 
in  order  not  to  be  behind  the  great  centre  of  ': 
democracy,  rose  in  revolt  against   its    sove- 
reign, and  the  King  of  Belgium  was  expelled 
from  its  walls.     An  attack  of  the  Dutch  troops, 
ill  planned  and  worse  executed,  having  been 
defeated,  the  King  of  the  Netherlands  applied 
to  England  to  restore  him  by  force  to  the  throne 
which  she  had  guarantied.     This  took  place 
in  October,  1830,  when  the  Duke  of  Wellington 
was  still  in  power. 

To  have  interfered  with  the  lan*l  and  sea 
forces  of  England  to  restore  the  Dutch  king  to 
the  throne  of  Belgium,  would,  at  that  juncture, 
have  been  highly  perilous.  It  was  doubtful 
whether  we  were  bound  to  have  afforded  such 
aid, — the  guarantee  contained  in  the  treaty  of  ■ 
1815  being  rather  intended  to  secure  the  do- 
minions of  the  Netherlands  against  foreign 
aggression,  than  to  bind  the  contracting  parties 
to  aid  him  in  stifling  domestic  revolt.  At  all 
events  it  was  certain  that  such  a  proceeding 
would  at  once  have  roused  the  revolutionary 
party  throughout  Europe,  and  would  have 
afforded  France  a  pretext,  of  which  she  would 
instantly  and  gladly  have  availed  herself,  for 
interfering  with  her  powerful  armies,  in  favour 
of  her  friends,  among  the  Belgian  Jacobins. 
The  Duke  of  Wellington,  therefore,  judged 
wisely,  and  with  the  prudence  of  a  practised 
statesman,  when  he  declined  to  lend  such  aid 
to  the  dispossessed  monarch,  and  tendered  the 
good  offices  of  the  allied  powers  to  mediate  in 
an  amicable  way  between  the  contending  parties. 
The  proffered  mediation  coming  from  such 
powers  as  Russia,  Austria,  Prussia,  France, 
and  England,  could  not  possibly  have  been  re- 
sisted by  the  Dutch  States;  and  the  offer  of 
their  good  offices  M'as  too  valuable  to  be  de- 
clined. They  agreed  to  the  offer,  and  on  this 
basis  the  London  Conference  assembled.  This 
was  the  Avhole  length  that  matters  had  gone, 
when  the  Duke  of  Wellington  resigned  in  No- 
vember, 1830;  and  most  unquestionably  no- 
thing was  farther  from  the  intentions  of  the 
British  ministry  at  that  period,  as  the  Duke  of 
Wellington  has  repeatedly  declared  in  Parlia- 
ment, than  to  have  acted  in  any  respect  with- 
out the  concurrence  of  the  other  powers,  or  to 
have  made  this  mediation  a  pretext  for  the 
forcible  partition  of  the  Dutch  dominions. 

But  with  the  accession  of  the  Whigs  to 
power  commenced  a  diflTerent  system.  They 
at  once  showed,  from  their  conduct,  that  they 
were  actuated  by  that  unaccountable  partialitj 
for  French  democracy,  which  has  ever  since 


PARTITION  OF  THE  KINGDOM  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


89d 


1789  distinguished  their  party,  and  for  which 
the  great  writers  of  its  Revolution  have  them- 
selves not  scrupled  to  censure  Mr.  Fox  and  all 
his  adherents.  "  The  opposition  in  England," 
says  .Madame  de  Stacil,  "  with  Mr.  Fox  at  their 
head,  were  entirely  wrong  in  the  opinion  they 
formed  regarding  Bonaparte ;  and  in  conse- 
quence that  party,  formerly  so  much  esteemed, 
entirely  lost  its  ascendency  in  Great  Britain. 
It  was  going  far  enough  to  have  ikfcndcdthe  French 
devolution  through  the  Reign  of  Terror;  but  no 
fault  could  be  greater  than  to  consider  Bona- 
parte as  holding  to  the  principles  of  the  Revo- 
lution, of  which  he  was  the  ablest  destro3-er."* 
The  same  blind  admiration  for  revolutionary 
France,  which  Lord  Grey  had  manifested  from 
the  outset  of  his  career,  was  imbibed  with  in- 
creased ardour  by  his  whole  administration, 
upon  the  breaking  out  of  the  Three  Glorious 
Days ;  and  the  King  of  the  Netherlands  soon 
found,  to  his  cost,  that  instead  of  an  equitable 
and  impartial  arbitrator,  he  had  got  a  ruthless 
and  partial  enemy  at  the  Conference,  in  Great 
Britain.        , 

The  first  measure  in  which  this  altered  tem- 
per was  publicly  manifested,  was  by  the  per- 
mission of  England  to  Leopold  to  accept  the 
crown  of  Belgium.  This  at  once  dissevered, 
and  rendered  irretrievable,  without  a  general 
war,  the  separation  of  that  country  from  Hol- 
land, because  it  established  a  revolutionary  inte- 
rest, and  that  too  of  the  strongest  kind,  dependent 
on  the  maintenance  of  that  separation.  This 
step  was  a  clear  departure  from  the  equity  of 
an  arbitrator  and  a  judge,  because  it  rendered 
final  and  irrevocable  the  separation  which  it 
was  the  object  of  the  mediation  to  heal,  and 
which,  but  for  the  establishment  of  that  revo- 
lutionary interest,  would  speedily  have  been 
closed.  In  truth,  the  Belgians  were,  after  a 
)'ear's  experience,  so  thoroughly  disgusted 
with  their  revolution  ;  they  had  suflcred  so 
dreadfully  under  the  tyrants  of  their  own 
choosing;  starvation  and  misery  had  stalked 
in  so  frightful  a  manner  through  their  popu- 
lous and  once  happy  streets,  that  they  were 
rapirlly  becoming  prepared  to  have  rrturncd 
umlfr  the  mihl  government  of  the  House  of 
Orange,  when  this  decisive  step,  by  establish- 
ing a  revolutionary  interest  on  the  throne,  for 
r  vcr  blighted  these  opening  prospects  of  rc- 
Hirning  tranquillity  and  peace. 

But  the  matter  did  not  rest  here.  France 
and  England  concluded  a  treaty  in  Jiilv,  IH31, 
eight  months  after  the  accession  of  the  Whigs 
lo  orticc  ,  a  treaty  by  which  they  guarunlird  to 
Jj^njiold  hit  revolniionary  domininnx,  including 
thai  part  of  territory  which  included  Macs- 
(richt,  the  frontier  fortress  nf  the  old  (nitrd  Prn- 
rinrr^,  with  the  noble  fortress  of  Luxemburir; 
and  the  free  navigation  of  the  Scheldt.  This 
outrageous  step  was  ruinous  to  Holland.  The 
terms  which  it  imposed  on  the  King  of  the 
Nethcrlantls,  especially  the  surrender  of  Maes- 
tricht  and  Luxemburg,  and  the  navigation  of 
Dutch  waters  by  the  Belgians,  were  utterly 
destructive  of  that  country.  It  was  the  same 
thing  as  if  the  free  navigation  of  the  Mersey 
and  the  Thames  had  been  guarantied  to  the 

♦  Ke  r.  Franc,  ii.  270. 


manufacturers  of  France  and  Belgium.  The 
guarantee  of  Limburg  and  Luxemburg,  includ* 
ing  Maestricht,  to  Belgium,  was  still  more  un- 
pardonable, because  Luxemburg  was  part  of 
the  old  patrimonii  of  the  Hoitae  of  Nassau,  and 
Limburg,  with  its  Isarrier  fortress  Maestricht^ 
was  no  part  of  Belgium,  but  of  Holland,  proper' 
ly  so  called.  Holland  could  not  part  with  them, 
if  she  had  the  slightest  regard  to  her  future 
safety.  After  Maestricht,  its  old  bulwark  on  the 
side  of  France,  and  Antwerp,  its  new  bulwark 
on  the  side  of  Flanders,  were  lost,  its  inde- 
pendence was  an  empty  name. 

Determined  to  perish  rather  than  yield  to 
such  ruinous  conditions,  the  King  of  the  Ne- 
therlands declared  war  against  the  new  King 
of  Belgium,  and  then  was  seen  what  a  slight 
hold  the  revolutionary  party  possessed  of  the 
Flemish  people.  The  revolutionary  rabble 
were  defeated  in  two  pitched  battles  ;  the 
fumes  of  the  Belgian  revolt  were  dissipated ; 
counter  movements  were  beginning  in  Ghent 
and  the  principal  towns  in  the  Netherlands, 
and  Brussels  was  within  half  an  hour  of  fall- 
ing into  the  hands  of  its  lawful  monarch, 
when  the  armies  of  France  and  the  fleet  of 
England,  yielding  to  the  demand  of  Leopold, 
and  bound  by  the  guarantee  contained  in  the 
revolutionary  treaty,  advanced  to  support  the 
cause  of  revolution.  The  consequences  might 
easily  have  been  foreseen.  The  armies  of 
Holland  were  checked  in  the  mid-career  of 
victory,  Brussels  preserved  for  its  cowardly 
revolutionary  tyrants,  and  the  ulcer  of  the 
Belgian  revolts,  when  on  the  point  of  being 
closed,  preserved  open  in  the  centre  of  Eu- 
rope. 

The  King  of  the  Netherlands  gained  some- 
thing by  this  vigorous  step ;  the  Frt-nch  saw 
the  utter  worthlessness  of  their  revolutionary 
allies;  the  crying  injustice  of  demanding  the 
cession  of  Maestricht  and  Luxemburg  became 
tfio  great  even  for  the  governments  of  the  me- 
diating powers,  and  the  protocols  took  a  new 
direction,  -\ntwerp,  and  a  free  navigation  of 
the  Dutch  waters,  became  now  the  great  ob- 
ject on  which  France  and  England  insisted, 
though  it  involved,  by  transferring  the  trade 
of  the  Uniled  Provinces  to  the  Il<'lL;ian  territo- 
ry, the  most  serious  injury  of  Holland.  That 
is  the  point  which  has  since  been  insisted  on; 
that  is  the  object  for  which  we  are  now  to 
plunge  into  an  iniquitous  an<l  oppressive  war. 

Hhorlly  afterwards,  an  event  took  place, 
which,  by  drawing  still  closer  the  revolution- 
ary bonds  between  France  and  Belgium,  de- 
veloped still  farther  the  system  of  airgression 
to  which  England  had  in  an  evil  hour  lent  the 
weight  of  her  once  venerated  authority.  Leo- 
pold married  the  ilaughter  of  Louis  Philippe, 
and  Flanders  became  in  effect,  as  well  as  in 
form,  a  French  province.  This  event  mic^ht 
have  been  foreseen,  and  was  forcuctn,  from  the 
moment  that  he  aseendfd  the  throne  of  Ihnt 
country.  It  was  well  known  in  the  higher 
classes  in  London,  that  Leopold  hail  vmrc  than 
onrc  proponed  to  his  present  (juetn,  before  the  Bel- 
gian revolt ;  that  it  was  her  disinclination  to 
go  to  Greece  which  made  him  refuse  tho 
crown  of  that  country;  and  that  the  moment 
he  mounted  the  throne  of  Belgium,  he  w;uld 


394 


ALISON'S   MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


become  the  son-in-law  of  the  King  of  France. 
All  this  was  distinctly  known ;  it  was  well  im- 
derstood,  that  if  Antwerp  was  demanded  for 
Belgium,  it  was  in  effect  demanded  for  France, 
and  that  the  establishment  of  the  tricolovir  flag 
on  the  great  arsenals  and  dockyards  of  that 
cit}',  was  the  necessary  result  of  making  it  a 
sine  qua  non  of  the  pacification  of  the  Nether- 
lands.    All   this,  we  repeat,  was  thoroughly 
known  before  Leopold  was  counselled  by  our 
administration  to  accept    the  throne  of  Bel- 
gium, or  Antwerp  was  seriously  insisted  upon 
at   the   Conference ;    and   it  was  in   the   full 
knowledge  of  that  consequence  that  he  was 
placed  on  that  throne,  and  the  cession  of  that 
great  outwork  of  revolutionary  France  impe- 
riously demanded  by  the  French  and  English 
plenipotentiaries.     And  it  is  in  the  full  know- 
ledge that  this  effect  must  folloiv,  that  a  war  is 
now   undertaken   by   England,  the  effect   of 
which  may  be  to  throw  Europe  into  confla- 
gration, and  the  consequences  of  which  no 
man  can  foresee. 

And  what  is  the  present  state  of  the  Belgian 
question  1  The  King  of  the  Netherlands,  like 
a  worthy  descendant  of  the  House  of  Nassau, 
refuses  to  surrender  Antwerp  to  the  single  de- 
mand of  France  and  England,  but  agrees  to 
submit  all  disputes  regarding  it  to  the  joint 
arbitration  of  the  five  allied  powers.  The  five 
powers  were  the  umpires  originally  chosen ; 
and  the  Jive  alone  have  any  legal  or  equitable 
title  to  interfere  in  the  matter.  But  how  stands 
the  fact  now  ?  Have  the  five  powers,  whose 
united  and  balanced  judgment  was  relied  on 
by  the  parties  to  the  arbitration — have  they  all 
combined  in  the  measures  of  violence  against 
Holland],  Quite  the  reverse:  Austria,  Rus- 
sia, and  Prussia,  a  majority  of  the  arbiters, 
have  solemnly  protested  against  such  a  mea- 
sure, and  its  prosecution  is  likely  to  involve 
France  and  England  in  a  desperate  contest 
with  these  Northern  potentates.  Who  then 
insists  on  the  spoliation  ]  A  minority  of  the 
arbiters ;  revolutionary  France  and  revolu- 
tionary England  :  revolutionary  France,  pant- 
ing to  regain  the  frontier  of  "the  Rhine,  and 
secure  the  great  fortified  harbour  of  Antwerp, 
as  an  advanced  post  from  whence  to  menace 
our  independence  ;  and  revolutionary  Ensrland 
following  with  submissive  steps,  like  the  Cisal- 
pine or  Batavian  republic,  in  the  wake  of  the 
great  parent  democracy.  And  this  is  the  first 
fruits  of  ihc  government  of  the  Whigs. 

This  puts,  in  the  clearest  point  of  view,  the 
extravagant  injustice  of  our  present  attack  on 
Dutch  independence.  The  mediation  of  the 
five  powers  was  accepted;  the  five,  taken 
jointly,  have  alone  the  power  of  fixing  the 
award.  Three  hold  out,  and  refuse  to  accede 
to  the  violent  measures  which  are  now  pro- 
posed ;  but  two,  carried  away  by  an  adverse 
interest,  and  having  formed  a  marriage  con- 
nection with  one  of  the  submitting  parties,  in- 
sist upon  instantaneous  measures  of  spoliation. 
What  title  have  the  two  to  drop  the  pen  and  take 
up  the  sword,  in  order  to  enforce  measures 
which  the  other  three  refuse  to  sanction  1  Who 
?;ave  France  and  England,  taken  singly,  any 
rights  to  act  as  arbiters  between  Belgium  and 
Holland  1     Who  authorized  the  fleets  and  ar- 


mies of  the  great  democratic  powers  to  parti 
tion  the  dominions  of  the  King  of  the  Nether* 
lands,  and  force  him  to  give  up  what  his  re^ 
volted  subjects  have  not  been  able  to  wresl 
from  him  1  It  won't  do  to  say,  they  derived 
the  power  from  the  acquiescence  of  the  King 
of  the  Netherlands,  in  the  forcible  mediation  of, 
the  Allied  Powers ;  for  what  he  acquiesced  in 
was  the  pacific  arbitration  of  the  five,  and  not 
the  hostile  intervention  of  the  two.  From  what 
then  do  they  derive  their  right?  From  the 
same  title  which  Russia  has  to  the  partition  of 
Poland  ;  the  right  of  the  strongest ;  the  title  of 
a  revolutionary  state  to  extend  and  strengthen 
all  the  subordinate  revolutionary  dynasties  with 
which  in  terror  at  a  righteous  retribution  it 
has  strengthened  its  sides. 

Setting  aside,  therefore,  altogether  the  obvi- 
ous and  crying  inexpedience  of  this  war, 
which  is  to  restore  to  France  that  important 
naval  station  so  threatening  to  England,  which 
it  took  us  so  much  blood  and  treasure  to  wrest 
from  her  in  the  last  Avar;  setting  aside  the  ex- 
treme impolicy  of  irritating  and  spoliating  our 
best  customers  and  oldest  allies,  in  the  hope- 
less idea  of  winning  the  favour  of  a  fickle  and 
jealous  manufacturing  rabble  ;  what  we  chiefly 
view  with  alarm  is,  the  monstrous  injustice 
and  gross  partiality  of  our  conduct;  the  total 
disregard  of  the  faith  of  treaties,  and  the  obli- 
gations of  centuries  which  it  involves,  and  the 
deplorable  degradation  to  which  it  reduces 
England,  in  compelling  her,  instead  of  stand 
ing  forward  in  the  vanguard  of  freedom,  to 
follow  an  obsequious  vassal  in  the  train  of 
Gallic  usurpation.  Not  if  her  fleets  were  sunk, 
or  her  armies  defeated, — not  if  Portsmouth 
was  in  ashes  or  Woolwich  in  flames, — not  if 
the  Tower  of  London  bore  the  flag  of  an  ene- 
my and  the  tombs  of  Westminster  Abbey  M'ere 
rifled  by  foreign  bands,  in  defence  of  our  liber- 
ties in  a  just  cause,  would  we  think  so»de- 
spondingly  of  our  destinies,  would  we  feel  so 
humbled  in  our  national  feelings,  as  we  do  at 
thus  witnessing  the  English  pendant  following 
the  tricolour  flag  in  a  crusade  against  the 
libert}'  of  nations.  We  have  descended  at 
once  from  the  pinnacle  of  glory  to  the  depths 
of  humiliation ;  from  being  the  foremost  in  the 
bands  of  freedom,  to  being  last  in  the  train  of  ty- 
ranny ;  from  leading  the  world  against  a  despot 
in  arms,  to  crouching  at  the  feet  of  our  van-, 
quished  enemy.  That  which  an  hundred  de- 
feats could  not  have  done,  a  disgrace  which 
the  loss  of  an  hundred  sail  of  the  line,  or  the 
storming  of  an  hundred  fortresses  could  not 
have  induced  upon  Old  England,  has  been  vo- 
luntarily incurred  by  New  England,  to  obtain 
the  smiles  of  a  revolutionary  throne.  Well 
and  justly  has  Providence  punished  the  people 
of  this  country  for  the  democratic  madness  of 
the  last  two  years.  That  which  all  the  might 
of  Napoleon  could  not  effect,  the  insanity  of 
her  own  rulers  has  produced ;  and  the  nation 
which  bade  defiance  to  Europe  in  anns,  has 
sunk  down  before  the  idol  of  revolutionary 
ambition.  "Ephraim,"  says  the  Scripture, 
"  has  gone  to  his  idols  ;  let  him  alone." 

Suppose  that  La  Vendee,  which  is  not  im- 
possible, were  to  revolt  against  Louis  Philippe, 
and  by  a  sudden  effort  expel  the  troops  of  the 


PARTITIO.^   UF  THE  KINGDOM  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


295 


French  monarch  from  the  west  of  France — 
.hat  the  Allied  Powers  of  Russia,  Austria,  and 
Prussia,  were  then    to    interfere,  and  declare 
that  the  first  shot  fired  by  the  Citizen  King  al 
his  revolted  sut)jccts,  would  be  considered  by 
them  as  a  declaration  of  war  against  the  Holy 
Alliance;  that,  intimidated  by  such  formidable 
neighbours,  France  was  to  agree  to  their  medi- 
ation ;  that  immediately  a  monarch  of  the  le- 
gitimate race  were  to  be  placed  by  the  Allies, 
without  the  concurrence  of  Louis  Philippe, 
on  the  throne  of  Western  France,  and  he  were 
to  be  married  with  all  due  expedition  to  an 
archduchess  of  Austria;  and  that  shortly  after, 
a  decree  should  be  issued  by  the  impartial  me- 
diators, declaring  that  Lyons  was  to  be   an- 
nexed to  the  newly  erected   dynasty,  and  that 
in  exchange  Tours  should  be  surrendered  to 
the  republican  party ;  and  that  upon  the  French 
king  refusing   to    accede  to   such    iniquitous 
terms,  the  armies  of  the  Holy  Alliance  were  to 
march  to  the  Rhine.    How  would  Europe  be 
made  to  ring  from  side  to  side,  by  the  revolu- 
tionary press,  at  such  a  partition;  and   how 
loudly  would  they  applaud  the  Citizen   King 
for  having  the  firmness  to  resist  the  attempt  ? 
And  yet  this  is  what  France  and  England  are 
now  doing,  with  the  applause  of  all  the  liberal 
press  of  Europe ;  and  it  is  for  such  intrepid 
conduct  on  the  part  of  the  King  of  the  Nether- 
lands, that  he  is  now  the  object  of  their  oblo- 
quy and  derision. 

Ireland,  which  is  perhaps  as  likely  to  happen, 
revolts  against  England.  She  shows  her 
gratitude  for  the  important  concessions  of  the 
last  fifty  years,  by  throwing  off  the  yoke  of 
her  benefactor,  and  proclaims  a  republican 
form  of  government.  The  Allied  Powers,  with 
France  at  their  head,  instantly  interfere — de- 
clare that  the  first  shot  fired  by  England  at  her 
revolted  subjects,  will  be  considered  as  a  de- 
claration of  war  against  all  Europe,  but  ofler, 
at  the  same  time,  their  good  ofiices  and  ini'dia- 
tion  to  effect  a  settlement  of  the  differences  be- 
tween Great  Britain  and  the  Emerald  Isle. 
Weakened  by  so  great  a  defection,  and  over- 
Twed  by  so  furmidable  a  coalition,  England  re- 
luctantly roiiscnls  to  the  arbitration,  and  a 
'ruce  is  proclaimed  between  thf  adverse  par- 
lies. Immediately  the  Allies  declare,  that  the 
separation  must  be  permanent;  that  "it  is  evi- 
dent" thai  England's  means  of  regaining  her 
lost  dominions  arc  al  an  end,  and  that  ihi- 
peace  of  Europe  must  be  no  longer  compro- 
mised by  the  disputes  between  the  Irish  and 
English  people.  Huiling  the  action  to  the  word, 
ihcy  forthwith  put  a  foreign  prince,  without  iho 
consent  of  England,  on  the  Irish  throne,  and, 
to  seriirf'  his  independence  of  (ireal  Hiiiain, 
marry  him  to  the  daughter  of  the  King  of 
France.  Immediately  after,  the  Allied  Powers 
make  a  treaty,  by  which  Ireland  is  guarantied 
to  the  revolutionary  kin^r;  and  it  is  declared 
that  the  new  kingdom  is  to  rmhrarr  Plymonili, 
and  have  right  lo  the  free  navigation  of  the 
Mersey.  Upon  England's  resisting  the  ini- 
quitous partition,  a  French  and  Russian  army, 
a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  strf>ng,  prepare 
for  a  descent  on  the  shores  of  Kent.  What 
would  the  English  people,  and  the  friends  of 
fireedora  throughout  the  world,  say  lo  such  a 


proceeding  1  Yet  this  is  precisely  what  the 
English  people  have  been  led,  blindfold,  by 
their  Whig  rulers,  and  the  revolutionary  press, 
to  do  !  If  his  character  is  not  totally  destroyed, 
terrible  will  be  the  wakening  of  the  Lion  when 
he  is  roused  from  his  slumber. 

The  hired  journals  of  government,  sensible 
that  the  conduct  of  their  rulers  on  this  vital 
question  will  not  bear  examination,  endeavour 
to  lay  it  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  Allied  Powers^ 
and  affect  to  lament  the  meshes  in  which 
they  were  left  by  the  foreign  policy  of  Lord 
Aberdeen.  Of  all  absurdities,  this  is  the  great- 
est; Russia,  Prussia,  and  Austria,  arc  so  far 
from  sanctioning  the  attack  on  the  King  of 
the  Netherlands,  that  they  have  solemnly  pro- 
tested against  it;  and  Prussia,  preparing  to 
second  her  words  by  blows,  has  concentrated 
her  armies  on  the  Meuse.  The  King  of  the  Ne- 
therlands professes  his  willingness  still  to  sub 
mil  the  question  of  Antwerp  and  the  Scheldt  to 
the  five  Allied  Powers,  though  he  refuse  to 
yield  them  up  to  the  imperious  demand  of  two 
of  them.  How,  then,  is  it  possible  to  involve 
the  other  Allied  Powers  in  an  iniquity  of  which 
they  positively  disapprove,  and  for  which  they 
are  preparing  to  make  war  1  True,  they  signed 
the  treaty  which  gave  Antwerp  to  Belgium, 
and  their  reasons  for  doing  so,  and  the  grounds 
on  which  they  are  to  justify  it,  we  leave  it  to 
them  and  their  paid  journalists  to  unfold.  But 
they  have  positively  refused  to  sanction  the 
employment  of  force  to  coerce  the  Dutch;  and 
without  that,  the  revolutionary  rabble  of  Bel- 
gium may  thunder  for  ever  against  the  citadel 
of  Antwerp. 

But  because  the  three  powers  M-ho  signed 
the  treaty  for  the  partition  of  Poland,  have  also 
signed  the  treaty  for  the  partition  of  the  Nether- 
lands, is  that  any  vindication  for  our  joining 
in  the  spoliation?  When  two  robbers  unite  Ic 
waylay  a  traveller,  is  it  any  excuse  for  them 
that  time  olhcis  have  agreed  to  the  conspiracy' 
We  were  told  that  arbitrary  despotic  govern 
ments  alone  commit  injustice,  and  that  with 
the  triumph  of  the  people,  and  the  extension 
of  democracy,  the  rule  of  justice  and  equitj 
was  to  commence.  How  then  are  revolu- 
tionary France  and  revolutionary  England  the 
foremost  in  the  work  of  partition,  when  tht 
other  powers,  ashamed  of  their  signature  a< 
the  disgraceful  treaty,  hang  lack,  and  refuse 
to  put  It  in  force !  Is  this  the  onnmencement 
of  tin;  fair  rule  of  democratic  justice?  A 
treaty,  which  the  three  absolute  powers,  the/)(jr- 
liliontrM  of  Poland,  are  atliamrd  of,  the  revolu- 
tionary powers  have  no  scruple  in  enl'orcing 
— an  inii|uitv  which  Russia  and  .\ustria  refuse 
to  eommii,  France  and  England  are  ready  to 
perpetrate! 

The  pretence  that  we  are  involved  in  all  this 
ihrouirh  the  diplomacy  of  the  Tories,  is  such  ? 
monstrous  perversion  of  truth  as  cannot  blind 
any  l»ut  tin"  most  ignorant  readers.  When 
was  the  treaty  which  guarantied  Leopold'> 
dominions  signed  by  France  and  England  1  in 
July.  1831;  eight  months  after  the  accession 
of  the  Whigs  to  ollice.  When  was  the  treaty 
giving  Antwerp  to  Ueli;ium,  siirnrd  by  the  live 
powers?  In  Novemt)i>r,  1S31.  a  year  after  the 
retirement   of  tlie  Duke  of  Wellington  froni 


896 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


power.  What  treaty  did  the  Duke  of  Welling- 
•on  leave  binding  on  his  successors,  in  regard 
to  Belgium?  The  treaty  of  1815,  which  gua- 
rantied to  the  King  of  the  Netherlands  his 
whole  dominions.  What  incipient  mediation 
did  he  leave  them  to  complete  1  That  of  the 
jh'c  Allied  Powers,  for  the  pacific  settlement  of 
ihe  Belgian  question.  And  yet  we  are  told  he 
involved  Great  Britain  in  a  hostile  aggression 
on  Holland,  and  was  the  author  of  a  measure 
of  robbery  by  two  of  the  mediating  powers! 

To  give  a  show  of  equity  to  their  spoliation, 
the  revolutionary  powers  have  summoned 
Leopold  to  surrender  Venloo,  and  declare  that 
Holland  is  to  retain  Luxemburg  and  Lim- 
burg.  This  is  a  mere  colourable  pretext,  desti- 
tute of  the  least  weight,  and  too  flimsy  to  de- 
ceive any  one  acquainted  with  the  facts.  Litx- 
emburg  always  was  in  the  hands  of  the 
Dutch  ;  it  formed  part  of  the  old  patrimony  of 
the  house  of  Nassau,  and  the  Belgians  have 
no  more  right  to  that  great  fortress,  or  its  ter- 
ritory, than  they  have  to  Magdebourg  or  Lisle. 
Venloo  is  a  fortress  of  third-rate  importance, 
about  as  fair  an  equivalent  for  Antwerp  as 
Conway  would  be  for  Liverpool.  Who  ever 
heard  of  any  works  of  Napoleon  on  Venloo,  or 
any  effort  on  his  part  to  retain  it  as  part  of  the 
outworks  of  his  conquering  dominions  ?  Ven- 
\o6  is  situated  on  the  right  or  German  bank 
of  the  Meuse,  and  never  belonged  to  Belgium ; 
so  that  to  consider  it  as  a  compensation  for  the 
great  and  magnificent  fortress  of  Antwerp,  the 
key  of  the  Scheldt,  is  as  absurd  as  it  would  be 
to  speak  of  Harwich  as  a  compensation  for 
London. 

Hitherto  we  have  argued  the  question  on  the 
footing  of  the  real  merits  of  the  points  at  issue, 
and  not  the  subordinate  question  on  which  the 
negotiations  finally  broke  off.  But  here,  too, 
the  injustice  of  the  proceeding  is  not  less 
manifest  than  in  the  general  nature  of  the 
transaction. 

It  wa-;  stipulated  by  the  treaty  of  15th  No- 
vember, 1821,  signed  by  all  the  Allied  Powers, 
that  the  evacuation  of  the  provinces  to  be  mu- 
tually ceded  on  both  sides,  should  take  place 
after  the  exchange  of  the  ratification  of  a  final 
peace.  Of  course,  Antwerp  was  held  by  Hol- 
land, and  Venloo  by  Belgium,  until  that  event; 
and  on  that  fooling  they  have  been  held  for  the 
last  twelve  months. 

But  what  do  France  and  England  now  require  1 
Why,  that  Antwerp  should  be  ceded  by  Hol- 
land before  the  treaty  is  either  signed  or  agreed 
to,  and  when  Aveighty  matters  are  still  in  de- 
pendence between  the  contracting  parties. 
The  advantages  which  the  King  of  the  Ne- 
therlands holds,  the  security  he  possesses  by 
holding  that  great  fortress,  is  to  be  instantly 
abandoned,  and  he  is  to  be  left,  without  any  se- 
airily,  to  the  tender  mercies  of  the  father-in-law 
of  his  enemy,  and  the  friendly  sympathy  of 
their  democratic  allies  in  this  island.  Is  this 
justl  Is  it  consistent  with  the  treaty  of  No- 
vember, 1831,  on  which  England  and  France 
justify  their  armed  interference]  Is  it  not 
evidently  a  violation  of  both  ?  and  does  not  it 
eave  the  revolutionary  states  as  much  in  the 
wrong  on  the  last  disputed  point  of  the  Con- 
ference as  on  its  general  spirit  1 


The  answer  of  the  King  of  the  Netherlands 
to  the  summons  of  France  and  England  to 
surrender  the  citadel  of  Antwerp,  is  so  deci- 
sive of  the  justice  of  his  cause  on  this  point, 
that  we  cannot  refrain  from  quoting  it: — 

"  Holland  having  acceded,  not  to  the  treaty 
of  the  15th  of  November,  1831,  but  to  the 
greater  part  of  its  arrangements,  must  found 
its  proceedings  on  the  stipulations  which  i*. 
has  accepted.  Among  the  articles  agreed  to  in 
concert  with  the  Conference  of  London,  is  in- 
cluded the  evacuation,  in  a  fixed  time  after  the 
exchange  of  the  ratifications  of  the  territories 
which  were  respectively  to  change  hands, 
which  point  was  regulated  by  the  last  of  the 
24  articles  of  15th  October,  1831,  by  the  treaty 
of  I5th  November,  and  in  the  projects  of  con- 
vention which  have  followed  it.  If,  on  the 
11th  June,  the  Conference  proposed  the  20th 
July,  for  the  evacuation  of  the  respective  ter- 
ritories, it  declared,  by  its  note  of  20th  July, 
that  in  making  this  proposal,  it  had  thought 
tKat  the  treaty  between  Holland  and  Bcigium 
would  be  ratified.  To  effect  the  evacuation  at 
a  time  anterior  to  the  exchange  of  the  ratifica- 
tions, would  be  acting  in  opposition  both  to 
the  formally  announced  intentions  of  the  Con- 
ference, and  to  the  assent  which  has  been 
given  to  them  by  the  government  of  the  Ne- 
therlands." 

"It  is  true,"  says  the  Times,  "that  the  terri- 
tories were  not  to  be  evacuated  on  each  side 
till  the  ratifications  of  a  general  peace  are  ex- 
changed." This  puts  an  end  to  the  argument : 
we  have  not  a  shadow  of  justice  for  our  de- 
mand of  the  immediate  evacuation  of  Antwerp, 
any  more  than  for  the  preceding  treaty,  which 
assigned  it  to  Belgium. 

The  war  in  which,  to  serve  their  new  and 
dearly-beloved  revolutionary  allies,  and  enable 
them  to  regain  their  menacing  point  to  our 
shores,  we  are  now  about  to  be  involved,  may 
last  ten  days  or  ten  years :  it  may  cost  500,000?. 
or  500,000,000/.:  all  that  is  in  the  womb  of 
fate,  and  of  that  Ave  know  nothing;  but  the 
justice  of  the  case  in  either  event  remains  the 
same.  That  )vhich  is  done  is  done,  and  can- 
not be  undone:  the  signature  of  England  has 
been  aflixed  to  the  treaty  with  revolutionary 
France  for  the  partition  of  our  allies,  and  there 
it  will  remain  for  ever,  to  call  down  the  judg- 
ment of  Heaven  upon  the  guilty  nation  which 
permitted,  and  the  execrations  of  posterity  on 
the  insane  administration  which  effected  it. 

In  this  Avar,  our  rulers  have  contrived  to  get 
us  into  such  a  situation,  that  by  no  possibility 
can  Ave  derive  either  honour,  advantage,  or  se- 
curity, from  the  consequences  to  Avhich  it  may 
lead.  If  the  French  and  English  are  Aactorious, 
and  Ave  succeed  in  storming  the  citadel  of 
Antwerp  for  the  tricolour  flag,  will  England  be 
a  gainer  by  the  victor)^ — will  our  commerce 
be  improved  by  surrendering  the  navigation 
of  the  Scheldt  into  the  hands  of  the  jealous 
manufacturers  of  France  and  Belgium,  and 
for  ever  alienating  our  old  and  Avilling  custom- 
ers in  the  United  Provinces  1  Will  our  na- 
tional security  be  materially  improved  by 
placing  the  magnificent  dockyards,  and  spa- 
cious arsenals,  and  impregnable  fortifications, 
which  Napoleon  erected  for  our  subjugation. 


PARTITION  OF  THE  KINGDOM  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 


297 


in  the  hands  of  a  revolutionary  King  of  France 
anl  his  warlike  and  able  prime  minister?  If 
■we  are  defeated,  is  the  honour  of  England,  the 
conqueror  of  France,  likely  to  be  upheld,  or  its 
influence  increased,  by  our  inability  to  bully  a 
fifth-rate  power,  even  with  the  aid  of  our  Jaco- 
bin allies?  Whatever  occurs,  whether  Hol- 
land submits  in  five  days,  or  holds  out  bravely 
and  nobly  for  five  years;  whether  the  united 
tricolour  and  the  leopard  arc  victorious  or  are 
vanquished,  we  can  derive  nothing  but  humili- 
ation, danger,  and  disgrace  from  the  event. 
We  shall  certainly  incur  all  the  losses  and  bur- 
dens of  war :  we  can  never  obtain  either  its 
advantages  or  its  glories. 

Every  man  in  England  may  possibly  soon 
be  compelled  to  ten  pounds  in  the  hundred  to 
undo  the  whole  fruits  of  our  former  victories, 
and  give  back  Antwerp  to  France  ! ! !  Jlnd  give 
back  Antwerp  to  France.'.'!  This  is  the  first 
fruits  of  our  Whig  diplomacy,  and  our  new 
revolutionary  alliance.  Will  the  surrender  of 
Portsmouth  or  Plymouth,  or  of  an  hundred 
ships  of  the  line,  be  the  second?* 

In  making  those  observations,  we  disclaim 
all  idea  of  imputing  to  ministers  any  inten- 
tional or  wilful  abandonment  of  the  interests 
and  honour  of  England.  We  believe  that  as 
Englishmen  and  gentlemen,  they  are  incapa- 
ble of  such  baseness.  What  we  assert  is,  that 
the  passion  for  innovation,  and  their  long-esta- 
blished admiration  of  France,  have  blinded 
their  eyes  ;  that  they  are  as  incapable  of  see- 
ing the  real  consequences  of  their  actions,  as 
a  young  man  is  in  the  first  fervour  of  love,  or 
an  inmate  of  bedlam  in  a  paroxysm  of  insanity. 

From  this  sickening  scene  of  aggression, 
spoliation,  and  robbery,  we  turn  with  pride  and 
admiration  to  the  firm  and  dignified,  yet  mild 
and  moderate  language  of  the  Dutch  govern- 
ment There  was  a  time,  when  their  conduct 
in  resisting  the  partition  of  their  country  by 
two  powerful  and  overbearing  revolutionary 
neighbours,  would  have  called  forth  the  unani- 
mous sympathy  and  admiration  of  the  British 
people:  when  they  would  have  compared  it  lo 
the  Ion.'    '  uf  the  House  of  Nassau,  and 

«he    in!  courage   of  that   illusirioiis 

chief,  wli..,  •.  Ii.  n  the  armies  of  Louis  XIV. 
were  at  the  gales  of  Amsterdam,  declared  that 
he  knew  one  way  to  avoid  seeing  the  disgrace 
of  his  conntr}'.  and  that  was  to  die  in  the  last 
ditch.  We  cannot  believe  that  revolutionary 
passion  I  have  so  complctrly  changed 

the  nati.  hole  people  in  so  short  a  time, 

as  to  render  them  insensible  to  such  heroic 
conduct:  at  all  events,  for  the  honour  of  hu- 
man nature,  wc  cannot  forbear  the  gratifica- 
tion of  adorning  our  pages  by  the  fi. Mowing 
quotation  from  the  last  reply  of  the  .Statcs- 
Gen.Tal  of  Holland  to  the  speech  of  the  King 
of  the  Netherlands,  announcing  the  approach- 
ing atlack  of  France  and  England. 

"  Never  did  the  Siates-CJeneral  approach  the 
throne  with  feelings  similar  to  those  of  the 
presen.  moment.    They  had  fostered  the  well- 


•  Of  roiirsc  Ihn  surrender  of  Antwerp  to  revoltillonnrv 
Belciiirn,  eovcrnrd  liy  llic  (inn-in-l.i\v  nf  rrnnr.-,  i<,  in 
other  worJs,  a  aiirrenilor  to  tlie  great  parent  (leiiiorracv 
itself.  ' 


grounded  hope  that  equitable  arrangements 
would  have  put  a  period  to  the  pressure  on  the 
countr}',  but  this  just  expectation  has  been  dis- 
appointed. The  States-General  are  grieved  at 
the  course  of  the  negotiations.  Whilst  we  are 
moderate  and  indulgent,  demands  are  made  on 
us  which  are  in  opposition  to  the  honour  and 
the  independence  of  the  nation;  a  small  but 
glorious  state  is  sacrificed  to  a  presumed  gene- 
ral interest.  It  makes  a  deep  impression  to 
see  that  foreign  powers  entertain  a  feeling  in 
favour  of  a  people  torn  from  us  by  violence 
and  perfidy — a  feeling  leading  to  our  destruc- 
tion— instead  of  experiencing  from  the  great 
powers  aid  in  upholding  our  rights.  The 
clouds  that  darken  the  horizon  might  lead  to 
discouragement,  were  it  not  for  the  conviction 
of  the  nation  that  she  does  not  deserve  this 
treatment,  and  that  the  moral  energy  which  en- 
abled her  to  make  the  sacrifices  already  ren- 
dered, remains  in  undiminished  strength  to 
support  her  in  the  further  sacrifices  necessary 
for  tiie  conservation  of  the  national  indepen- 
dence; that  energy  ever  shone  most  brilliant 
when  the  country  was  most  in  danger,  and  had 
to  resist  the  superior  forces  of  united  enemies  ; 
that  energy  enabled  her  to  re-establish  her  po- 
litical edifice  which  had  been  demolished  by 
the  usurper;  and  the  same  energy  must,  under 
our  king,  maintain  that  edifice  against  the 
usurpatory  demands  or  attacks  of  an  unjust 
defection. 

"  The  result  is  anticipated  with  confidence- 
The  nation  glories  in  her  powerful  means  of 
defence,  and  in  her  sea  and  land  forces,  which 
are  in  arms  to  obtain  equitable  terms  of  the 
peace  that  is  still  so  anxiously  solicited. 

"  The  charges  are  heavy,  but  the  circum- 
stances that  render  them  necessarj'  are  unex- 
ampled; and  there  is  no  native  of  the  country 
who  would  not  cheerfully  make  the  utmost 
sacrifices  when  the  honour  and  independence 
of  the  nation  are  endangered.  Much  may  be 
conceded  for  the  sake  of  the  peace  of  Europe, 
but  self-preservation  puis  a  limit  to  conces- 
sions when  they  have  approached  to  the  ut- 
most boundary.  The  Netherlands  have  ever 
made,  willingly,  great  sacrifices  fur  the  defence 
of  their  rights  ;  but  never  have  they  volunta- 
rily relinquished  their  national  existence,  and 
many  times  they  have  defended  them  with 
small  numerical  forces  against  far  superior 
niiinhers.  This  same  feeling  now  glows  in 
every  hf'art ;  and  still  there  is  the  God  of  our 
forefathers,  who  has  preserved  us  in  times  of 
the  most  imminent  peril.  In  unison  with  their 
king,  the  States-General  put  their  confidence 
in  God;  and,  strong  as  they  are  in  their  unani- 
mity of  scntimi-nls,  and  in  the  justice  of  their 
cause,  ihey  coiifi.lenlly  look  forward  to  the  re- 
ward of  a  noble  and  magnanimous  perseve- 
rance." 

The  revolutionary  journals  of  England  call 
this  the  obstinacy  of  the  king  of  Holland.  It 
is  obstinacy.  It  is  the  same  obstinacy  as  Le- 
onidas  showed  at  Th'^rmopyIa»,  and  Thnnisto- 
cles  at  Salamis,  and  the  Roman  senate  after 
the  battle  of  Cannjr,  and  the  Swiss  at  Morgar- 
Icn,  and  Ihc  Dutch  at  Haarlf^m  ;  the  obstinacy 
which  c  immands  the  admiration  of  men 
tliniugh    every    succeeding    age,    and.    even 


298 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAy5>. 


amidst  the  injustice  of  this  world,  secures  the 
biessinj?  of  Heaven. 

The  Dutch  may  have  Antwerp  wrested  from 
them;  they  may  be  compelled,  from  inability 
to  resist,  to  surrender  it  to  the  Allies.    All  that 
will  not  alter  the  case ;  it  will  not  ultimately 
avert  an  European  war;  it  will  not  the  less 
prove  fatal  to  the  progress  of  freedom.     The 
Allies,  and  above  all,  England,  allow  the  key  to 
the  Scheldt,  and  the  advanced  post  of  France 
against  Britain,  to  remain  in  the  hands  of  the 
French,  or,  what  is  the  same  thing,  their  sub- 
sidiary ally,  the  Belgians.     In  every  age  the 
establishment  of  the  French  power  in  Flan- 
ders has   led  to  an  European  war;   that  in 
which   a  revolutionary  force   is    intrenched 
there,  is  not  destined  to  form  an  exception. 
A  war  of  opinion  must  ensue  sooner  or  later, 
when  the  tricolour  standard  is  brought  down 
to  the  Scheldt,  and  the  eagle  of  Prussia  floats 
on  the  Meuse.     When  that  event  comes,  as 
come  it  will,  then  will  England,  whether  re- 
publican or  monarchical,  be  compelled  to  exert 
her  force  to  drive  back  the  French  to  their  old 
frontier.    A  second  war  must  be  undertaken  to 
regain  what  a  moment  of  weakness  and  infatu- 
ation has  lost  in  the  first. 

But  what  will  be  the  result  of  such  a  war, 
provoked  by  the  revolutionary  ambition  of 
France,  and  the  tame  subservience  of  England, 
on  the  interests  of  freedom  ]  If  revolutionary 
ambition  prevails,  what  chance  has  liberty  of 
surviving  amidst  the  tyranny  of  democratic 
power  1  If  legitimate  authority  conquers,  how 
can  it  exist  amidst  the  Russian  and  Austrian 
bayonets  ?  When  will  real  freedom  again  be 
restored  as  it  existed  in  France  under  the  mild 
sway  of  the  Bourbons ;  or  as  prosperous  a 
period  be  regained  for  that  distracted  country, 
as  that  which  elapsed  from  1815  to  ISSO?  It 
is  evident,  that  freedom  must  perish  in  the 
fierce  contest  between  democratic  and  regal 
tyranny :  it  is  hard  to  say,  whether  it  has  most 
to  fear  from  the  triumph'of  the  French  or  the 
Russian  bayonets.  To  their  other  claims  to 
the  abhorrence  of  mankind,  the  liberals  of 
England,  like  the  Jacobins  of  France,  will  add 
that  of  being  the  assassins  of  real  liberty 
throughout  the  world. 

_  It  is  sometimes  advantageous  to  see  the  light 
m  which  the  conduct  of  Great  Britain  is  view- 
ed m  foreign  states.  The  following  article  is 
from  the  Manheim  Gazette  of  the  8th  inst.:— 
"The  French  ministry  and  the  English  Whio-s 
nave  in  vain  asserted  that  they  do  not  mean  to 
rule  by  the  principle  of  propagandism;  these 
assurances  are  no  guarantee,  since  propagand- 
ism subsists  in  the  -tystem  they  have  establish- 
ed, and  cannot  cease  till  that  system  is  at  an 
end.  The  delegates  of  the  people,  for  in  this 
light  must  be  viewed  all  governments  founded 
upon  the  principle  of  popular  sovereigntj-, 
must  of  necessity  seek  their  allies  amono- 
other  delegates  of  the  same  character;  and  to 
eudeavour  to  find  friends  among  their  neigh- 
bours, is  to  act  as  if  they  sought  to  revolution- 
ise such  states  as  profess  the  monarchical 
principle.  In  this  respect  the  influence  of  the 
firey  ministry  is  more  pernicious  than  that  of 
the  French  ministry.  The  former  having  com- 
menced by  revolutionizing  England,  and  feel- 


ing itself  closely  pressed  by  a  reaction  at 
home,  feels  a  greater  desire  to  form  alliances 
with  other  nations ;  and  consequently  it  is  less 
solicitous  about  treaties  and  rights  than  France, 
who  would  unite  herself  more  readily  with 
monarchical  states,  if  she  were  not  restrained 
by  the  alliance  with  England.  It  is  evident 
that  England  now  occupies  the  place  which 
was  occupied  by  France  after  the  revolution. 
Already  the  Grey  ministry  finds  itself  com. 
pelled  to  repair  one  extreme  resolution  by  an- 
other ;  and  in  a  very  short  lime,  repose,  order, 
and  peace,  will  become  impossible.  We  re- 
peat, therefore,  that  it  is  the  Grey  ministry 
which  threatens  the  peace  of  Europe."  Such 
is  the  light  in  which  our  government  is  viewed 
by  the  continental  powers,  and  such  the  alarm 
M-hich  they  feel  at  the  threatened  attack  on 
Holland  by  the  two  revolutionary  states ;  and 
yet  we  are  told  by  the  partisans  of  administra- 
tion, that  they  are  going  to  attack  Antwerp"  to 
preserve  the  peace  of  Europe." 

The  ministerial  journals  have  at  length  let 
out  the  real  motive  of  our  conduct ;  the  Times 
tells  us  that  it  is  useless  to  blink  the  question, 
for  if  the  French  and  English  do  not  attack 
Antwerp  together,  France  ivill  attack  it  alone, 
and  that  this  would  infallibly  bring  on  a  gene- 
ral M'ar.  That  is  to  say,  we  have  got  into  the 
company  of  a  robber  who  is  bent  upon  assail- 
ing a  passenger  upon  the  highway,  and  to  pre- 
vent murder  Ji-eyoin  the  robber  in  the  attack.  Did 
it  never  occur  to  our  rulers,  that  there  was  a 
more  effectual  way  to  prevent  the  iniquity  1 
and  that  is  to  get  out  of  such  had  company, 
and  defend  the  traveller.  Would  France  ever 
venture  to  attack  Antwerp  if  she  were  not 
supported  by  England?  Would  she  ever  do 
so  if  England,  Austria,  Russia,  and  Prussia, 
were  leagued  together  to  prevent  the  march  of 
revolutionary  ambition]  On  whom  then  do 
the  consequences  of  the  aggression  clearly 
rest  1  On  the  English  government,  who, 
against  the  interests  and  honour  of  England, 
join  in  the  attack,  when  they  hold  the  balance 
in  their  hands,  and  by  a  Avoid  could  prevent  it. 
It  is  evident  that  it  is  this  portentous  alliance 
of  France  and  England  which  really  threatens 
the  peace  of  Europe,  and  must  ixltimately  lead 
to  a  universal  war.  The  Manheim  Gazette 
is  perfectly  right;  it  is  the  Grey  administration 
who  head  the  revolutionar)'  crusade.  Holding 
the  balance  in  our  hands,  we  voluntarily  throw 
our  decisive  weight  into  the  scales  of  aggres- 
sion, and  the  other  powers  must  unite  to  restore 
the  beam. 

The  years  of  prosperity  will  not  endure  for 
ever  to  England,  any  more  than  to  any  earthly 
thing.  The  evil  days  will  come  when  the 
grandeur  of  an  old  and  venerated  name  will 
sink  amidst  the  storms  of  adversity;  when  her 
vast  and  unwieldy  empire  will  be  dismember- 
ed, and  province  after  province  fall  away  from 
her  mighty  dominions.  W'hen  these  days 
come,  as  come  they  Avill,  then  will  she  feel 
what  it  was  to  have  betrayed  and  insulted  her 
allies  in  the  plenitude  of  her  power.  When 
Ireland  rises  in  open  rebellion  against  her  do- 
minion; when  the  West  Indies  are  lost,  and 
with  them  the  right  arm  of  her  naval  strength; 
when  the  armies  of  the  continent  crowd  the 


KARAMSIN'S  RUSSIA. 


290 


coasts  of  Flanders,  and  the  navies  of  Europe 
are  assembled  in  the  Scheldt,  to  humble  the 
mistress  of  the  \vave.s,  then  will  she  feel  how 
deepl}',  how  irreparabl}',  her  character  has 
suffered  from  the  infatuation  of  the  last  two 
years.  In  vain  will  she  call  on  her  once  faith- 
ful friends  in  Holland  or  Portugal  to  uphold 
the  cause  of  freedom ;  in  vain  will  she  appeal 
to  the  world  a2:ainst  the  violence  with  M-hich 
she  is  menaced ;  her  desertion  of  her  allies  in 
the  hour  of  their  adversity,  her  atrocious  alli- 
ance with  revolutionary  violence,  will  rise  up 
in  judgment  against  her.  When  called  on  for 
aid,  they  will  answer,  did  )'ou  aid  us  in  the  day 
of  trial !  when  reminded  of  the  alliance  of  an 
hundred  and  fifi)'  years,  the}'  will  point  to  the 
partition  of  1832.  England  may  expiate  by 
suffering  the  disgrace  of  her  present  defec- 
tion ;  efface  it  from  the  minds  of  men  she 
never  will. 
The  conservative  administration  of  England 


have  had  many  eulogists,  but  they  have  haj 
none  who  have  established  their  reputation 
so  effectually  as  their  successors  :  Mr.  Pitt's 
glory  might  have  been  doubtful  in  the  eyes  of 
posterity,  had  he  not  been  succeeded  by  Lord 
Grey.  The  contrast  between  the  firmness,  in- 
tegrity, and  good  faith  of  the  one,  and  tha 
vacillation,  defection,  and  weakness  of  the 
other,  will  leave  an  impression  on  the  minds 
of  men  which  will  never  be  effaced.  The  mag 
nitude  of  the  perils  from  which  we  were  saved 
by  the  first,  have  been  proved  by  the  dangers 
we  have  incurred  under  the  second ;  the  lustre 
of  the  intrepidity  of  the  former,  by  the  disgrace 
and  humiliation  of  the  latter.  To  the  bright 
evening  of  England's  glory,  has  succeeded  the 
darkness  of  revolutionary  night:  may  it  be  as 
brief  as  it  has  been  gloomy,  and  be  followed 
by  the  rise  of  the  same  luminary  in  a  brighter 
morning,  gilded  by  colours  of  undecaying 
beauty ! 


KARAMSIN^S   RUSSIA/ 


Nevzh  was  there  a  more  just  observation, 
than  that  there  is  no  end  to  authentic  history. 
We  shall  take  the  most  learned  and  enthusi- 
astic student  of  history  in  the  country;  one 
who  has  spent  half  his  life  in  reading  the  an- 
nals of  human  events,  and  still  we  are  confi- 
dent that  much  of  what  is  about  to  be  stated  in 
this  article  will  be  new  to  him.  Yet  it  relates 
to  no  inconsiderable  state,  and  is  to  be  found 
in  no  obscure  writer.  It  relates  to  the  history 
of  Russia,  the  greatest  and  most  powerful  em- 
pire, if  we  except  Great  Britain,  which  exists 
upon  the  earth,  and  with  which, — sometimes 
in  alliance, — sometimes  in  jealousy, — we  have 
been  almost  continually  brought  in  contact 
during  the  last  half  century.  It  is  to  be  fouiul 
in  the  history  of  Karamsin,  the  greatest  his- 
torian of  Russia,  who  has  justly  acquired  an 
European  reputation ;  but  whose  great  work, 
thnuL'h  relating  to  so  interesting  a  subject,  has 
hitherto,  in  an  unaccountable  manner,  been 
neglected  in  this  country. 

Wc  complain  that  there  is  nothing  new  in 
literature, — that  old  ideas  are  perpetually  re- 
curring, and  worn-out  topics  again  dressed  vip 
in  a  mw  garb, — that  sameness  and  imitation 
seem  to  be  irrevocably  stamped  upon  our 
literature,  and  the  age  of  original  thought,  of 
fresh  ideas,  and  creative  genius,  has  passed 
away!  Rely  upon  it,  the  fault  is  not  in  the 
nature  of  things,  but  in  ourselves.  The  stock 
of  original  ideas,  of  new  ihotights,  of  fresh 
images,  is  not  worn  out;  on  the  contrary,  it 
has  hardly  been  seriously  worked  upon  by 
all  the  previous  efforts  of  mankind.  We  may 
say  of  it,  as  Newton  did  of  his  discoveries 
in  physical  science, that  "all  that  he  had  done 
seemed  like  a  boy  playing  on  the  sea-shore, 
finding    sometimes   a   brighter    pebble   or   a 

•  Kar;iniriin.  Ilisloiro  do  Hiissir,  1 1  void,    rnr'm,  l''in— 
82S.    I'oruigii   mil]   Colonial   Review,  No.   VII.   July, 


smoother  shell  than  ordinary-,  while  the  great 
ocean  of  truth  lay  all  undiscovered  before 
him."  We  complain  of  sameness  of  thought, 
of  want  of  originality  in  topics,  and  yet  we  live 
in  the  midst  of  a  boundless  profusion  of  new 
facts  and  virgin  images,  for  the  first  time 
brought  forward  by  our  extended  intercourse 
with  all  parts  of  the  world,  ami  the  heart-stir- 
ring  events  of  our  political  historj'.  'I'here 
never  was  a  period  in  the  annals  of  mankind, 
if  we  except  that  of  the  discover)' of  America, 
in  which  new  facts  and  novel  images,  and  the 
materials  for  original  thought,  were  brought 
with  such  profusion  to  the  hand  of  genius ;  and 
there  never  was  one  in  which,  in  this  country 
at  least,  so  little  use  was  ma<le  of  them,  or  in 
which  the  public  mind  seems  to  revolve  sc 
exclusively  round  one  centre,  and  in  one  beaten 
and  wellnigh  worn-out  orbit. 

Whence  has  arisen  this  strani,'e  discrepancy 
between  the  profusion  with  which  new  mate- 
rials and  fresh  objects  arc  brought  to  hand, 
and  the  scanty  proportion  in  which  original 
thought  is  poured  out  to  the  world? — The 
cause  is  to  be  found  in  the  impossibility  of 
getting  the  great  majority  of  men  to  make  the 
"  past  or  the  fntunr  predomin.nnt  over  the  pre- 
sent." If  we  aikl  "  the  ahanii"  to  the  famous 
apothegm  of  Johnson,  we  shall  have  a  sum- 
mary of  the  principal  causes  which  in  ordinary 
limes  chain  mankind  to  the  conn-ntric  circles 
of  established  id-'as.  Amidst  common  events, 
and  under  the  inllucnre  of  no  peculiar  excite- 
ment, men  are  incapable  of  extricating  iheni 
.selves  from  the  ocean  of  habitnai  thought  with 
which  they  are  surrounded.  A  frw  great  men 
may  do  so,  but  their  iileas  produce  no  impres- 
sion on  the  age,  and  lie  wellnigh  dormant  till 
they  are  brought  to  fructify  ami  spread  amidst 
the  turbulence  or  sufferings  of  nnother.  Thence 
the  use  of  periods  of  suffering  or  intense  ex- 
citement to  the  growth  of  intellect,  and  t''»» 


300 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


development  of  truth.  The  past  and  the  future 
arc  then  made  the  present;  ages  of  experience, 
volumes  of  speculation,  are  then  concentrated 
into  the  passing  results  of  a  few  years,  and 
thus  spread  generally  throughout  mankind. 
What  ori2:inal  thought  was  evolved  in  England 
during  (he  fervour  of  the  Reformation !  in 
France,  during  the  agonies  of  the  Revolution  ! 
Subsequent  centuries  of  ease  and  peace  to 
each  were  but  periods  of  transfer  and  amplifi- 
cation,— of  studied  imitation  and  laboured 
commentary.  There  has  been,  there  still  is, 
original  thought  in  our  age ;  but  it  is  confined 
to  those  whom  the  agitation  of  reform  roused 
from  the  intellectual  lethargy  with  which  they 
■were  surrounded,  and  their  opinions  have  not 
yet  come  to  influence  general  thought.  They 
will  do  so  in  the  next  generation,  and  direct 
the  course  of  legislation  in  the  third.  Public 
opinion,  of  which  so  much  is  said,  is  nothing 
but  the  re-echo  of  the  opinions  of  the  great 
among  our  fathers, — legislation  among  our 
grandfathers ;  so  slowly,  under  the  wise  sys- 
tem of  providence,  is  truth  and  improvement 
let  down  to  a  benighted  world ! 

We  have  been  forcibly  led  to  these  observa- 
tions by  the  study  of  Karamsin's  History  of 
Russia,  and  the  immense  stores  of  new  facts 
and  novel  ideas  which  are  to  be  found  in  a 
work  long  accessible  in  its  French  translation 
to  all,  hardly  as  yet  approached  by  any.     We 
are  accustomed  to  consider  Russia  as  a  country 
which  has  only  been  extricated  by  the  genius 
of  Peter  the  Great,  little  more  than  a  century 
and  a  half  ago,  from  a  state  of  barbarism,  and 
the  annals  of  which  have  been  lost  amidst 
general  ignorance,  or  are  worthy  of  no  regard 
till  they  were  brought  into  light  by  the  in- 
creasing intercourse  with  the  powers  of  west- 
ern Europe.    Such,  we  are  persuaded,  is  the 
belief  of  ninety-nine  out  of  an  hundred,  even 
among  learned   readers,  in   every  European 
state;  yet  we  perceive  from  Karamsin,  that 
Russia  is  a  power  which  has  existed,  though 
with  great  vicissitudes  of  fortune,  for  a  thou- 
sand years  ;  that  Rurick,  its  founder,  was  con- 
temporary with  Alfred;  and  that  it  assailed 
the  Bosphorus  and  Constantinople  in  the  ninth 
century,  with  a  force  greater  than  that  with 
•which  William  the  Conqueror  subverted  the 
Saxfrn  monarchy  at  Hastings,  and  more  pow- 
erful than  were  led  against  it  in  after  times  by 
the  ambition  of  Catherine  or  the  generals  of 
Nicholas !     What  is  still  more  remarkable,  the 
mode  of  attack  adopted  by  these  rude  invaders 
of  the  Byzantine  empire  was   precisely  that 
which  long  and  dear-bought  experience,  aided 
by  military  science,  subsequently  taught  to  the 
Russian  generals.    Avoiding  the  waterless  and 
unhealthy  plains  of  Bessarabia  and  Walachia, 
they  committed  themselves  in  fearful  multi- 
tudes to  boats,  which  were  wafted  down  the 
stream  of  the  Dnieper  to  the  Black  Sea;  and 
when   the  future   conqueror  of  the   east  ap- 
proaches to  place  the  cross  on  the  minarets 
of  St.  Sophia,  he  has  only  to  follow  the  track 
of  the  canoes,  which  a  thousand  years   ago 
brought  the  hordes  of  Rurick  to  the  entrance 
of  the  Bosphorus. 

Complicated,  and  to  appearance  inextricable 
3U  the  transactions  of  the  Slavonic  race  seem 


at  first  sight,  the  history  of  Russia  is  je' 
singularly  susceptible  of  simplification.  Ii 
embraces  four  great  periods,  each  of  which 
have  stamped  their  own  peculiar  impress  upon 
the  character  of  the  people,  and  which  have 
combined  to  produce  that  mighty  empire  which 
now  numbers  60,000,000  of  men  among  its 
subjects,  and  a  seventh  of  the  surface  of  the 
globe  beneath  its  dominion. 

The  first  of  these  periods  is  that  which  com- 
mences with  the  foundation  of  the  Russian 
empire  by  Rurick,  in  862,  and  terminates  with 
the  commencement  of  the  unhappy  division 
of  the  empire  into  apanages,  or  provisions  for 
younger  children, — the  source  of  innumerable 
evils  both  to  the  monarchy  and  its  subjects,  in 
1054.  The  extent  to  which  the  empire  had 
spread,  and  the  power  it  had  acquired  before 
this  ruinous  system  of  division  commenced, 
is  extraordinary.  In  the  10th  century,  Russia 
v.'as  as  prominent,  comparatively  speaking, 
among  the  powers  of  Europe,  in  point  of 
territory,  population,  resources,  and  achieve- 
ments, as  she  is  at  this  moment.  The  con- 
quests of  Oleg,  of  Sviatoslof,  and  of  Vladimir, 
to  whom  the  sceptre  of  Rurick  had  descended, 
extended  the  frontiers  of  the  Russian  territory 
from  Novogorod  and  Kieff" — its  original  cradle 
on  the  banks  of  the  Dnieper — to  the  Baltic,  the 
Dwina,  and  the  Bug,  on  the  west;  on  the 
south,  to  the  cataracts  of  the  Dnieper  and  the 
Cimmerian  Bosphorus ;  in  the  north,  to  Arch- 
angel, the  White  Sea,  and  Finland;  on  the 
east,  to  the  Ural  Mountains  and  shores  of  the 
Caspian.  All  the  territory  which  now  con- 
stitutes the  strength  of  Russia,  and  has  enabled 
it  to  extend  its  dominion  and  influence  so  far 
over  Asia  and  Europe,  was  already  ranged 
under  the  sceptre  of  its  monarchs  before  the 
time  of  Edward  the  Confessor. 

The  second  period  comprehends  the  in- 
numerable intestine  M'ars,  and  progressivfi 
decline  of  the  strength  and  consideration  of 
the  empire,  which  resulted  from  the  adoption 
of  the  fatal  system  of  apanages.  This  method 
of  providing  for  the  younger  children  of  suc- 
cessive monarchs,  so  natural  to  parental  alfec- 
tion,  so  just  with  reference  to  the  distribution 
of  possessions  among  successive  royal  fami- 
lies, so  ruinous  to  the  ultimate  interests  of  the 
state,  was  commenced  by  the  Grand  Prince 
Dmitri,  in  1054,  and  afforded  too  ready  a  means 
of  providing  for  the  succeeding  generation  of 
princes  to  be  soon  abandoned.  The  effects  of 
such  a  S3'stem  may  without  difficulty  be  con- 
ceived. It  reduced  a  solid  compact  monarchy 
at  once  to  the  distracted  state  of  the  Saxon 
heptarchy,  and  soon  introduced  into  its  vitals 
those  fierce  internal  wars  which  exhaust  the 
strength  of  a  nation  without  either  augmenting 
its  resources,  or  adding  to  its  reputation.  It  is 
justly  remarked  accordingly,  by  Karamsin,  that 
for  the  next  three  hundred  years  after  this  fatal 
change  in  the  system  of  government,  Russia 
incessantly  declined ;  and  after  having  attadned, 
at  a  very  early  period,  the  highest  pitch  of 
power  and  grandeur,  she  sunk  to  such  a  depth 
of  weakness  as  to  be  incapable  of  opposing 
any  effectual  resistance  to  a  foreign  invader. 

The  third  period  of  Russian  history,  and  not 
the  least  in  the  formation  of  its  national  c 


KARAMSIN'S  RUSSIA. 


301 


racter,  commenced  with  the  Tartar  invasion, 
and  terminated  with  the  final  emancipation  of 
the  Moscovite  dominions.  In  1224,  the  first 
intelligence  of  a  strange,  uncouth,  and  savage 
enemv  having  appeared  on  the  eastern  froiitier, 
was  received  at  Kieff,  then  the  capital  of  the 
Muscovite  confederacy,  for  it  no  longer  de- 
served the  name  of  an  empire;  and  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  years  had  elapsed  before  the 
nation  was  finally  emancipated  from  their 
dreadful  yoke.  This  was  accomplished  by  the 
abilities  and  perseverance  of  John  III.,  the 
true  restorer,  and,  in  some  degree,  the  second 
founder  of  the  empire,  in  1480,  in  which  year 
the  last  invasion  of  the  Tartar  was  repulsed, 
and  the  disgraceful  tribute  so  long  paid  to  the 
great  khan  was  discontinued.  During  this 
melancholy  interval,  Russia  underwent  the  last 
atrocities  of  savage  cruelty  and  barbaric  des- 
potism. Moscow,  then  become  the  capital,  was 
sacked  and  burnt  by  the  Tartars,  in  1387,  with 
more  devastation  than  afterv/ards  during  the 
invasion  of  Napoleon ;  every  province  of  the 
empire  was  repeatedly  overrun  by  these  ruth- 
less invaders,  who,  equally  incapable  of  giving 
or  receiving  quarter,  seemed,  wherever  they 
went,  to  have  declared  a  war  of  extermination 
against  the  human  race,  which  their  prodi- 
gious numbers  and  infernal  energy  in  war  gen- 
erally enabled  them  to  carry  on  with  success. 
Nor  was  their  pacific  rule,  where  they  had 
thoroughly  subjugated  a  country,  less  degrad- 
ing than  their  inroad  was  frightful  and  de- 
vastating. Oppression,  long  continued  and 
systematic,  constituted  their  only  system  of 
government;  and  the  Russians  owe  to  these 
terrible  tyrants  the  use  of  the  knout,  and  of  the 
other  cruel  punishments,  which,  from  their 
long  retention  in  the  empire  of  the  czars,  when 
generally  disused  elsewhere,  have  so  long  ex- 
cited the  horror  of  Western  Europe. 

The  fourth  period  commences  with  the  aboli- 
tion of  the  ruinous  system  of  apunm^rs  by  Oie 
mingled  finnness  and  cunning,  wisdom  and 
fortune,  of  John  III.,  about  the  year  1480  ;  and 
continued  till  the  genius  of  Peter  the  Great 
gave  the  country  its  great  impetus  two  hun- 
dred years  after.  This  period  was  a  clicquered 
one  to  the  fortunes  of  Moscovy,  but,  on  the 
whole,  of  general  progressive  advancement. 
Tinder  Vassili,  the  successor  of  John  III., 
the  Russians  made  iheniselves  masters  of 
f^molin-ico,  and  extend<'d  their  frontiers  on  the 
cast  to  the  Dwina.  Under  John  the  Terrible, 
who  succeeded  him,  they  carried  by  assault, 
after  a  Icrrible  struggle,  Kazan,  in  the  south 
of  .Moscovy,  where  the  Tartars  had  established 
themselves  in  a  solid  manner  and  formed  the 
capital  of  a  pnwrrfiil  state,  which  had  more 
than  once  inllictcd,  in  conjunction  with  the 
Lithuanians,  the  most  dreadful  wounds  on  the 
vitals  of  the  empire.  Disasters  great  and  re- 
jicated  still  marked  this  period,  as  wave  after 
\yAve  break  on  the  shore  after  the  fury  of  the 
tempest  has  been  stilled.  Moscow  was  airain 
reduced  to  ashes  during  the  minority  of  John 
the  Terrible ;  it  was  again  burnt  by  the  Tar- 
tars; and  a  third  lime,  by  accident ;  the  vic- 
torious Poles  advanced  their  standards  to  its 
gates,  and  so  low  were  his  fortunes  reduced, 
that  that  heroic  but  bloody  monarch  had  at 


one  period  serious  thoughts  of  deserting  his 
country,  and  seeking  refuge  in  England  from 
his  numerous  enemies.  Yet,  Russia,  thanks 
to  the  patriotism  of  her  children  and  the  in- 
domitable firmness  of  her  character,  survived 
all  these  disasters ;  in  the  succeeding  reign 
her  arms  wehe  extended  across  the  Ural  moun- 
tains over  Siberia,  though  her  dominion  ovjr 
its  immense  wilds  was  for  long  little  more 
than  nominal,  and  a  fortress  was  erected  at 
Archangel,  which  secured  to  her  the  command 
of  the  White  Sea. 

The  last  period  commences  with  the  taking 
of  Azoph,  by  Peter  the  Great,  in  1G9G,  which 
first  opened  to  the  youthful  czar  the  dominion 
of  the  Black  Sea,  and  terminates  with  the  pro- 
digious extension  of  the  empire,  consequent  oa 
the  defeat  of  Napoleon's  invasion.  Europe 
has  had  too  much  reason  to  be  acquainted 
with  the  details  of  Russian  victories  during 
this  period.  Her  wars  were  no  longer  with 
the  Tartars  or  Lithuanians:  she  no  longer 
fought  for  life  or  death  with  the  khan  of  Sam- 
arcand,  the  hordes  of  Bati,  or  the  czar  of  Ka- 
zan. Emerging  with  the  strength  of  a  giant 
from  the  obscure  cloud  in  which  she  had 
hitherto  been  involved,  she  took  an  active,  and 
at  length  a  fearful  part,  in  the  transactions  of 
Western  Europe.  The  conquest  of  Azoph, 
which  opened  to  them  the  command  of  the 
Black  Sea — the  fierce  contest  with  Sweden, 
and  ultimate  overthrow  of  its  heroic  monarch 
at  Pultowa — the  bloody  wars  with  Turkey, 
commencing  with  the  disasters  of  the  Prufh, 
and  leading  on  to  the  triumphs  of  Ockzakow, 
of  Ismael,  and  Adrianople — the  conquest  of 
Georgia,  and  passage  of  the  Russian  arms 
over  the  coast  of  the  Caucasus  and  to  the 
waters  of  the  Araser — the  acquisition  of  Wal- 
achia  and  Moldavia,  and  extension  of  their 
southern  frontier  to  the  Danube — the  partition 
of  Poland,  and  entire  subjugation  of  their  old 
enemies,  the  Lithuanians — the  seizure  of  Fin- 
land by  Alexander — in  fine,  the  overthrow  of 
Napoleon,  capture  of  Paris,  and  virtual  sub- 
jugation of  Turkey  by  the  treaty  of  Adrianople, 
have  marked  this  period  in  indelible  charac- 
ters on  the  tablets  of  the  world's  history. 
Above  Alexander's  tomb  arc  now  hung  the 
keys  of  Paris  and  Adrianople :  those  of  War- 
saw will  he  suspended  over  that  of  his  suc- 
cessor! The  ancient  and  long  dreaded  rivals 
of  the  empire,  the  Tartars,  the  Poles,  the 
Prench,  ami  the  Turks,  have  been  successive- 
ly vanquished.  Every  war  for  two  centuries 
past  has  led  to  an  accession  to  the  Moscovite 
territory  ;  and  no  htiman  foresight  can  predict 
the  period  when  the  god  Terminus  is  to  recede 
There  is  enouu'h  here  to  arrest  the  attention 
of  the  most  inconsiderate;  to  occupy  the 
thoughts  of  the  most  contemplative. 

History  exhibits  numerous  instances  of 
empires  which  have  been  suddenly  elevated 
to  greatness  liy  the  genius  or  fortune  of  a 
single  man  ;  but  in  all  such  rases  the  dominion 
has  been  as  short-lived  in  its  endurance  as  it 
was  rapid  in  its  growth.  The  successive  em 
pires  of  Alexander.  Genghis  Khan,  Tamei. 
lane,  Nadir  Shah,  Charlemagne,  and  Napr- 
Icon,  attest  this  truth.  But  there  is  no  examjue 
of  a  nation  having  risen  to  (/ura6/c  greatness 


3oa 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


or  aitaiiic.j  a  lasting  dominion  over  the  bodies 
and  minds  of  men,  but  by  long  previous  efforts, 
and  llie  struggles  and  sufferings  of  many  suc- 
cessive centuries.     It  would    appear  to  be  a 
general  law  of  nature,  alike  in  the  material  and 
the  moral  world,  that  nothing  permanent  is 
erected  but  by  slow  degrees,  and  that  hardship 
and  suffering  constitute  the  severe  but  neces- 
sary  school   of  ultimate   greatness.     In   this 
point  of  view,  there  is  a  remarkable  analogy 
between  the  history,  from  the  earliest  periods, 
of  England,  France,  and  Russia, — the   three 
powers  which  stood  forth  so  prominent  in  the 
great  fight  of  the  19th  century.     Their  periods 
of  greatness,  of  suffering,  and   of  probation, 
from  their  infancy  have  been  the  same ;  and 
during  the  long  training  of  a  thousand  j^ears, 
each  has  at  the  same  time,  and  in  a  similar 
manner,  been  undergoing  the  moral  discipline 
requisite  for  ultimate  greatness,  and  the  effects 
of  which  now  appear  in  the  lasting  impression 
they  have  made  upon  the  world.     We  do  not 
recollect  to   have  ever   seen  this  remarkable 
analogy  in  the  annals  of  three  first-born   of 
European  states ;  but  it  is  so  striking,  that  we 
must  request  our  reader's  attention  for  a  few 
minutes  to  its  consideration. 

The  Russian  empire,  as  already  mentioned, 
was  founded  by  Rurick,  a  hero  and  a  wise 
monarch,  about  the  year  860 ;  and  ere  long  its 
forces  were  so  powerful,  that  eighty  thousand 
Russians  attacked  the  Bosphorus,  and  threaten- 
ed Constantinople  in  a  more  serious  manner 
than  it  has  since  been,  even  by  the  victorious 
arms  of  Catherine  or  Nicholas.  This  first  and 
great  era  in  Russian  story— this  sudden  burst 
into  existence,  was  contemporary  with  that  of 
Alfred  in  England,  who  began  to  reign  in  871, 
and  nearly  so  with  Charlemagne  in  France, 
who  died  at  Aix-la-Chapelle,  m  814,  leaving 
an  empire  co-extensive  with  that  which  was 
exactly  a  thousand  years  afterwards  lost  by 
Napoleon. 

The  two  centuries  and  a  half  of  weakness, 
civil  dissension,  and  external  decline,  which  in 
Russia  commenced  with  the  system  of  divid- 
ing the  empire  into  apanages  in  1060,  were 
contemporary  with  a  similar  period  of  distrac- 
tion and  debility,  both  to  the  English  and 
French  monarchies.  To  the  former  by  the 
Norman  conquests,  which  took  place  in  that 
very  year,  and  was  followed  by  continual  op- 
pression of  the  people,  and  domestic  warfare 
among  the  barons,  till  they  were  repressed  by 
the  firm  hand  of  Edward  L,  who  first  rallied 
the  native  English  population  to  the  support 
of  the  crown,  and  by  his  vigour  and  abilities 
overawed  the  Norman  nobility  in  the  end  of 
the  13th  century.  To  the  latter,  by  the  mise- 
rable weakness  which  overtook  the  empire  of 
Charlemagne  under  the  rule  of  his  degenerate 
successor;  until  at  length  its  frontiers  were 
contracted  from  the  Elbe  and  the  Pyrenpes  to 
the  Aisne  and  the  Loire,— till  all  the  ^reat 
feudatories  in  the  monarchy  had  become  mde- 
pendent  princes,  and  the  decrees  of  the  kin^^ 
of  France  were  not  obeyed  farther  than  twentv 
iniles  around  Paris. 

The  woful  period  of  Mosco/ite  oppression 
when  ravaged  by  the  successful  armies  of 
Vxenghis    Khan,  Tamerlane,  and    Rati,  and 


when  the  people  for  two  centuries  drank  th : 
cup  of  humiliation  from  Tartar  conquests,  or 
purchased  a  precaiious  respite  by  the  igno- 
miny of  Tartar  tribute,  was  contemporary  with 
the  disastrous  English  wars  in  France.  The 
battle  of  Cressy  was  fought  in  1314;  that  of 
Azincour  in  1415;  and  it  was  not  till  1448; 
that  these  hated  invaders  were  at  length 
finally  expelled  from  the  Gallic  shores,  by  the 
effects  of  the  heroism  of  the  Maid  of  Orleans, 
and  the  jealousies  of  the  English  nobility  iu 
the  time  of  Henry  VI.  If  these  wars  were  dis- 
astrous to  France, — if  they  induced  the  hor- 
rors of  famine,  pestilence,  and  Jacquerie, 
which  ere  long  reduced  its  inhabitants  a-half, 
— not  Jess  ruinous  were  their  consequences  to 
England,  exhausting,  as  they  did,  the  strength 
of  the  monarchy  in  unprofitable  foreign  wars, 
and  leaving  the  nation  a  prey,  at  their  termi- 
nation, to  the  furious  civil  contests  of  York 
and  Lancaster,  which  for  above  twenty  years 
drenched  their  fields  with  blood,  almost  de- 
stroyed the  old  nobiUty,  and  left  the  weak  and 
disjointed  people  an  easy  prey  to  the  tyrannic 
rule  of  Henry  VIII.,  who  put  72,000  persons  to 
death  by  the  hand  of  the  executioner  in  his 
single  reign.  It  is  hard  to  say  whether  Rus- 
sia, when  emerging  from  the  severities  of 
Tartar  bondage — or  France,  when  freed  from 
the  scourge  of  English  invasions — or  England, 
when  decimated  by  the  frightful  carnage  of 
York  and  Lancaster,  were  in  the  more  deplor- 
able condition. 

From  this  pitiable  state  of  weakness  and 
suffering  all  the  three  monarchies  were  raised 
about  the  same  period  by  three  monarchs,  who 
succeeded  in  each,  partly  by  wisdom,  partly 
by  good  fortune,  partly  by  fraud,  in  re-con- 
structing the  disjointed  members  of  the  state, 
and  giving  to  the  central  government  the 
vigour  and  unity  which  had  been  lost  amidst 
the  distractions  and  sufferings  of  former  times, 
but  was  essential  to  the  tranquillity  and  well- 
being  of  society.  John  III.,  who  achieved  this 
great  work  in  Russia,  was  the  counterpart  of 
Louis  XI.,  who  at  the  same  time  accomplished 
it  in  France.  John  III.  ascended  the  throne  in 
1462,  and  reigned  till  1505.  Louis  XL  in  1461, 
and  reigned  till  1483.  Both  were  cautious  in 
design,  and  persevering  in  execution ;  both 
were  bold  in  council  rather  than  daring  in  the 
field ;  both  prevailed  in  a  barbarous  age,  rather 
by  their  superior  cunning  and  dissimulation 
than  the  wisdom  or  justice  of  their  measures. 
Both  had  implicitly  adopted  the  Machiavelian 
maxim,  that  the  end  will  in  all  cases  justify 
the  means,  and  employed  without  scruple  fraud 
and  perfidy,  as  well  as  wisdom  and  persever- 
ance to  accomplish  their  grand  object,  the  re- 
storation of  the  throne,  and  abasement  of  the 
great  feudatories.  Both  were  equall)'  success- 
ful. The  reunion  of  the  apanages  to  the  crown 
of  the  Russian  Grand  Prince,  the  subjugation 
of  the  ancient  republic  of  Novogorod,  the  an- 
nexation of  that  of  Pfosk  by  his  successors, 
were  steps  extremely  analogous  to  the  defeat 
of  Charles  the  Bold,  and  the  acquisition  of 
Normandy  and  Acquitaine  by  Louis  XL,  and 
the  happy  marriage  of  Anne  of  Britanny  to  his 
royal  successor.  Nor  was  the  coincidence  of 
a  similar  monarch  on  the  throne,  and  a  similar 


KARAMSIN'S  RUSSIA. 


503 


revolution  in  society  in  England  nl  the  same 
period,  less  remarJcable.  Henry  VII.  won  the 
crown  of  England  on  the  field  of  Bosworth  in 
1483,  and  reigned  till  1509.  By  uniting  the 
rival  pretensions  of  the  Houses  of  York  and 
Lancaster  to  the  throne,  through  his  marriage 
with  the  heiress  of  the  former  house,  he  re- 
constructed the  English  monarchy ;  his  avarice 
left  a  vast  treasure  which  rendered  the  crown 
independent  to  his  vehement  successor;  his 
cautious  policy  broke  down  the  little  power 
which  the  fierce  contests  of  former  times  had 
left  to  the  Norman  nobility.  John  III.,  Louis 
XL,  and  Henry  YII.  were  the  real  restorers  of 
the  monarchy  in  their  respective  kingdoms  of 
Russia,  France,  and  England;  and  they  were 
men  of  the  same  character,  and  flourished  very 
nearly  at  the  same  time. 

The  next  epoch  in  the  history  of  Russia  was 
that  of  Peter  the  Great,  whose  genius  overcame 
the  obstacles  consequent  on  the  remoteness  of 
its  situation,  and  opened  to  its  people  the  ca- 
reer of  European  industry,  arts,  and  arms. 
Russia  had  now  gone  through  the  ordeal  of 
greatness  and  of  suffering;  it  had  come  pow- 
erful, energetic,  and  valiant,  out  of  the  school 
of  suffering.  But  the  remoteness  of  its  situa- 
tion, the  want  of  water  communication  with  its 
principal  provinces,  the  barbarous  Turks  who 
held  the  key  to  its  richest  realms  in  the  south, 
and  the  Frozen  Ocean,  which  for  half  the  year 
barricaded  its  harbours  in  the  north,  had 
hitherto  prevented  the  industry  and  civilization 
of  its  inhabitants  from  keeping  pace  with  their 
martial  prowess  and  great  aspirations.  At 
this  period  Peter  arose,  who,  uniting  the  wis- 
dom of  a  philosopher  and  the  genius  of  a  law- 
giver, to  the  zeal  of  an  enthusiast  and  the  fero- 
city of  a  despot,  forcibly  drove  his  subjects  in- 
to the  new  career,  and  forced  them,  in  spile  of 
themselves,  to  engage  in  the  arts  and  labours 
of  peace.  Contemporary  with  this  vast  heave 
of  the  Moscovite  empire,  was  a  similar  growth 
of  the  power  and  ener?)' of  France  and  Eng- 
land ;  but  the  different  characters  of  the  .Xsialic 
and  European  monarchy  and  of  the  free  com- 
mniiity,  were  now  conspicuous.  The  age  of 
Peter  the  Great,  in  Russia,  was  that  of  Louis 
XIV.  in  France;  of  the  Revolution  of  lfi8S, 
and  of  Marltxirongh,  in  Eniiland.  Ttie  sainc 
age  saw  the  victories  of  Pultowa  and  IJhn- 
heim ;  the  overthrow  of  Charles  XII.  and  hum- 
bling of  the  Cirand  Monarquc.  But  great  was 
now  the  HifftMonco  in  the  character  of  tlu-  na- 
tions by  whom  these  achievements  were  cllict- 
eil.  Petir,  by  the  force  of  Asiatic  power,  drove 
.in  ignorant  and  brutish  race  into  industry  and 
art;  Louis  led  a  chivalrous  and  gallant  nation 
to  the  hicrhest  pitch  of  splendour  and  great- 
ness;  William  III.  was  impelled  by  the  free 
spirit  of  an  energetic  and  religious  communitv. 
into  the  assertion  of  Protestant  imlcpendence, 
and  the  maintenance  of  European  freedom. 
But  this  great  step  in  all  the  three  nations  took 
place  at  the  iame  time,  and  under  sovereigns 
severally  adapted  to  the  people  tiiey  were 
called  to  rule,  and  the  part  they  were  <icstined 
to  play  on  the  theatre  of  the  world. 

The  last  great  step  in  the  history  of  Russia 
has  been  that  of  Alexander — an  era  signalized 
beyond  all  others  by  the  splendour  and  magni- 


tude of  military  success.  It  witnessed  the  con 
quest  of  Finland  and  Georgia,  of  Walachia, 
Moldavia,  the  acquisition  of  Poland,  and  the 
extension  of  the  empire  to  the  Araxes.  Need 
we  say  with  what  events  this  period  was  con- 
temporary in  France  and  England? — that  the 
age  which  witnessed  the  burning  of  Moscow, 
saw  also  the  taking  of  Paris — that  Pitt  ana 
Wellington  were  contemporary  with  Alexan- 
der and  Barclay — that  but  a  year  separateo 
Leipsic  and  Waterloo  1  Coming,  as  it  did,  at 
the  close  of  this  long  period  of  parallel  ad- 
vance and  similar  vicissitudes,  during  a  thou- 
sand years,  there  is  something  inexpressibly 
impressive  in  this  contemporaneous  rise  of  the 
three  great  powers  of  Europe  to  the  highest 
pinnacle  of  worldly  grandeur — this  simulta- 
neous efflorescence  of  empires,  which  during 
so  long  a  period  had  advanced  parallel  to  each 
other  in  the  painful  approach  to  worldly  great- 
ness. Nor  let  the  intellectual  pride  of  western 
Europe  despise  the  simple  and  comparatively 
untutored  race,  which  has  only  within  the  last 
century  and  a  half  taken  a  prominent  part  in 
the  affairs  of  Europe.  The  virtues,  whether  of 
nations  or  individuals,  are  not  the  least  im- 
portant which  are  nursed  in  solitude  ;  the  cha- 
racter not  the  least  commanding,  which,  chas- 
tened by  suffering,  is  based  on  a  sense  of  reli- 
gious duty.  The  nation  is  not  to  be  despised 
which  overthrew  Napoleon ;  the  moral  train- 
ing not  forgotten  which  fired  the  torches  of 
Moscow.  European  liberalism  and  infidelity 
will  acquire  a  right  to  ridicule  Moscovite  igno- 
rance and  barbarity,  when  it  has  produced 
equal  achievements,  but  not  till  then. 

All  the  recent  events  in  histor>',  as  well  as 
the  tendency  of  opinion  in  all  the  enlightened 
men  in  all  countries  who  have  been  bred  up 
under  their  influence,  point  to  the  conclusion 
that  there  is  an  original  and  indelible  differ- 
ence in  the  character  of  the  different  races  of 
men,  and  that  each  will  best  find  its  highest 
point  of  social  advancement  by  institutions 
which  have  grown  out  of  its  ruling  disposi- 
tions. This  is  but  an  exemplification  of  the 
profiiund  observation  long  ago  made  by  Mon- 
tesquieu, that  no  nation  ever  rose  to  durable 
greatness  but  by  institutions  in  harmony  with 
its  spirit.  Perhaps  no  national  calamities 
have  been  so  great,  because  none  so  lasting 
and  irremediable,  as  those  which  have  arisen 
from  the  attempt  to  transfer  the  institutions  of 
our  race  and  stage  of  political  advancement 
to  another  family  of  men  and  another  era  of 
social  progress.  Recollecting  what  great  things 
the  Slavonic  race  has  done  both  in  fi>rmer  and 
present  times,  it  is  curious  to  see  the  character 
which  Karainsin  gives  of  them  in  the  fiist  vi> 
lume  of  his  great  work: — 

"Like  all  other  people  the  Slavonians,  at 
the  commencement  of  their  political  exist- 
ence, were  ignorant  of  the  advantages  of  a  re 
gular  government;  they  would  neither  tolerate 
masters  nor  slaves  among  them,  holding  the 
fruit  of  blessings  to  consist  in  the  enjoyment 
of  unlioiinded  freedom.  The  father  of  a  iannily 
commanded  his  children,  the  husband  his  wife, 
the  master  his  household,  the  brother  his  sis- 
ters; every  one  constructed  his  hut  in  a  place 
apart  from  the  rest,  in  order  that  he  might  iivi 


304 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


more  at  ease,  and  according  to  his  own  incli- 
nations. A  wood,  a  stream,  a  field,  constituted 
the  dominion  of  a  Slavonian;  and  no  unarmed 
person  ventured  to  violate  the  sanctity  of  his 
domain— each  family  formed  a  little  independ- 
ent republic ;  and  the  ancient  customs,  com- 
mon to  the  whole  nation,  served  them  instead 
of  laws.  On  important  occasions  the  different 
tribes  assembled  to  deliberate  on  their  common 
concerns ;  they  consulted  the  old  men,  those 
living  repositories  of  ancient  usages,  and  they 
evinced  the  utmost  deference  to  their  advice. 
The  same  system  was  adopted  when  they  re- 
quired to  elect  a  chief  for  one  of  their  warlike 
expeditions ;  but  such  was  their  excessive  love 
of  freedom,  and  repugnance  towards  any  kind 
of  constraint,  that  they  imposed  various  limi- 
tations on  the  authority  of  their  chiefs,  whom 
they  often  disobeyed,  even  in  the  heat  of  bat- 
tle :  after  having  terminated  their  expedition, 
every  one  returned  to  his  home,  and  resumed 
the  command  of  his  children  and  household. 

"  That  savage  simplicity — that  rudeness  of 
manners  could  not  long  endure.  The  pillage 
of  the  empire  of  the  east,  the  centre  of  luxury 
and  riches,  made  the  Slavonians  acquainted 
with  new  pleasures  and  hitherto  unfelt  wants. 
These  wants,  by  putting  an  end  to  their  soli- 
taiy  independence,  drew  closer  the  bonds  of 
social  dependence:  they  daily  felt  more 
strongly  the  necessity  of  mutual  support ; 
they  placed  their  homes  nearer  each  other; 
they  began  to  build  towns.  Others,  who  had 
seen  in  foreign  countries  magnificent  cities 
and  flourishing  villages,  lost  all  taste  for  the 
obscurity  of  the  forests,  once  endeared  to  their 
hearts  by  the  love  of  independence ;  they 
passed  into  the  provinces  of  Greece ;  they 
consented  to  range  themselves  under  the  rule 
of  the  emperor.  The  fate  of  war  placed,  for  a 
brief  season,  a  large  part  of  the  Gei-man  Sla- 
vonians under  the  government  of  Charlemagne 
and  his  successors ;  but  an  unconquerable 
love  of  freedom  was  ever  the  basis  of  their 
character.  On  the  first  favourable  opportunity 
they  threw  off  the  yoke,  and  avenged  them- 
selves cruelly  on  their  rulers  for  their  transient 
subjection:  they  were  never  finally  reduced 
to  order  but  by  the  influences  of  the  Christian 
religion." — Vol.  i.  p.  68,  69. 

How  strongly  does  this  picture  of  the  Sla- 
vonic race,  a  thousand  years  ago,  recall  the 
traces  of  the  Poles  of  the  present  time !  The 
same  love  of  solitary  and  isolated  freedom, — 
the  same  passion  for  independence, — the  same 
fretting  under  the  restraints  of  civilization  and 
the  curb  of  authority,— the  source  at  once  of 
their  strength  and  their  weakness— their  glo- 
ries and  their  ruin ! 

If  it  be  true,  as  Shakspeare  has  told  us,  that 
the  ruling  passion  is  strong  in  death ;  no  slight 
interest  will  attach  to  Karamsin's  graphic  pic- 
ture of  the  character  evinced  in  the  supreme 
hour  by  the  three  races  which  have  so  long 
contended  for  the  mastery  of  the  east,  viz.,  the 
Tartars,  the  Russians  or  Slavonians,  and  the 
Turks. 

"  Cannons  for  a  long  time  were  not  regarded 
py  the  Russians  as  a  necessary  part  of  the 
implements  of  war.  Invented  as  they  con- 
ceived by  the  Italian  artists  for  the  defence  of 


fortresses,  ihey  allowed  them  to  remain  mo. 
tionless  on  their  carriages  on  the  ramparts  cf 
the  Kremlin.  In  the  moment  of  combat  the 
Russians  trusted  more  to  their  number  than  to 
the  skill  of  their  manceuvres ;  they  endea- 
voured in  general  to  attack  the  enemy  in  rear, 
and  surround  him.  Like  all  Asiatic  nations, 
they  looked  rather  to  their  movements  at  a 
distance  than  in  close  fight ;  but  when  they  did 
charge,  their  attacks  were  impetuous  and  ter- 
rible, but  of  short  duration.  'In  their  vehe- 
ment  shock,'  says  Herberstain,  '  they  seemed 
to  say  to  their  enemy, — Fly,  or  we  will  fly  c?Lr- 
selves  !'  In  war  as  in  pacific  life,  the  pecf  le 
of  different  races  differ  to  an  astonishing  de 
gree  from  each  other.  Thrown  down  from  his 
horse,  disarmed,  and  covered  with  blood,  the 
Tartar  never  thinks  of  surrender:  he  shakes 
his  arms,  repels  the  enemy  with  his  foot,  and 
with  dying  fury  bites  him.  No  sooner  is  the 
Turk  sensible  he  is  overthrown,  than  be  throws 
aside  his  scimitar,  and  implores  the  gene- 
rosity of  his  conqueror.  Pursue  a  Russian, 
he  "makes  no  attempt  to  defend  himself  in  his 
flight,  but  never  does  he  ask  for  quarter.  Is 
he  pierced  by  lances  or  swords,  he  is  silent,  and 
dies."— Vol  vii.  p.  252. 

These  are  the  men  of  whom  Frederick  the 
Great  said,  you  might  kill  them  where  they 
stood,  but  never  make  them  fly. — "They  were 
motionless,  fell,  and  died !" 

"Then  shrieked  the  timid,  and  stood  still  the  brave." 

A  devout  sense  of  religion,  a  Avarm  and  con- 
stant sense  of  Divine  superintendence,  has  in 
every  age,  from  the  days  of  Rurick  to  those 
of  Alexander,  formed  the  ruling  principle  and 
grand  characteristic  of  the  Russians,  and  has 
of  all  nations  which  have  ever  risen  to  durable 
greatness.  Karamsin  tells  us  that  from  the 
remotest  period  this  has  been  the  unvarying 
characteristic  of  the  Slavonic  race  : — 

"  In  the  6th  century,  the  Slavonians  adored 
the  Creator  of  Thunder, — the  God  of  the  uni- 
A^erse.  The  majestic  spectacle  of  storms, — at 
the  moment  when  an  invisible  hand  appears 
from  the  height  of  the  burning  heavens  to 
dart  its  lightnings  upon  the  earth, — must  ever 
make  a  deep  impression  alike  on  civilized 
and  savage  man.  The  Slavonians  and  Antes, 
as  Procopius  observes,  did  not  believe  in  des- 
tiny; but,  according  to  them,  all  events  depend- 
ed on  the  icill  of  a  Muler  of  the  world.  On  the 
field  of  battle,  in  the  midst  of  perils,  in  sick- 
ness, in  calamity,  they  sought  to  bind  the  Su- 
preme Being, — by  vows,  by  the  sacrifice  of 
bulls  and  goats,  to  appease  his  wrath.  On  the 
same  principle,  they  adored  the  rivers  and 
mountains,  whom  they  peopled  with  nymphs 
and  genii,  by  whose  aid  they  sought  to  pene- 
trate the  depths  of  futurity.  In  later  times, 
the  Slavonians  had  abundance  of  idols ;  per- 
suaded that  true  wisdom  consisted  in  knowing 
the  name  and  qualities  of  each  god,  in  order  to 
be  able  to  propitiate  his  favour.  They  were 
true  polytheists,  considering  their  statues  not 
as  images  of  the  gods,  but  as  inspired  by  their 
spirit,  and  wielding  their  power. 

"  Nevertheless,  in  the  midst  of  these  absurd 
superstitions,  the  Slavonians  had  an  idea  of  a 
supreme  and  all-powerful  Being,  to  whom  the 


KARAMSIN'S  RUSSIA. 


305 


Immensity  of  the  heavens,  dazzling  ^vith  thou- 
sands of  stars,  formed  a  worthy  temple ;  but 
who  was  occupied  only  with  celestial  objects, 
while  he  had  intrusted  to  subaltern  deities,  or 
to  his  children,  the  government  of  tlic  world. 
They  called  him  '  Bilibos,'  or  '  the  White  God,' 
while  the  spirit  of  evil  was  named  'Tcherm- 
bog,'  or  '  the  Black  God.'  They  sought  to  ap- 
pease the  lash  by  sacrifices :  he  was  represented 
under  the  image  of  a  lion ;  and  to  his  malig- 
nant influences  they  ascribed  all  their  misfor- 
tunes and  miseries  of  life.  The  beneficent 
Deity  they  considered  too  elevated  to  be 
swayed  by  prayers,  or  approached  by  mortals: 
it  was  the  inferior  executors  of  his  will  who 
alone  were  to  be  propitiated." — Vol.  i.  p.  99 — 
102. 

It  has  been  already  mentioned,  that  the  Rus- 
sian empire  was  founded  by  Rurick,  in  862. 
And  it  is  very  remarkable  that  supreme  power 
was  obtained  by  that  great  warrior,  not  by  the 
sword  of  conquest,  but  by  the  voluntary  and 
unanimous  will  of  the  people. 

"In  Russia,"  says  Karamsin,  "sovereign 
power  was  established  with  the  unanimous 
consent  of  the  inhabitants;  and  the  Slavonic 
tribes  concurred  in  forming  an  empire  which 
has  for  it?  limits  now  the  Danube,  America, 
Sweden  and  China.  The  origin  of  the  govern- 
ment was  as  follows : — the  Slavonians  of  No- 
vogorod  and  the  central  districts  around  Mos- 
cow, sent  an  embassy  to  the  Varegue-Russians, 
who  were  established  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Baltic,  with  these  words — 'Our  country  is 
gieat  and  fertile,  but  under  the  rule  of  disor 
der;  come  and  take  it.'  Three  brothers  named 
RcnicK,Sincori,  and  Trouver,  illustrious  alike 
by  their  birth  and  their  great  actions,  escorted 
by  a  numerous  bodj'  of  Siavoiiuiiis,  accepted 
the  perilous  invitation,  and  fixed  their  abode, 
and  began  to  assume  the  government  in  Rus- 
sia,— Rurick  at  Novogorod,  Sincori  at  Bich 
Ozero,  near  the  Fins,  and  Trouver  at  Izborsk. 
Within  less  than  two  years,  Sincori  ^and 
Trouver  both  died,  and  Rurick  obtained  the 
government  of  the  whole  provinces  which 
had  invited  them  over;  and  which  embraced 
all  the  central  provinces  of  Russia;  and  the 
feudal  system  was  established  over  their  whole 
extent."— Vol.  i.  p.  113.  Ml. 

The  T'  was  the  great  arti-ry  of  this 

infant  ■  n  ;  at  once    their  wal<"ry  lii;;h 

road,  and  nf)  inconsidcral)le  source  of  subsist- 
ence. It  was  on  its  bosom  that  the  innumera- 
ble canoes  were  launched,  which,  fillrd  with 
yellow-li  '  id  fi-rociouH  warrir>rs,  descend- 
ed to  I  .  r  A/oph,  peneirateil  into  the 
Black  !Sea,  forced  the  passage  of  the  Bospho- 
nis,  ami  often  besieged  Constantinople  itself. 
In  less  than  a  century  after  its  first  origin,  the 
Russian  '"mpirc  was  already  a  prepond<Tating 
power  in  the  cast  of  Eu roper.  Before  \\v  year 
9.50  the  conquests  of  Oleir,  Sviatoslof,  and  Vla- 
dimir, the  successors  of  Kurick,  had  a<lvanced 
its  frontiers,  on  the  west,  to  the  Baltic,  the 
Dwina,  the  Bug,  and  the  Carpathian  moun- 
tains; on  the  south,  to  the  cataracts  of  the 
Dnieper,  and  the  Cimmerian  Bosphorus ;  on 
the  east  and  north  to  Finland  and  the  Ural 
mountains,  and  on  the  south-east  nearly  to  the 
Caspian  Sea ;  corresponding  nearly  to  the 
20 


boundaries  of  Russia  in  Europe  at  this  time. 
The  words  of  the  Novogorodians,  their  allies, 
which  the  old  annalist  of  Russia,  Nestor,  has 
transmitted,  expressed  the  principle  of  the  go- 
vernment of  this  vast  empire,  at  this  early  pe- 
riod: "We  wish  a  prince  who  will  command 
and  govern  us  according  to  the  laws;"  that  i? 
to  say,  as  a  limited  monarchy. 

KielT  was  for  centuries  the  capital  of  this 
rising  dominion,  its  situation  on  the  bank  of 
the  Dnieper  being  singularly  favourable  fcr 
the  development  of  the  resources  of  the  em- 
pire. Of  its  strength  and  formidable  charac- 
ter from  the  earliest  times,  decisive  evidence 
is  aflTorded  by  the  three  great  expeditions  which 
they  fitted  out  against  Constantinople,  and 
which  are  recorded  alike  by  the  Greek  and 
early  religious  annalists.  Of  the  first  of  these, 
in  90.5,  Karamsin  has  given  us  the  following 
animated  account: — 

"In  905,  Oleg,  in  order  to  find  employment 
for  his  restless  and  rapacious  subjects,  de- 
clared war  against  the  empire.  No  sooner 
M'as  this  determination  known,  than  all  the 
warlike  tribes  from  the  shores  of  Finland  to 
those  of  the  Vistula,  crowded  to  the  Dniester, 
and  were  ranged  under  the  standard  of  Oleg. 
Speedily  the  Dniester  was  covered  by  2,000 
light  barks,  each  of  which  carried  forty  com- 
batants. Thus  80,000  armed  men  descended 
the  river,  flushed  with  victory,  and  eager  for 
the  spoils  of  the  imperial  city.  The  ca /airy 
marched  along  the  banks,  and  soon  the  raighiy 
host  approached  the  cataracts  of  the  Dnieper, 
which  were  of  a  much  more  formidable  cha. 
racter  than  they  are  now,  when  so  many  sub- 
sequent centuries,  and  no  small  efforts  of 
human  industry,  have  been  at  work  in  clearing 
away  the  obstacles  of  the  navigation.  The 
Varagucs  of  KielT  had  first  ventured  with  two 
hundred  barks  to  enter  into  the  perilous  ra- 
pids, and  through  pointed  rocks,  and  amidst 
foaming  whirlpools,  had  safely  reached  the 
bottom.  On  this  occasion  Oleg  passed  with  a 
fleet  and  army  ten  times  a-s  numerous.  The 
Russians  threw  tln-msclvcs  into  the  water, 
and  conducted  the  barks  by  the  strength  of 
the  swimmers  down  the  rapids.  In  many 
places  they  were  obliged  to  clamber  up  on  the 
banks,  and  seeking  a  precarious  footing  on 
the  sharp  ridges  of  rocks  and  jirecipices,  often 
b(ue  thi'  barks  aloft  on  their  shoulders,  .\ftcr 
incredible  e.Torts  they  reached  the  mouth  of 
the  river,  where  they  tcpaired  their  masts, 
sails,  and  rudders  ;  and  boldly  putting  to  sea, 
which  most  of  them  had  never  seen  before, 
spread  forth  on  tho  unknown  waters  of  the 
Kuxine.  Tlw  cavalry  inarclu'il  by  land,  and 
though  grievously  weakened  in  number  by 
the  extraordinary  length  of  the  laml  journey, 
joined  their  fled  at  the  mouth  of  the  Bospho- 
rus; and  the  unitnd  force,  00,000  strong,  af 
proached  Constantinople. 

"Leon,  surnamrd  the  philosopher,  reignea 
there;  and  incapable  of  any  warlike  cfl"ort  he 
contented  himself  with  closing  the  mouth  of 
the  Golden  Horn,  or  harbour  of  (^onstanti 
no|ili> ;  and  secure  behind  its  formitlable  ram 
parts,  beheld  with  indilferenee  the  villag«s 
around  in  flames,  their  churches  pillaged  and 
destroj-ed,  and  the  wretched  inhabitants  driven 


806 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS 


by  the  swords  and  lances  of  the  Russians  into 
the  capital.  Nestor,  the  Russian  annalist,  has 
left  the  most  frightful  account  of  the  cruel  bar- 
barities committed  on  these  defenceless  in- 
habitants by  the  victorious  warriors,  who  put 
their  prisoners  to  death  by  the  crudest  tortures, 
and  hurled  the  living  promiscuously  with  the 
dead  into  the  sea.  Meanwhile  the  Greeks, 
albeit  numerous  and  admirably  armed,  re- 
mained shut  up  in  Constantinople ;  but  soon 
the  Russian  standards  approached  the  walls, 
and  they  began  to  tremble  behind  their  im- 
pregnable ramparts.  Oleg  drew  up  his  boats 
on  the  shore,  and  putting  them,  as  at  the  cata- 
racts of  the  Dnieper,  on  the  shoulders  of  his 
men,  reached  the  harbour  on  the  land  side ; 
and  after  launching  them  on  its  upper  extremi- 
ty, appeared  with  spreading  sails,  as  Mahomet 
li.  afterwards  did,  ready  to  land  his  troops 
behind  the  chain,  and  escalade  the  walls,  on 
the  side  where  they  were  weakest.  Terrified 
at  this  audacious  enterprise,  the  Emperor 
Leon  hastened  to  sue  for  peace,  offering  to 
send  provisions  and  equipments  for  the  fleet, 
and  to  pay  an  annual  tribute  ;  and  a  treaty  was 
at  length  concluded,  on  the  condition  that  each 
Russian  in  the  armament  should  receive 
twelve  grionas,  and  heavy  contributions  should 
be  levied  on  the  empire  for  the  towns  of  Kielf, 
Tchernigof,  Polteck,  Lubetch,  and  other  de- 
pendencies of  Russia." — Vol.  i.  p.  162 — 165. 

When  the  imperial  city  in  the  commence- 
ment of  the  10th  century  was  assailed  by  such 
formidable  bodies  of  these  northern  invaders, 
and  its  emperors  Avere  so  little  in  a  condition 
to  resist  the  attack,  it  is  not  surprising  that  it 
should  have  been  prophesied  in  that  city  900 
years  ago,  that  in  its  last  days  Constantinople 
should  be  taken  by  the  Russians.  The  sur- 
prising thing  rather  is,  that  in  consequence  of 
the  lateral  irruption  of  the  Turks,  and  the  sub- 
sequent jealousies  of  other  European  powers, 
this  consummation  should  have  been  so  long 
delayed  as  it  actually  has. 

Passing  by  the  two  centuries  and  a  half  of 
weakness,  civil  warfare,  and  decline,  which 
followed  the  disastrous  system  of  apanages, 
which  are  uninteresting  to  general  history,  we 
hasten  to  lay  before  our  readers  a  specimen 
of  the  description  Karamsin  has  given  of  the 
terrible  effects  produced  by  the  Tartar  inva- 
sions, which  commenced  in  1223.  The  de- 
vastation of  that  flourishing  part  of  Asia  which 
formerly  bore  the  name  of  Bactriana  and 
Sogdiana,  is  thus  described: — 

"  Bokhara  in  vain  attempted  a  defence 
against  Genghis  Khan.  The  elders  of  the  town 
came  out  to  leave  the  keys  of  the  city  at  the 
feet  of  the  conqueror,  but  to  no  purpose. 
Genghis  Khan  appeared  on  horseback,  and 
entered  the  principal  mosque ;  no  sooner  did 
he  see  the  Alcoran  there,  than  he  seized  it,  and 
threw  it  with  fury  to  the  ground.  That  capital 
■was  reduced  to  ashes.  Samarcand,  fortified 
with  care,  contained  100,000  soldiers,  and  a 
great  number  of  elephants,  which  constituted 
at  that  period  the  principal  strength  of  the 
Asiatic  armies.  Distrusting  even  these  power- 
ful means  of  defence,  the  inhabitants  threw 
themselves  on  the  mercy  of  the  conqueror,  but 
oiet  with  i,  fate  as  cruel  as  if  they  had  stood 


an  assault.  Thirty  thousand  were  put  to  de&th 
in  cold  blood,  a  like  number  condemned  to 
perpetual  slavery,  and  a  contribution  of  200,000 
pieces  of  gold  levied  on  the  town.  Khiva 
Tirmel,  and  Balkh,  in  the  last  of  which  were 
1200  mosques,  and  200  baths  for  stranger* 
alone,  experienced  the  same  fate.  During  two 
or  three  years  the  ferocious  wars  of  Genghis 
Khan  ravaged  to  such  a  degree  the  wide  couk 
tries  stretching  from  the  sea  of  Aral  to  the 
Indus,  that  during  the  six  centuries  which 
have  since  elapsed,  they  have  never  recovered 
their  former  flourishing  condition." — Vol.  iii. 
p.  281,  282. 

At  length  this  terrible  tempest  approached 
the  Moscovite  plains.  The  first  great  battle 
between  the  Moguls  and  the  Russians  took 
place  in  1226. 

"  Encouraged  by  a  trifling  success  they  had 
gained  over  the  advanced  guard  of  the  enemy, 
the  Russians  drew  up  their  army  on  the  left 
bank  of  the  Kalka,  and  calmly  awaited  the  ap- 
proach of  the  enemy.  Soon  the  innumerable 
squadrons  of  the  Tartars  appeared,  and  the  in- 
trepid Daniel,  overflowing  with  courage,  bore 
down  upon  the  vanguard,  broke  it,  and  had 
well-nigh  gained  a  glorious  victory ;  but  the 
cowardl}'  Polontsks  could  not  stand  the  shock 
of  the  Moguls,  and  speedily  turned  their  backs 
and  fled.  In  the  delirium  of  terror,  they  pre- 
cipitated themselves  on  the  Russians,  penetra- 
ted their  ranks,  and  carried  the  most  frightful 
disorder  into  their  camp,  where  the  princes  of 
KiefT  and  Tchernigof  had  made  no  prepara- 
tions for  battle,  as  Moteslaf,  their  general,  who 
commanded  the  leading  column,  wishing  to 
engross  the  whole  honours  of  victory,  had 
given  them  no  warning  of  the  approaching 
fight.  Once  broken,  the  Russians  made  but  a 
feeble  resistance;  even  the  young  Daniel  was 
swept  away  by  the  torrent,  and  it  was  not  till 
his  horse  stopped  on  the  brink  of  a  stream 
which  it  could  not  pass,  that  he  felt  a  deep 
wound  which  he  had  received  in  the  com- 
mencement of  the  action.  The  Tartars,  in 
continuing  the  pursuit  to  the  banks  of  the 
Dnieper,  made  a  prodigious  slaughter  of  the 
flying  Muscovites;  among  others,  six  princes 
and  seventy  nobles  were  put  to  death.  Never 
did  Russia  experience  a  more  stunning  ca- 
lamity. A  superb  army,  numerous,  valiant, 
animated  with  the  highest  spii'it,  almost  en- 
tirely disappeared;  hardly  a  tenth  part  of  its 
numbers  escaped.  The  base  Polontsks,  our 
pretended  allies,  joined  in  the  massacre  of  the 
Russians,  when  victory  had  decidedly  declared 
in  favour  of  the  Moguls.  In  the  consternation 
which  followed,  the  few  Russian  generals 
who  survived  threw  themselves  into  the 
Dnieper,  and  destroyed  all  the  boats  on  the 
river,  to  prevent  the  enemy  from  following 
after  them.  All  but  Moteslaf  Romanevich,  of 
KiefT,  passed  over:  but  that  chief,  who  was 
left  in  a  fortified  camp  on  the  summit  of  a  hill, 
disdained  to  abandon  his  post,  and  actually 
awaited  the  whole  fury  of  the  Mogul  onset. 
During  three  days,  at  the  head  of  his  heroic 
band,  he  repulsed  all  their  efforts,  and  at  length 
wearied  with  a  resistance  which  they  saw  no 
means  of  surmounting,  the  Mogul  leaders  pro 
posed  to  allow  him  to  retire  with  his  troops 


KARAMSIN'S  RUSSIA. 


307 


provided  a  ransom  was  agreed  to,  which  ca- 
pitulation was  agreed  to  and  sworn  on  both 
sides.  No  sooner,  however,  had  the  perfidious 
Tartars  by  this  device  wiled  the  Russians  out 
of  their  stronghold,  than  they  fell  upon  them 
and  massacred  the  whole,  and  concluded  their 
triumph,  by  making  a  horrid  feast  of  their 
bloody  remains." — Vol.  iii.  p.  289 — 291. 

The  iram°diate  subjugation  of  Russia  seemed 
presaged  by  this  dreadful  defeat;  but  the  dan- 
ger at  the  moment  was  averted  by  orders  from 
Genghis  Khan,  who  withdrew  his  forces  to  the 
south  for  an  expedition  against  Persia.  But 
the  breathing-time  was  not  of  long  duration. 
Before  many  years  had  elapsed,  the  Tartars 
returned  flushed  with  fresh  conquest  under  the 
redoubtable  Bati.  That  terrible  conqueror, 
the  scourge  of  Russia,  took  and  burnt  Moscow, 
where  the  prince,  who  commanded,  and  the 
whole  of  the  inhabitants,  were  put  to  the 
sword,  without  distinction  of  age  or  sex.  City 
after  city,  province  after  province,  fell  before 
the  dreadful  invaders,  who  seemed  as  irresisti- 
ble as  they  were  savage  and  pitiless.  Broken 
down  into  numerous  little  f//>f/»(jfi:e.'!,  or  separate 
principalities,  the  once  powerful  Russian  em- 
pire was  incapable  of  making  any  eflectual 
resistance.  Yet  were  examples  not  wanting 
of  the  most  heroic  and  touching  devotion, 
worthy  to  be  placed  beside  the  names  of  Asta- 
pa  and  Numantium. 

"  Bati  sent  a  part  of  his  troops  against  Souz- 
del,  which  made  no  resistance.  As  soon  as 
they  had  entered  it,  the  Tartars,  according  to 
their  usual  custom,  put  to  death  the  whole 
population,  with  the  exception  of  the  3'oung 
monks  at  Nuni,  who  were  reserved  fnr  sla- 
very. On  the  Gth  of  February,  1238,  the  in- 
habitants of  Vladimir  beheld  the  dark  squad- 
rons of  the  Tartars,  like  a  black  torrent,  sur- 
round their  walls;  and  soon  the  preparation 
of  scaling  ladders  and  palisades  indicated  an 
immediate  assault.  Unable  to  resist  this  in- 
numerable army,  and  yet  sensible  that  it  was 
in  vain,  as  the  Moguls  would  massacre,  or  sell 
them  all  for  slaves,  the  boyards,  and  nobles, 
inspired  with  a  sublime  spirit,  resolved  tn  die 
R<i  trf-ramc  them.  The  most  heart-rending 
••  followed.  Vsevniil,  his  wifi!  and 
I  1,  an<l  a  preat  number   (if  illuslrimis 

nol)|es  assembled  in  the  rhurrh  of  Notre  Dame, 
whcfc  ihey  supplicated  the  Uishnp  Meirophenc, 
to  irivc  them  the  'tonsure  monacalc,'  which  se- 
i<-m  from  the  world.  That  solnnnity 
ii-e  in  profound  sib-nce.  Thf>se  hToic 
citizens  had  bnl  adieu  to  the  world  and  to  life; 
but  at  the  moment  of  quitting  it,  ihey  did  not 
pray  the  less  fervently  for  the  existence  of 
Iheir  beloved  Russia.  On  the  7th  of  Februarv, 
bein?  the  Sunday  of  the  Carnival,  the  assault 
comineneed. — the  Tartars  broke  into  the  city 
by  the  Golden  Gate,  by  that  of  Brass  and  that 
of  Saint  Irene.  Vsevold  and  Motcslaf  retired 
with  their  guards  into  the  (dd  town,  while 
Agatha,  the  wife  of  (»eonjes,  the  peneral-in- 
chief,  his  daughters,  nieces,  jjrand-ilaujjhters, 
and  a  crowd  of  citizens  of  the  highest  rank, 
flocked  to  the  cathedral,  where  they  were  soon 
surrounded  by  the  ferocious  Moguls,  who  set 
fire  to  the  building.  No  sooner  did  he  per- 
ceive the  flames,  than  the  bishop  exclaimed, 


'Oh,  Lord!  stretch  out  your  invisible  arms, 
and  receive  your  servants  in  peace,'  and  gave 
his  benediction  to  all  around  him.  In  fervent 
devotion  they  fell  on  their  faces,  awaiting  death, 
which  speedily  overtook  them.  Some  ivere 
suffocated  by  the  volumes  of  smoke  which 
rushed  in  on  all  sides,  others  perished  in  the 
flames  or  sank  beneath  the  sword  of  the  Tar- 
tars. The  blood-thirstiness  of  the  Moguls 
could  not  await  the  advance  of  the  conflagra- 
tion ;  with  hatchets  they  burst  open  the  gates  and 
rushed  in,  eager  for  the  treasures  which  they 
thought  were  hid  in  the  interior.  The  cruel 
warriors  of  Bati  made  scarce  any  prisoners : 
all  perished  by  the  sword  or  the  flames.  The 
Prince  Vsevold  and  Moteslaf,  finding  them- 
selves unable  to  repel  the  enemy,  strove  to 
cut  their  way  through  their  dense  battalions, 
and  both  perished  in  the  attempt." — Vol.  iii.  p. 
314,  345. 

Another  instance  of  sublime  devotion  wiL 
close  our  extracts  from  the  scenes  of  car- 
nage : — 

"After  the  destruction  of  Vladimir,  the  nu 
mcrous  Tartar  bands  advanced  towards  Ko- 
zilsk,  in  the  government  of  Kalonpra.  Vassili 
commanded  in  that  town,  and  with  his  guards 
and  his  people  deliberated  on  the  part  which 
they  should  adopt.  'Our  prince  is  still  young, 
exclaimed  those  faithful  Russians:  'It  is  our 
duly  to  (lie  for  him,  in  order  to  leave  a  glorious 
name,  and  to  find  beyond  the  tomb  the  crown 
of  immortality.'  All  united  in  this  generous 
determination,  resolving  at  the  same  time  to 
retard  the  enemy  as  much  as  possible  by  the 
most  heroic  resistance.  During  more  than  a 
month  the  Tartars  besieged  the  fortress  with- 
out being  able  to  make  any  sensible  prot^ress 
in  its  reduction.  At  length  a  part  of  the  walls, 
having  fallen  down,  under  their  strokes,  the 
Tartars  cscaladed  the  ramparts ;  but  at  their 
summit,  they  were  met  by  a  determined  band 
of  Russians,  who  with  knives  and  swords,  dis- 
puted every  inch  of  groiiiul.  ami  slew  4,000 
Tartars  before  they  sank  under  the  innumer- 
able multitude  of  their  enemies.  Not  one  of 
that  heroic  band  survived;  the  whole  inhabit- 
ants, men,  women,  and  children,  were  put  to 
death,  and  Bati,  astonished  at  so  vehement  a 
resistance,  called  the  town,  'the  wicked  city;' 
a  glorious  appellation  when  cominsr  from 
a  Tartar  chief,  Vassili  perished,  literally 
drowned  in  the  blootl  of  his  followers." — Vol. 
iii.  p,  .'JJ9.  .'»,')0. 

And  It  is  at  the  time  when  these  heroic 
deeds  arc  for  the  first  lime  brought  under  the 
notice  of  the  people  of  this  country,  that  we 
arc  told  that  every  thing  is  worn  out,  and  that 
nothing  new  or  interesting  is  to  be  found  in 
human  aflairs. 

But  all  these  efl"orts,  how  heroic  soever, 
could  not  avert  the  stroke  of  fate.  Russia  was 
subdued — less  by  the  superior  .skill  or  valour, 
than  the  enormous  numbers  of  the  rnemv,  who 
at  lenijih  poured  into  the  country  100,000 
strong.  For  above  two  hundred  and  (iliy  years 
they  were  tributary  to  the  Tartars,  ami  the 
grand  princes  of  Russia  were  confirmed  in 
their  government  by  the  Great  Khan.  The 
first  great  effort  to  shake  oif  th.it  odious  yoke, 
was  made  in  1378,  when  Dmitri  cc  llectcd  the  stiU 


308 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


scattered  forces  of  the  apanages  to  make  head 
against  the  common  enemy.  The  two  armies, 
each  150,000  strong,  met  at  Koulikoff,  on  the 
7th  September,  1378,  on  which  day,  four  him- 
dredand  thirty-four  years  afterwards.  Napoleon 
and  Kutasoff  commenced  the  dreadful  strug- 
gle at  Borodino. 

"  On  the  6th  September,  the  army  approached 
the  Don,  and  the  princes  and  boyards  delib- 
erated whether  they  should  retire  across  the 
river,  so  as  to  place  it  between  them  and  the 
enemy,  or  await  them  where  they  stood,  in 
order  to  cut  off  all  retreat  from  the  cowardly, 
and  compel  them  to  conquer  or  die.  Dmitri 
then  ascended  a  mound,  from  which  he  could 
survey  his  vast  army.  '  The  hour  of  God,' 
said  he,  'has  sounded.'  In  truth  no  one  could 
contemplate  that  prodigious  multitude  of  men 
and  horses;  those  innumerable  battalions 
ranged  in  the  finest  order;  the  thousands  of 
banners,  and  tens  of  thousands  of  arms  glitter- 
ing in  the  sun,  and  hear  the  cry  repeated  by  a 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  voices, — 'Great 
God,  give  us  the  victory  over  our  enemies,' 
without  having  some  confidence  in  the  result. 
Such  was  the  emotion  of  the  prince,  that  his 
eyes  filled  with  tears;  and  dismounting,  he 
knelt  down,  and  stretching  out  his  arm  to  the 
black  standard,  on  which  was  represented  our 
Saviour's  figure,  he  prayed  fervently  for  the 
salvation  of  Russia. — Then  mounting  his  horse, 
he  said  to  those  around, — 'My  well-beloved 
brothers  and  companions  in  arms,  it  is  by 
your  exploits  this  day,  that  you  will  live  in 
the  memory  of  man,  or  obtain  the  crown  of 
immortality.' 

"Soon   the    Tartar    squadrons   were    seen 
slowly  advancing,  and  ere  long  they  covered 
the  whole  country  to  the  eastward,  as  far  as 
the  eye  could  reach.    Great  as  was  the  host 
of  the  Russians,  they  were  outnumbered  con- 
siderably by  the   Moguls.     His   generals  be- 
sought Dmitri  to  retire,  alleging  the  duty  of  a 
commander-in-chief  to  direct  the  movements, 
not  hazard  his  person  like  a  private  soldier; 
\   but  he  replied,  'No,  you  will  suifer  wherever 
you  are :  if  I  live,  follow  me,  if  I  die  avenge 
me.'     Shortly  after  the  battle  commenced,  and 
was  the  most  desperate  ever  fought  between 
the  Russians  and  the  Tartars.     Over  an  ex- 
tent of  ten  wersts,  (seven  miles,)  the  earth  was 
stamed  with  the  blood  of  the  Christians  and 
Infidels.     In    some    quarters     the     Russians 
broke  the  Moguls;  in  others  they  yielded  to 
their  redoubtable  antagonists.     In  the  centre 
some  young  battalions  gave  way,  and  spread 
the  cry  that  all  was  lost:  the  enemy  rushed  in 
at  the  opening  this  aflbrded,  and  forced  their 
way   nearly   to   the   standard    of   the   Grand 
Prince,  which  was  only  preserved  by  the  de- 
voted   heroism    of    his    guard.      Meanwhile 
Prince  Vladimir  Andreiwitch,  who  was  placed 
with  a  chosen  body  of  troops  in  ambuscade, 
was  furious  at  being  the  passive  spectator  of 
so  desperate  a  conflict  in  which  he  was  not 
permitted  to  bear  a  part.     At  length,  at  eight 
at  night,  the  Prince  of  Volhynia,  who  observed 
with  an  experienced  eye  the  movements  of  the 
two  armies,  exclaimed,  '  My  friends,  our  time 
nas  come !'  and  let  the  whole  loose  upon  the 
enemy,  new  somewhat  disordered  by  success. 


Instantly  they  emerged  from  the  forest  which 
had  concealed  them  from  the  enemy,  and  fell 
with  the  utmost  fury  on  the  Moguls.  The 
effect  of  this  unforeseen  attack  was  decisive. 
Astonished  at  the  vehement  onset,  by  troops 
fresh  and  in  the  best  order,  the  Tartars  fled, 
and  their  chief,  Mamia,  who,  from  an  elevated 
spot  beheld  the  rout  of  his  host,  exclaimed, 
'  The  God  of  the  Christian  is  powerful !'  and 
joined  in  the  general  flight.  The  Russians 
pursued  the  Moguls  to  the  Metcha,  in  endea* 
vouring  to  cross  which  vast  numbers  were 
slain  or  drowned,  and  the  camp,  with  an  im 
mense  booty,  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  vic- 
tors."—Vol.  V.  pp.  79—82. 

This  great  victory,  however,  did  not  decide 
the  contest,  and  nearly  a  hundred  years 
elapsed  before  the  independence  of  Russia  i 
from  the  Tartars  was  finally  established.  Not 
long  after  this  triumph,  as  after  Boradino, 
Moscow  was  taken  and  burnt  by  the  Moguls ; 
the  account  of  which  must,  for  the  present, 
close  our  extracts. 

"  No  sooner  were  the  walls  of  Moscow  es- 
caladed  by  the  Tartars,  than  the  whole  inha- 
bitants, men,  women,  and  children,  became 
the  prey  of  the  cruel  conquerors.  Knowing 
that  great  numbers  had  taken  refuge  in  the 
stone  churches,  which  M^ould  not  burn,  they 
cut  down  the  gates  with  hatchets,  and  found 
immense  treasures,  brought  into  these  asy- 
lums from  the  adjoining  country.  Satiated 
with  carnage  and  spoil,  the  Tartars  next  set 
fire  to  the  town,  and  drove  a  weeping  crowd 
of  captives,  whom  they  had  selected  for  slaves, 
from  the  massacre  into  the  fields  around. 
'What  terms,'  say  the  contemporary  annalists, 
'  can  paint  the  deplorable  state  in  which  Mos- 
cow was  then  leftl  That  populous  capital, 
resplendent  with  riches  and  glory,  was  de- 
stroyed in  a  single  day!'  Nothing  remained 
but  a  mass  of  ruins  and  ashes ;  the  earth 
covered  with  burning  remains  and  drenched 
with  blood,  corpses  half  burnt,  and  churches 
wrapt  in  flames.  The  awful  silence  was 
interrupted  only  by  the  groans  of  the  unhappy 
wretches,  who,  crushed  beneath  the  falling 
houses,  called  aloud  for  some  one  to  put  a 
period  to  their  sufferings." — Vol.  v.  p.  101. 

Such  was  Russia  at  its  lowest  point  of  de- 
pression in  1378.  The  steps  by  which  it 
regained  its  independence  and  became  again 
great  and  powerful,  wall  furnish  abundant 
subject  for  another  article  on  Karamsin's  Mo" 
dern  History. 

We  know  not  what  impression  these  ex 
tracts  may  have  made  on  our  readers,  but  or 
ourselves  they  have  produced  one  of  the  mosJ 
profound  description.  Nothing  can  be  so 
interesting  as  to  trace  the  infancy  and  pro- 
gressive groAvth  of  a  great  nation  as  of  a 
great  individual.  In  both  we  can  discover  thS 
slow  and  gradual  training  of  the  mind  to  it? 
ultimate  destiny,  and  the  salutary  influence  of 
adversity  upon  both  in  strengthening  the 
character,  and  calling  forth  the  energies.  It 
is  by  the  slowest  possible  degrees  that  nations 
are  trained  to  the  heroic  character,  the  patri 
otic  spirit,  the  sustained  effort,  which  is  ne* 
cessary  to  durable  elevation.  Extraordinary 
but  fleeting  enthusiasm,  the  genius  of  a  sin 


EFFECTS  OF  THE    FRENCH    REVOLUTION  OF  1830. 


309 


gie  man,  the  conquests  of  a  single  nation,  ma)- 
often  elevate  a  power  like  that  of  Alexander, 
in  ancient,  or  Napoleon  in  modern  times,  to 
the  very  hi2;hest  pitch  of  worldly  greatness. 
But  no  reliance  can  be'placed  on  the  stability 
of  such  empires;  they  invariably  sink  as  fast 
as  they  had  risen,  and  leave  behind  them  no- 
thing but  a  brilliant,  and,  generally,  awful 
impression  on  the  minds  of  succeeding  ages. 
If  we  would  seek  for  the  only  sure  foundations 
of  lasting  greatness,  we  shall  find  them  in  the 
persevering  energy  of  national  character;  in 
the  industry  with  which  wealth  has  been  ac- 
cumulated, and  the  fortitude  with  which  suf- 
fering has  been  endured  through  a  long  course 
of  ages ;  and,  above  all,  in  the  steady  and  con- 
tinued influence  of  strong  religious  impres- 
sions, which,  by  influencing  men  in  every 
important  crisis  by  a  sense  of  duty,  has  ren- 
dered them  superior  to  all  the  storms  of  for- 
tune. And  the  influence  of  these  principles  is 
nowhere  more  clearly  to  be  traced  than  in  the 
steady  progress  and  present  exalted  position 
cf  the  Russian  empire. 

Of  Karamsin's  merits  as  an  author,  a  con- 
ception may  be  formed  from  the  extracts  we 
have  already  given.  We  must  not  expect  in 
the  historian  of  a  despotic  empire,  even  when 
recording  the  most  distant  events,  the  just  dis- 
crimination, the  enlightened  views,  the  fearless 
opinions,  which  arise,  or  can  be  hazarded  only 
in  a  free  countr}'.  The  philosophy  of  history 
is  the  slow  growth  of  the  opinions  of  all  difl^er- 
ent  classes  of  men,  each  directed  by  their 


ablest  leaders,  acting  and  receding  upon  eacli 
other  through  a  long  course  of  ages.  It  was 
almost  wholly  unknown  to  the  ancient  Greeks; 
it  Avas  first  struck  out,  at  a  period  when  the 
recollections  of  past  freedom  contrasted  with 
the  realities  of  present  servitude,  by  the 
mighty  genius  of  Tacitus,  and  the  sagacity  of 
Machiavelli,  the  depth  of  Bacon,  the  philoso- 
phy of  Hume,  the  glance  of  Robertson,  and 
the  wisdom  of  Guizot,  have  been  necessary  to 
bring  the  science  even  to  the  degree  of  mata- 
rity  which  it  has  as  yet  attained.  But  in 
brilliancy  of  description,  animation  of  style, 
and  fervour  of  eloquence,  Karamsin  is  not  ex- 
ceeded by  any  historian  in  modern  times.  The 
pictures  he  has  given  of  the  successive 
changes  in  Russian  manners,  institutions,  and 
government,  though  hardly  so  frequent  as 
could  have  been  wished,  prove  that  he  has  in 
him  the  spirit  of  philosophy;  while  in  the 
animation  of  his  descriptions  of  every  impor- 
tant event,  is  to  be  seen  the  clearest  indication 
that  he  is  gifted  with  the  eye  of  poetic  genius. 
Russia  may  well  be  proud  of  such  a  work, 
and  it  is  disgraceful  to  the  literature  of  this 
country  that  no  English  translation  of  it  has 
yet  appeared.  We  must,  in  conclusion,  add, 
that  the  elevated  sentiments  with  which  it 
abounds,  as  well  as  the  spirit  of  manly  piety 
and  fervent  patriotism  in  which  it  is  con- 
ceived, diminish  our  surprise  at  the  continued 
progress  of  an  empire  which  was  capable  of 
producing  such  a  writer. 


ErrECTS  OF  THE   ERE^sCII  EEYOLUTIOX  OF  1830.* 


Evr.n  since  the  late  French  Revolution  broke 
out,  and  at  a  time  when  it  carried  with  it  the 
wishes,  and  deluded  the  judgment,  of  a  large 
and  respectable  portion  of  the  British  public, 
we  have,  never  ceased  to  combat  the  then  prc- 
vailin?  opinion  on  the  subject.  Wc  ass'Tled 
from  the  very  outset  that  it  was  calculated  to 
do  incredible  mischief  to  the  cause  of  real 
fr'"f!om  ;  that  it  would  throw  back  for  a  very 
I  _'  period  the  march  of  tranquil  liberty;  that 
It  rist.>r<-d  at  once  the  rule  of  the  strongest; 
and,  bn-aking  down  the  supr-riority  of  intellect 
and  knowledge  by  the  mere  force  of  numbers, 
would  inevitably  and  rapidly  lead,  through  a 
bitter  period  of  suffering,  to  the  despotism  of 
the  sword. 

We  founded  our  opinion  upon  the  obvious 
fnrls,  that  the  Revolution  was  elTi-cled  by  the 
populace  of  Paris,  by  the  treachery  of  the 
army,  and  the  force  of  the  barricades,  without 
any  appeal  to  the  judgment  or  wishes  of  the 
remaimlfr  of  France;  that  a  constitution  was 
lrnm<^(i,  a  king  chosen,  and  a  government  esta- 
blished at  the  Hotel  dc  Villc,  by  a  junto  of  en- 
thusiastic heads,  without  either  deliberation. 


•  Sri/.p  >Ioi<t,  oil  I.,i  Hcx'niulion  ft  I.ii  Ttrrntiiiionnirps, 
Mr  N.  A.  Salvandv,  hiilcur  dr  I'llistnirc  di-  In  I'ologne. 
Paris,  :mi.— KlackwooJ-H  Magazine,  June,  1S32. 


time,  or  foresight;  that  this  new  constitution 
j  was  announced  to  the  provinces  by  the  tele- 
graph, before  they  were  even  aware  that  a 
civil  war  had  broken  out;  that  the  Citizen 
'  King  was  thus  not  elected  by  France,  but  im- 
poseil  upon  its  inhabitants  by  the  mob  of  Paris; 
that  this  convulsion  prostrated  the  few  remain- 
ing bulwark.^  of  order  and  liberty  which  the 
prior  revolution  had  left  standing,  and  nothing 
remained  to  oppose  the  march  of  revolution, 
and  the  devourinir  spirit  of  Jacobinism,  but 
the  force  of  military  (iespoiism.  That  in  .his 
way  no  chance  existed  of  liberty  being  ulti- 
mately established  in  France,  because  that  in- 
estimable blessing  depended  on  the  fusion  of 
all  lhr>  interests  of  society  in  the  fabric  of  go- 
vernment, and  the  prevention  of  the  encroach- 
ments of  e.nch  class  by  the  influence  of  the 
others;  and  such  mutual  balancing  was  im 
possible  in  a  country  where  the  whole  middling 
ranks  were  destroyed,  and  nothincr  remained 
but  tumultuous  masses  of  ntankind  on  the  one 
hand,  and  an  indiqnnnt  soldiery  on  the  other. 
We  maintained  that  the  convulsion  at  Paris 
was  a  deplorable  catastrophe  for  the  cause  of 
freedom  in  all  other  countries;  that  by  preci 
pitatiiig  the  democratic  party  every  where  intf 
revolutionary  measures   or  revolutionary  et 


SIO 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


cesses,  it  would  inevitably  rouse  the  conserva- 
tive interests  to  defend  themselves ;  that  in  the 
struggle,  real  liberty  would  be  equally  endan- 
gered by  the  fury  of  its  insane  friends  and  the 
hostility  of  its  aroused  enemies ;  and  that  the 
tranquil  spread  of  freedom,  which  had  been  so 
conspicuous  since  the  fall  of  Napoleon,  would 
be  exchanged  for  the  rude  conflicts  of  military 
power  with  popular  ambition. 

Few,  we  believe,  comparatively  speaking, 
of  our  readers,  fully  went  along  with  these 
views  when  they  were  first  brought  forward ; 
but  how  completely  have  subsequent  events 
demonstrated  their  justice;  and  how  entirely 
has  the  public  mind  in  both  countries  changed 
as  to  the  character  of  this  convulsion  since  it 
took  place  !  Freedom  has  been  unknown  in 
France  since  the  days  of  the  Barricades ;  be- 
tween the  dread  of  popular  excess  on  the  one 
hand,  and  the  force  of  military  power  on  the 
other,  the  independence  of  the  citizens  has 
been  completely  overthrown;  Paris  has  been 
periodically  the  scene  of  confusion,  riot,  and 
anarcnv ;  the  revolt  of  Lyons  has  only  been 
extinguished  by  Marshal  Soult  at  the  head  of 
ias  large  an  army  as  fought  the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington at  Toulouse,  and  at  as  great  an  expense 
of  human  life  as  the  revolt  of  the  Barricades ; 
the  army,  increased  from  200,000  to  600,000 
men,  has  been  found  barely  adequate  to  the 
maintenance  of  the  public  tranquillity;  40,000 
men,  incessantly  stationed  round  the  capital, 
have,  almost  every  month,  answered  the  cries 
of  the  people  for  bread  by  charges  of  caval- 
ry, and  all  the  severity  of  military  execution; 
the  annual  expenditure  has  increased  from 
40,000,000/.  to  60,000,000/. ;  fifty  millions  ster- 
ling of  debt  has  been  incurred  in  eighteen 
months;  notwithstanding  a  great  increase  of 
taxation,  the  revenue  has  declined  a  fourth  in 
its  amount,  with  the  universal  suffering  of  the 
people;  and  a  pestilential  disorder  following 
as  usual  in  the  train  of  human  violence  and 
misery,  has  fastened  with  unerring  certainty 
on  the  wasted  scene  of  political  agitation,  and 
swept  off  twice  as  many  men  in  a  few  weeks 
in  Paris  alone,  as  fell  under  the  Russian  can- 
non on  the  field  of  Borodino. 

Externally,  have  the  effects  of  the  three  glo- 
rious days  been  less  deplorable  ■?  Let  Poland 
answer;  let  Belgium  answer;  let  the  British 
empire  answer.  Who  precipitated  a  gallant 
nation  on  a  gigantic  foe ;  and  roused  their  hot 
blood  by  the  promises  of  sympathy  and  sup- 
port, and  stirred  up  by  their  emissaries  the  re- 
volutionary spirit  in  the  walls  of  Warsaw] 
Who  is  answerable  to  God  and  man  for  having 
occasioned  its  fatal  revolt,  and  buoyed  its 
chiefs  up  with  hopes  of  assistance,  and  stimu- 
lated them  to  refuse  all  offers  of  accommoda- 
tion, and  delivered  them  up,  unaided,  unbe- 
friended,  to  an  infuriated  conqueror?  The 
revolutionary  leaders;  the  revolutionary  press 
of  France  and  England ;  the  government  of 
Louis  Philippe,  and  the  reforming  ministers 
of  England ;  those,  who,  knowing  that  they 
could  render  them  no  assistance,  allowed  their 
journals,  uncontradicted,  to  stimulate  them  to 
resistance,  and  delude  them  to  the  last  with 
the  hopes  of  foreign  intervention.  Who  is 
ausverable  to  God  and  man  for  the  Belgian 


revolt?  Who  has  spread  famine  and  desola 
tion  through  its  beautiful  provinces,  and 
withered  its  industry  with  a  blast  worse  than 
the  simoom  of  the  desert ;  and  soAvn  on  the 
theatre  of  British  glol^  those  poisoned  teeth, 
which  must  spring  up  in  armed  battalions,  and 
again  in  the  end  involve  Europe  in  the  whirl- 
wind of  war?  The  revolutionary  leaders ;  the 
revolutionary  press  of  France  and  England; 
the  government  of  Louis  Philippe,  and  the  re- 
forming ministers  of  this  country;  those  who 
betrayed  the  interests  of  their  country  in  the 
pursuit  of  democratic  support;  who  dismem- 
bered the  dominions  of  a  faithful  ally,  and 
drove  him  back  at  the  cannon  mouth,  when  on 
the  point  of  regaining  his  own  capital ;  who 
surrendered  the  barrier  of  Marlborough  and 
Wellington,  and  threw  open  the  gates  of  Eu- 
rope to  republican  ambition  after  they  had  been 
closed  by  British  heroism.  Who  are  answer- 
able to  God  and  man  for  the  present  distracted 
state  of  the  British  empire?  Who  have  sus- 
pended its  industry,  and  shaken  its  credit,  and 
withered  its  resources  ?  Who  have  spread 
bitterness  and  distrust  through  its  immense 
population,  and  fill,ed  its  poor  with  expectations 
that  can  never  be  realized,  and  its  rich  with 
terrors  that  can  never  be  allayed  ?  Who  have 
thrown  the  torch  of  discord  into  the  bosom  of 
an  united  people ;  and  habituated  the  lower 
orders  to  license,  and  inflated  them  with  arro- 
gance, and  subjugated  thought  and  wisdom  by 
the  force  of  numbers,  and  arrayed  against  the 
concentrated  education  and  wealth  of  the  na- 
tion the  masses  of  its  ignorant  and  deluded 
inhabitants?  The  reforming  ministers;  the 
revolutionary  press  of  England;  those  who 
ascended  to  power  amidst  the  transports  of  the 
Barricades ;  who  incessantly  agitated  the  peo- 
ple to  uphold  their  falling  administration,  and 
have  incurred  the  lasting  execration  of  man- 
kind, by  striving  to  array  the  numbers  of  the 
nation  against  its  intelligence,  and  subjugate 
the  powers  of  the  understanding  by  the  fury 
of  the  passions. 

To  demonstrate  that  these  statements  are  not  j 
overcharged  as   to  the   present  condition   of  ■ 
France,  and  the  practical  consequence  of  the 
Revolution  of  the  Barricades,  we  subjoin  the 
following  extract  from  an  able  and  independ-  j 
ent  reforming  journal. 

"If  a  government  is  to  be  judged  of  by  the 
condition  of  the  people,  as  a  tree  by  its  fruits, . 
the  present  government   of  France  must  be 
deemed  to  be  extremely  deficient  in  those  qua- 
lities of  statesmanship  which  are  calculated  to 
inspire  public  confidence  and  make  a  people  ; 
happy — for  public  discontent,  misery,  commotion,  j 
a7id  bloodshed,  have  been  the  melancholy  cha-  j 
racteri sties  of  its   sway.      If  the  ministry  of 
Louis  Philippe  were  positively  devoted  to  the 
interests  of  the  ex-royal  family,  they  could  not 
take  more  effective  steps  than  they  have  hitherto 
done  to  make  the  vices  of  the  family  be  for- 
gotten, and  to  reinforce  the  ranks  of  the  party 
which  labours  incessantly  for  their  recall. 

"With  short  intervals  of  repose,  Paris  has 
been  a  scene  of  emcuics  and  disturbances  which 
would  disgrace  a  semi-civilized  country,  and 
to  this  sort  of  intermittent  turbulence  it  hat 
been  doomed  ever  since  Louis  Philippe  asrtnded  tha 


EFFECTS  OF  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION  OF  1830. 


Sll 


throne,  but  mors  especially  since  Casimir  Perier 
was  intrusted  with  the  reins  of  responsible  go- 
vernment. It  is  a  melancholy  fact  that,  under 
the  revolutionized  government  of  France,  more 
blood  has  been  shed  in  conflicts  between  the 
people  and  the  military,  than  during  the  fifteen 
years  of  the  Restoration,  if  we  except  the  three 
days  of  resistance  to  the  ordinances  in  Paris, 
which  ended  in  the  dethronement  of  Charles 
the  Tenth. 

"Yet  we  do  nc'  know  if  we  ought  to  except 
the  carnage  cf  those  three  days,  for  we  recol- 
lect having  seen  a  communication  from  Lyons, 
soon  after  the  commotions  in  that  city,  in 
which  it  was  stated  that  a  greater  number  of 
persons,  both  citizens  and  soldiers,  fell  in  the 
conflict  between  the  workmen  and  the  military, 
than  were  slain  during  the  memorable  three 
days  of  Paris.  Let  us  add  to  this  the  slaughter 
at  Grenoble,  where  the  people  were  again 
victorious,  and  the  sabrings  and  shootings 
which  have  taken  place  in  minor  conflicts  in 
several  towns  and  departments,  and  it  will  be 
found  that  the  present  government  maintains 
its  power  at  a  greater  cost  of  French  blood 
than  that  which  it  has  superseded." — Morning 
Heralfl. 

We  have  long  and  anxiously  looked  for  some 
publication  from  a  man  of  character  and  lite- 
rary celebrity  of  the  liberal  party  in  France, 
which  might  throw  the  same  light  on  the  con- 
sequences of  its  late  revolution  as  the  work  of 
M.  Dumont  has  done  on  the  proceedings  of  the 
Constituent  Assembly.  Such  a  work  is  now 
before  us,  from  the  able  and  eloquent  pen  of 
M.  Salvandy,  to  whose  striking  history  of  Po- 
land we  have  in  a  recent  number  requested 
the  attention  of  our  readers.  He  has  always 
been  a  liberal,  opposed  in  the  Chamber  of  De- 
puties all  the  arbitrary  acts  of  the  late  govern- 
ment, and  is  a  decided  defender  of  the  Revolu- 
tion of  July.  From  such  a  character  the  tes- 
timony borne  to  its  practical  effects  is  of  the 
highest  value. 

"The  Uesloration,"  says  he,  "bore  in  its  bo- 
som an  enemy,  from  whose  attacks  France 
required  incessant  protection.  That  enemy 
was  the  counter  revolutionary  spirit;  in  other 
words,  the  passion  to  deduce  without  reserve 
all  its  conscquenrcs  from  the  principle  of  Icffi- 
timacy ;  ihc  desire  to  nvcrtiirn,  for  the  sake  of 
the  ancient  interests,  the  poliiical  system  esta- 
blished by  the  Revolution,  and  consecrated  by 
the  Charier  and  a  thousand  oaths.  It  was  the 
cancer  which  mnsumrd  it;  the  danger  was 
pointed  out  for  fifteen  years,  and  at  length  it 
devoured  it. 

"The  Revolution  of  July  also  bore  in  its 
entrails  another  curse :  this  was  the  revolu- 
tionary/pirit,  evoked  fcom  the  bloody  chaos 
of  our  first  Revolution,  by  the  sound  of  tin- 
rapid  victory  of  the  people  over  the  royalty. 
That  fatal  spirit  has  weighed  upon  the  desti- 
nies of  France,  since  the  Revolution  of  18.30. 
like  its  evil  petiius.  I  write  to  illustrate  its 
effects;  arnl  I  (Vol  I  should  ill  nccomplish  my 
task  if  I  did  riot  at  the  same  time  combat  its 
doctrines. 

"  The  counter-revolution  was  no  ways  for- 
tnidable,  but  in  consequence  of  the  inevitable 
•nderstanding  which  existed  between  its  sup- 


porters and  the  crown,  who,  although  it  long 
refused  them  its  arms,  often  lent  them  its 
shield.  The  revolutionary  spirit  has  also  a 
powerful  ally,  which  communicates  to  it  force 
from  its  inherent  energy.  This  ally  is  the  de- 
mocracij  which  now  reigns  as  a  despot  over  France ; 
that  is,  without  moderation,  without  wisdom, 
without  perceiving  that  it  reigns  only  for  the 
behoof  of  the  spirit  of  disorder — that  terrible 
ally  which  causes  it  to  increase  its  own  power, 
and  will  terminate  by  destroying  it.  It  is  time 
to  speak  to  the  one  and  the  other  a  firm  lan- 
guage ;  to  recall  to  both  principles  as  old  as 
the  world,  which  have  never  yet  been  violated 
with  impunity  by  nations,  and  which  succeS' 
sivcly  disappear  from  the  midst  of  us,  stifled 
under  the  instinct  of  gross  desires,  rash  pas- 
sions, pusillanimous  concessions,  and  subver- 
sive laws.  Matters  are  come  to  such  a  point, 
that  no  small  courage  is  now  required  to  un- 
fold these  sacred  principles  ;  and  yet  all  the 
objects  of  the  social  union,  the  bare  progress 
of  nations,  the  dignity  of  the  human  race,  the 
cause  of  freedom  itself,  is  at  stake.  That 
liberty  is  to  be  seen  engraven  at  the  gate  of  all 
our  cities,  emblazoned  on  all  our  monuments, 
floating  on  all  our  standards ;  but,  alas !  it 
will  float  there  in  vain  if  the  air  which  we 
breathe  is  charged  with  anarchy,  as  with  a 
mortal  contagion,  and  if  that  scourge  marks 
dailx  with  its  black  mark  some  of  our  maxims, 
of  our  laws,  of  our  powers,  while  it  is  inces- 
santlv  advancing  to  the  destruction  of  society 
itself" 

"  What  power  required  the  sacrifice  of  the 
peerage  1  Let  the  minister  answer  it,  he  said 
it  again  and  again  with  candour  and  courage. 
//  is  to  }iopii!(ir  prejudice,  dciiiorralif  }ntssion,  the 
intoxication  of  dcnia'^of^ues,  the  Hind  hatred  of  every 
species  of  superiority,  that  this  immense  sacrifice  has 
been  offered.  I  do  not  fear  to  assert,  that  a  na- 
tion which  has  enforced  such  a  sacrifice,  on 
such  altars ;  a  nation  which  could  demand  or 
consent  to  such  a  sacrifice,  has  decUirod  itself 
in  the  face  of  the  world  ignorant  of  freedom, 
and  perhaps  incapable  of  enjoying  it. 

"That  was  the  great  battle  of  our  revolu- 
tionary parly.  It  has  gained  it.  It  is  no  longer 
by  our  institutions  that  we  can  be  defended 
from  its  enterprises  and  its  folly.  The  good 
sense  of  the  public  is  now  our  last  safeguard. 
Dut  let  us  not  deceive  ourselves.  Should  the 
public  spirit  become  deranged,  we  are  undone. 
It  dcpinds  in  future  on  a  breath  of  opinion, 
whither  niiarehy  should  not  rise  triumphant 
in  the  midst  of  the  powers  of  government. 
Mistress  of  the  ministry  by  the  elections,  it 
would  speedily  become  so  of  the  Upper  House, 
by  the  new  rreation*  which  it  would  furct  upon  Iht 
crown.  The  Upper  House  will  run  the  risk,  at 
every  quin<iuiMiiiial  renewal  of  its  mimbers.of 
becoming  a  muti^  parly  assemblage:  an  as- 
sembly elected  at  second  hand  by  the  Chamber  of 
Deputies  and  the  electoral  eoliencs.  The  ruling 
party  henceforth,  instead  of  coming  to  a  com- 
promise with  it.  which  constitutes  the  balance 
of  the  three  powers,  and  the  basis  of  a  constitu- 
tional monarchy,  will  only  require  to  incvrporntt 
itself  with  it.  .\t  the  first  shock  of  parlies,  the 
revolutionary  faction  will  gain  this  immctise 
advantage;  it  will  emerge  from  the  bosom  o^ 


912 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


our  institutions  as  from  its  eyrie,  and  reign 
over  France  with  the  wings  of  terror. 

"In  vain  do  the  opposing  parties  repeat  that 
the  Revolution  of  1830  does  not  resemble  that 
of  1789.  That  is  the  very  point  at  issue ;  and 
I  will  indulge  in  all  your  hopes,  if  you  are  not 
as  rash  as  your  predecessors,  as  ready  to  de- 
stroy, as  much  disposed  to  yield  to  popular 
wishes,  that  is,  to  the  desire  of  the  demagogues  who 
direct  them.  But  can  I  indulge  the  hope,  that  a 
people  will  not  twice  in  forty  years  commence 
the  same  career  of  faults  and  misfortunes, 
when  you  who  have  the  reins  of  power,  are 
already  beginning  the  same  errors]  I  must 
say,  the  Revolution  of  1830  runs  the  same  risk 
as  its  predecessor,  if  it  precipitates  its  chariot 
to  the  edge  of  the  same  precipices.  Ever)'- 
where  the  spirit  of  1791  will  bear  the  same 
fruits.  In  heaven  as  in  earth,  it  can  engender 
only  the  demon  of  anarchy. 

"  The  monarchy  of  the  Constituent  Assem- 
bly, that  monarchy  which  fell  almost  as  soon 
as  it  arose,  did  not  perish,  as  is  generally  sup- 
posed, from  an  imperfect  equilibrium  of  power, 
a  bad  definition  of  the  royal  prerogative,  or  the 
weakness  of  the  throne.  No — the  vice  lay 
deeper;  it  was  in  its  entrails.  The  old  crown 
of  England  was  not  adorned  with  more  jewels 
than  that  ephemeral  crown  of  the  King  of  the 
French.  But  the  crown  of  England  possesses 
in  the  social,  not  less  than  the  political  state 
of  England,  powerful  support,  of  which  France 
is  totally  destitute.  A  constitution  without 
guarantees  there  reposed  on  a  society  which 
was  equally  destitute  of  them,  which  was  as 
movable  as  the  sands  of  Africa,  as  easily 
raised  by  the  breaths  of  whirlwinds.  The  Re- 
volution which  founded  that  stormy  society, 
founded  it  on  false  and  destructive  principles. 
Not  content  with  levelling  to  the  dust  the  an- 
cient hierarchy,  the  old  privileges  of  the  orders, 
the  corporate  rights  of  towns,  which  time  had 
doomed  to  destruction,  it  levelled  with  the  same 
stroke  the  most  legitimate  guarantees  as  the 
most  artificial  distinctions.  It  called  the  masses 
of  mankind  not  to  equality,  but  to  supreinacy. 

"The  constitution  was  established  on  the 
same  principles.  In  defiance  of  the  whole  ex- 
perience of  ages,  the  Assembly  disdained  every 
intermediate  or  powerful  institution  which  was 
founded  on  those  conservative  principles,  ivithout 
attention  to  ichich  no  stale  on  earth  has  ever  yet 
flourished.  In  a  word,  it  called  tlie  masses  not 
to  liberty,  but  to  power. 

"  After  having  done  this,  no  method  re- 
mained to  form  a  counterpoise  to  this  terrible 
power.  A  torrent  had  been  created  without 
bounds — an  ocean  without  a  shore.  By  the 
eternal  laws  of  nature,  it  was  furious,  indomi- 
table, destructive,  changeable ;  leaving  nothing 
standing  but  the  scaffolds  on  which  royalty 
and  rank,  and  all  that  was  illustrious  in  talent 
and  virtue,  speedily  fell;  until  the  people,  dis- 
abused by  suffering,  and  worn  out  by  passion, 
resigned  their  fatal  sovereignty  into  the  hands 
of  a  great  man.  Such  it  was,  such  it  will  be, 
to  the  end  of  time.  The  same  vices,  the  same 
scourges,  the  same  punishments. 

"  When  you  do  not  wish  to  fall  into  an  abyss, 
vou  must  avoid  the  path  which  leads  to  it. 
Whsn  you  condemn  a  principle,  you   must 


have  the  courage  to  condemn  its  premises,  ol 
to  resign  yourself  to  see  the  terrible  logic  of  . 
party,  the  austere  arms  of  fortune,  deduce  its 
consequences ;  otherwise,  )'0u  plant  a  tree,  ant! 
refuse  to  eat  its  fruits ;  you  form  a  volcano; 
and  expect  to  sleep  in  peace  by  its  side. 

"  With  the  exception  of  the  Constituent  As* 
sembly,  where  all  understandings  were  fasci* 
nated,  where  there  reigned  a  sort  of  sublime 
delirium,  all  the  subsequent  legislatures  dur- 
ing the  Revolution  did  evil,  intending  to  do  ' 
good.  The  abolition  of  the  monarchy  vras  a 
concession  of  the  Legislative  Assembly;  the 
head  of  the  king  an  oflering  of  the  Convention. 
The  Girondists  in  the  Legislative  Body,  in  sur- 
rendering the  monarchy,  thought  they  were 
doing  the  only  thing  which  could  save  order. 
Such  was  their  blindness,  that  they  could  not  see 
that  their  own  acts  had  destroyed  order,  and  its 
last  shadow  vanished  with  the  fall  of  the  throne. 
The  Plain,  or  middle  party  in  the  Convention,  by 
surrendering  Louis  to  the  executioner,  thought 
to  satiate  the  people  with  that  noble  blood ;  and 
they  were  punished  for  it,  by  being  compelled 
to  give  their  own,  and  that  of  all  France.  It 
was  on  the  same  principle  that  in  our  times 
the  peerage  has  fallen  the  victim  of  deplorable  co»i- 
ccssions.  May  that  great  concession,  which 
embraces  more  interests,  and  destroys  more 
conservative  principles  than  are  generally  sup- 
posed, which  shakes  at  once  all  the  pillars  of 
the  social  order,  not  prepare  for  those  who 
have  occasioned  it  unavailing  regret  and  de- 
served punishment! 

"The  divine  justice  has  a  sure  means  of 
punishing  the  exactions,  the  passions,  and  the 
weakness  which  subvert  society.  It  consists  in 
alloiving  the  parties  who  urge  on  the  torrent,  to  reap 
the  consequences  of  their  actions.  Thus  they  go 
on,  without  disquieting  themselves  as  to  the 
career  on  which  they  have  entered;  withovU 
once  looking  behind  them  ;  thinking  only  on 
the  next  step  they  have  to  make  in  the  revolu- 
tionary progress,  and  always  believing  that  it 
will  be  the  last.  But  the  weight  of  committed 
faults  drags  them  on,  and  they  perish  under  the 
rock  of  Sisyphus. 

"I  will  not  attempt  to  conceal  my  senti- 
ments; the  political  and  moral  state  of  my 
country  fills  me  with  consternation.  When 
you  contemplate  its  population  in  general,  so 
calm,  so  laborious,  so  desirous  to  enjoy  in 
peace  the  blessings  which  the  hand  of  God  has 
poured  so  liberally  into  the  bosom  of  our  beau- 
iiful  France,  you  are  filled  with  hope,  and  con- 
template with  the  eye  of  hope  the  future  state 
of  our  country.  But  if  you  direct  your  look  to 
the  region  where  party  strife  combats ;  if  you 
contemplate  the  incessant  efforts  to  excite  in 
the  masses  of  the  population  all  the  bad  pas- 
sions of  the  social  order;  to  rouse  them  afresh 
when  they  are  becoming  dormant;  to  enrol 
them  in  regular  array  when  they  are  floating ; 
to  make,  for  the  sake  of  contending  interests, 
one  body,  and  march  together  to  one  prey, 
which  they  will  dispute  in  blood ;  how  is  it 
possible  to  mistake,  in  that  delirium  of  pas- 
sion, in  that  oblivion  of  the  principles  of  order, 
in  that  forgetfulness  of  the  conditions  on  which 
it  depends,  the  fatal  signs  which  precede  the 
most  violent  convulsions !     A  people  in  whose 


EFFECTS  OF  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION  OF  1830. 


313 


boBom,  for  S'ixteen  months,  disorder  has  marched 
ii-ilh  i's  head  crcrt,  and  its  destro3'ing  axe  in 
hand,  ha^  not  3'et  settled  its  accounts  with  the 
■n-rath  of  Heaven. 

"While  I  am  yet  correcting  these  lines; 
while  I  am  considering  if  they  do  not  make  too 
strong  a  contrast  to  the  public  sccurilj' — if 
they  do  not  too  strongly  express  my  profound 
conviction  of  the  dangers  of  my  countr}- — the 
'ffrath  of  Heaven  has  burst  upon  that  France, 
half  blinded,  half  insane.  Fortune  has  too 
cruelly  justified  my  sinister  presages.  Revolt, 
assassination,  civil  war,  have  deluged  with 
blood  a  great  city;  and  it  would  be  absurd  to 
be  astonished  at  it.  We  have  sown  the  seeds 
of  anarchy  with  liberal  hands  ;  it  is  a  crop 
which  never  fails  to  yield  a  plentiful  harvest. 

"  It  is  to  the  men  of  property,  of  whatever 
party,  that  I  now  address  myself:  to  those  who 
nave  no  inclination  foranarchj',  whatever  may 
be  its  promises  or  its  menaces;  to  those  who 
would  fear,  by  running  before  it,  to  surrender 
the  empire  to  its  ravages,  and  to  have  to  an- 
swer to  God  and  man  for  the  disastrous  days, 
the  dark  futurity  of  France.  I  address  myself 
to  them,  resolved  to  unfold  to  the  eyes  of  my 
country  all  our  wounds  ;  to  follow  out,  even  to 
its  inmost  recesses,  the  malady  which  is  de- 
vouring us.  It  will  be  found,  that,  in  the  last 
result,  they  all  centre  in  one ;  and  that  is  the 
arae  which  has  already  cleft  in  two  this  great 
oody,  and  brought  the  country  to  the  brink  of 
ruin.  ]\'c  spcuk  of  liberty,  and  it  is  the  govern- 
ment of  the  masses  of  men  which  we  labour  to  esta- 
blish. Equality  is  the  object  of  our  passionate 
desires,  and  we  confound  it  with  levelling.  I 
know  not  what  destiny  Providence  has  in  re- 
serve for  France ;  but  I  do  not  hesitate  to  as- 
sert, that,  so  long  as  that  double  prejudice  shall 
subsist  amongst  us,  we  will  find  no  order  but 
under  the  shadow  of  despotism,  and  may  bid  a 
final  adieu  ii>  hli-rly." — Pp.  20— 3G. 

Thoro  is  hardly  a  sentence  in  this  long  quo- 
tation, that  is  not  precisely  applicable  to  this 
country,  and  the  revolutionary  party  so  vehe- 
mently at  wiifk  amongst  ourselves.  How 
strik  •  are  his  observations  on 

the  >'.  :,!•  hf-rediiary  peerage,  and 

ihe  prrvi<iir,il  ri.<//io)i.i  which  will  prostrate  the 
upper  h'.i'  '■••re  the  power  of  the  demo- 
Tncy,  t  .liar  attempt  made*y  the  revn- 

Intion.ir     ;    ,  ry  111  this  ciiuiitry!     But  how  dif- 

f'T'-nt  li  !    1 n  the  rcsistanre  maih"  to  the  at- 1 

inn\n  [■>  w  this  last  bulwark  of  order 

>"  *be    t  .'  s!     In   France,   the   Citizen 

King.  uTL'ril  on  by  the  movement  party,  rrt- 
aled  Ihii--;  }'■•'.      •'    >   ,,         "  I  by 

I'^^'r  ai.!  ;  ;,  .  ,  .  anil 

Ihri'he  ilic  last  stip- 
i  II).    In  Great  Dritain, 

the  same  course  was  urged  by  an  insane  popu- 
lace, and  a  reckless  administration,  on  the 
crown  ;  and  an  rfl'orl,  noble  indeed,  but,  it  is 
fo  be  feared,  ■  was  made  by  the  crown 

to  resist  the  .     Thr  "  Masses"  of  man- 

kind, those  immense  bodies  whom  it  is  the 
policy  of  the  revolutionary  party  in  every 
country  to  enlist  on  their  side,  arc  still  agitated 
and  discontented.  But,  thanks  to  the  tr^ nerous 
efforts  of  the  Conservative  party,  the  n<ible  re- 
■istance  of  the  House  of  Peers,  and  the  ulti- 


mate efibrt  for  liberation  by  the  crown,  th» 
flood  of  revolution  has  been  at  least  delayed 
and  if  the  constitution  is  doomed  to  destruc 
lion,  the  friends  of  freedom  have  at  least  the 
consolation  of  having  struggled  to  the  last  to 
avert  it.* 

Salvandy  gives  the  basis  on  which  alone,  in 
his  opinion,  the  social  edifice  can  with  safety 
be  reconstructed.  His  observations  are  sin- 
gularly applicable  to  the  future  balance  which 
must  obtain  in  the  British  empire: 

"The  more  democratic  the  French  popula- 
tion becomes  from  its  manners  and  its  laws, 
the  more  material  it  is  that  its  government 
should  incline  in  the  opposite  direction,  to  be 
able  to  withstand  that  flux  and  reflux  of  free 
and  equal  citizens.  The  day  of  old  aristocra- 
cies, of  immovable  and  exclusive  aristocra- 
cies, is  past.  Our  social,  our  political  condi- 
tion, will  only  permit  of  such  as  are  accessible 
to  all.  But  all  may  arrive  at  distinction,  for 
the  paths  to  eminence  are  open  to  all ;  all  may 
acquire  property,  for  it  is  an  acquisition  which 
order  and  talent  may  alwa3's  command.  In 
such  a  state  of  society,  is  it  a  crime  to  insist 
that  power  shall  not  be  devolved  but  to  such 
as  have  availed  themselves  of  these  uuiversal 
capabilities,  and  have  arrived  either  at  emi- 
nence or  property ;  to  those  who  have  reached 
the  summit  of  the  ladder  in  relation  to  the  com- 
mune, the  department,  or  the  state,  to  which 
they  belong]  No,  it  is  no  crime  ;  for  if  you 
cast  your  eyes  over  the  history  of  the  world, 
you  will  find  that  freedom  was  never  yet  ac- 
quired but  at  that  price. 

"It  is  the  law  of  nature  that  societies  and 
nations  should  move  like  indiviihials;  that  the 
head  should  direct  the  whole.  Thflfc  only  it  is 
that  the  power  of  intelligencer,  the  moral  force, 
is  enabled  to  govern  ;  and  the  perfection  of 
such  moral  and  intellectual  combinations  is 
freedom.  The  party  in  France  who  support 
a  republic,  do  so  because  they  consider  it 
as  synonymous  with  democracy.  They  are  in 
the  right.  Democracy,  without  the  most  powci 
ful  counterpoises,  leads  necessarily  to  pt'iuilar 
anarchy.  It  has  but  one  way  to  avoid  that  des- 
tiny, and  that  is  despotism;  and  thence  it  is  that 
it  invariably  terminates,  weary  and  bloody,  by 
reposing  beneath  its  shades." — Pp.-M,  4.5. 

Numerous  as  have  been  the  errors,  and  cul- 
pable the  n-ckl'  'f  the  Reform  rulers  of 
Efigland  ;  theii  i  appeal  to  the  masses 
of  mankind;  their  attempt  to  lranii>le  down 
intelligence,  education,  and  property  by  the 
force  of  numbers;  their  ceaseless  endeavours 
to  sway  the  popular  elections,  in  every  part  of 
the  country,  by  brutal  violence  and  rabble  in 
timidation,  is  the  mostrryin*;  sin  which  liosrls 
them.  It  will  hang  like  a  dead  weight  about 
their  necks  in  the  page  of  history ;  it  will  blast 
for  ever  their  characters  in  the  eyes  oi  pos- 
terity; it  will  stamp  ihem  as  men  who  sought 
to  subvert  all  the  ii  '  :ii.il  rela- 
tions of  nature;  ton  .  la  r  worse 
than  a  political  revolution;  and  subject  Eng- 
land to  that  rule  of  the  multitude,  whirh  muSi 
engender  a  Reign  of  Terror  and  a  British  Na- 
poleon. ' 

—  ,    ,  ..  ^1  .| ,  ,  — ^ , — 

•  WriitPfi  »t>orily  after  llio  rpjcpllon  of  tlie  Rpfoira 
Dill  l)y  ttiu  Ilouve  of  Peers. 


.^14 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


Our  author  gives  the  following  graphic  pic- 
ture of  the  state  of  France  for  a  year  and  a 
half  after  the  Revolution  of  July.  How  exactly 
docs  it  depict  the  state  of  the  British  islands 
after  eighteen  months  of  popular  domination! 

"For  eighteen  months  the  greatest  political 
lessons  have  been  taught  to  France.  On  the 
one  hand,  we  have  seen  what  it  has  cost  its 
rulers  to  have  attempted  to  subvert  the  laws; 
on  theotlier  what  such  a  catastrophe  costs  a 
nation,  e/en  when  it  is  most  innocently  in- 
volved in  it.  The  state,  shaken  to  its  centre, 
does  not  settle  down  without  long  efforts.  The 
farther  the  imagination  of  the  people  has  been 
carried,  the  more  extravagant  the  expectations 
they  have  been  permitted  to  form,  the  more 
difficulty  have  the  unchained  passions  to  sub- 
mit to  the  yoke  of  constituted  authority,  or  le- 
gal freedom.  Real  liberty,  patient,  wise,  and 
regular,  irritates  as  a  fetter  those  who,  having 
conquered  by  the  sword,  cannot  conceive  any 
better  arbiter  for  human  affairs.  To  insurrec- 
tion for  the  laws,  succeeds  everywhere,  and 
without  intermission,  insurrection  against  the 
laws.  From  all  quarters,  the  desire  is  mani- 
fested for  new  conquests,  a  new  futurity  ;  and 
that  devouring  disquietude  knows  no  barrier, 
before  which  the  ambitions,  the  hatreds,  the 
theories,  the  destruction  of  men,  may  be  ar- 
rested. It  appears  to  the  reformers,  that  all 
rights  should  perish,  because  one  has  fallen. 
There  is  no  longer  «>i  institution  xvliich  they  do  not 
attack,  nor  an  interest  u-hich  does  not  feel  itself  com- 
promisid.  The  disorder  of  ideas  becomes  uni- 
versal ,  the  anxiety  of  minds  irresistible.  A 
city,  with  100,000  armed  men  in  the  streets,  no 
longer  feels  itself  in  safety.  Should  the  public 
spirit  aro*e  itself,  it  is  only  to  fall  under  the 
weight  of  popular  excesses,  and  still  more  dis- 
quieting apprehension.  For  long  Avill  prevail 
that  universal  and  irresistible  languor ;  hardly 
in  a  generation  will  the  political  body  regain 
its  life,  its  security,  its  confidence  in  itself. 
What  has  occasioned  this  calamitous  state  of 
things?  Simply  this.  Force— /jo;j!(/nr  force, 
has  usurped  a  place  in  the  destinies  of  the  na- 
tion, and  its  appearance  necessarily  inflicts  a 
fatal  wound  on  the  regular  order  of  human 
society.  Every  existence  has  been  endanger- 
ed when  that  principle  was  proclaimed." — 
Pp.  50,  51. 

"  England  has  done  the  same  to  its  sovereign 
as  the  legislators  of  July ;  and  God  has  since 
granted  to  that  nation  one  hundred  and  forty 
years  of  prosperity  and  glory.  But  let  it  be 
observed,  that  when  it  abandoned  the  principle 
of  legitimacy,  England  made  no  change  in  its 
social  institutions.  The  Aristocracy  still  retained 
their  ascendency:  though  the  keystone  of  the 
arch  was  thrown  down,  they  removed  none  of 
its  foundations.  But  suppose  that  the  English 
people  had  proceeded,  at  the  same  time  that 
Ihey  overthrew  the  Stuarts,  to  overturn  their 
Civil  laws  and  hereditary  peerage — to  force 
through  Parliamentary  Reform,  remodel  juries, 
bind  all  authorilifs  beneath  the  yoke  of  the  po- 
pulace, extended  funrtainental  changes  into  the 
state,  the  church,  and  the  army:  had  it  tole- 
rated a  doctrine  u^hich  is  anarchy  itself,  the  doctrine 
of  universal  suffrage:  suppose,  in  fine,  that  it  had 
'■een  in  the  first  fervour  of  the  revolutianary 


intoxication,  that  parliament  had  laid  the  asfl 
to  all  subsisting  institutions :  then,  I  say,  that 
the  Revolution  of  1688  would  most  certainly 
have  led  the  English  people  to  their  ruin ;  that 
it  would  have  brought  forth  nothing  bul 
tyranny,  or  been  stifled  in  blood  and  tears  "— 
Pp.  59,  60. 

The  real  state  of  France,  under  the  Restora- 
tion, has  been  the  subject  of  gross  misrepre- 
sentation from  all  the  liberal  writers  in  Europe. 
Let  us  hear  the  testimony  of  this  supporter  of 
the  Revolution  of  July,  to  its  practical  opera- 
tion. 

"  The  government  of  the  Restoration  was  a 
constitutional,  an  aristocratic,  and  a  free  mon- 
archy. It  was  monarchical  in  its  essence,  and 
in  the  prerogatives  which  it  reserved  to  the 
crown.  It  was  free,  that  is  no  longer  contested.  In- 
violability of  persons  and  property;  personal 
freedom;  the  liberty  of  the  press;  equality  in 
the  eye  of  law ;  the  institution  of  juries ;  in- 
dependence in  the  judiciary  body ;  responsi- 
bility in  the  agents  of  power;  comprised  every 
thing  that  was  ever  known  of  freedom  in  the 
universe.  Public  freedom  consisted  in  the 
division  of  the  legislative  authority  betweeo 
the  king  and  the  people — the  independence  of 
both  Chambers — the  annual  voting  of  supplies 
— the  freedom  of  the  periodical  press — the  es- 
tablishment of  a  representative  government. 

"  Democracy,  in  that  regime,  was,  Godknows, 
neither  unknown  nor  disarmed.  For  in  a  coun- 
try where  the  aristocracy  is  an  hotel,  open  to 
whoever  can  afford  to  enter  it,  it  as  necessarily 
forms  part  of  the  democracy  as  the  head  does 
of  the  body.  The  whole  body  of  society  has 
gained  the  universal  admissibility,  and  the  real 
admission  of  all  to  every  species  of  public 
employment;  the  complete  equality  of  taxa- 
tion ;  the  eligibility  of  all  to  the  electoral  body; 
the  inevitable  preponderance  of  the  middling 
orders  in  the  elections  ;  in  fine,  the  entire  com- 
mand of  the  periodical  press. 

"  At  the  time  of  the  promulgation  of  the 
Charter,  France  had  not  the  least  idea  of  what 
freedom  was.  That  Revolution  of  40  years' 
duration,  which  had  rolled  over  us,  incessantly 
resounding  with  the  name  of  liberty,  had  passed 
utray  ivithout  leaving  a  conception  of -what  it  really 
was.  Coups  d'etat — that  is,  strokes  by  the 
force  of  tbe  popular  party — composed  all  its 
annals,  equally  with  all  that  was  to  be  learn- 
ed from  it;  and  these  vioJent  measures  never 
revolted  the  opinion  of  the  public,  as  being 
contrary  to  true  freedom,  which  ever  rejects 
force,  and  reposes  only  on  justice,  but  merely 
spread  dismay  and  horror  through  the  ranks 
of  the  opposite  party.  The  only  stru^-^le  wa^ 
who  should  get  the  command  of  these  terrible 
arms.  On  the  one  hand,  these  triumphs  were 
called  order;  on  the  other,  liberty.  No  one 
gave  them  their  true  appellation,  which  was  a 
return  to  the  state  of  barbarous  ages,  a  resto- 
ration of  the  rule  of  the  strongest."— Pp.  115, 
116. 

These  observations  are  worthy  of  the  most 
profound  meditation.  Historical  truth  is  be- 
ginning to  emerge  from  the  fury  of  party  am- 
bition. Here  we  have  it  admitted  by  a  libera, 
historian,  that  throughout  the  whole  course  of 
the  French  revolution,  that  is,  of  the  resurreo 


EFFECTS  OF   THE   FRENCH  REVOLUTION   OF    1830. 


315 


non  and  rule  of  the  masses,  there  was  not  only 
no  trace  of  liberty  established,  but  no  idea  of  liberty 
acqiiired.  Successive  coups  d'etat,  perpetual 
insurrection ;  a  continued  struggle  for  the 
rule  of  these  formidable  bodies  of  the  citizens, 
constituted  its  whole  histor}-.  They  fell  at  last 
under  the  yoke  of  Napoleon,  easily  and  will- 
ingly, because  they  had  never  tasted  of  real 
freedom.  That  blessing  was  given  to  them, 
for  the  first  time,  under  a  constitutional  mon- 
archy and  a  hereditary  peerage  ;  in  a  word,  in 
a  mixed  government.  How  instructive  the 
lesson  to  those  who  have  made  such  strenuous 
endeavours  to  ovcrluni  the  mixed  govcnwicnt  of 
Britain ;  to  establish  here  the  ruinous  prepon- 
derance of  numbers,  and  beat  down  the  free- 
dom of  thought,  by  the  brutal  violence  of  the 
multitude. 

The  following  observations  are  singularly 
striking.  Their  application  need  not  be  point- 
ed out ;  one  would  imagine  they  were  written 
to  depict  the  course  to  which  the  reforming 
administration  is  rapidly  approaching. 

"  There  is  in  the  world  but  two  courses  of 
policy :  the  one  is  regular,  legitimate,  cautious  : 
it  leans  for  support,  not  on  the  physical 
strength,  but  the  moral  intelligence  of  man- 
kind, and  concedes  influence  less  to  the  num- 
bers than  the  lights,  the  stability,  the  services, 
the  love  of  order,  of  the  superior  class  of  citizens. 

"This  lofty  and  even  policy  respects  within 
the  laws,  and  without  the  rights  of  nations, 
which  constitutes  the  moral  law  of  the  uni- 
verse. It  conducts  mankind  slowly  and  gradu- 
ally to  those  ameliorations  which  God  has 
made  as  the  end  of  our  efforts,  and  the  com- 
pensation of  our  miseries;  but  it  knows  that 
Providence  has  prescribed  two  conditions  to 
this  progress, — patience  and  justice. 

"The  other  policy  has  totally  dificrcnt  rules, 
and  an  entirely  different  method  of  procedure. 
Force,  brutal  force,  constitutes  at  once  its  prin- 
ciple and  its  law.  You  will  ever  distinguish 
it  by  ihc^e  symptoms.  In  all  contests  belwefii 
citizens,  parties,  or  kingdoms,  in  every  time 
and  in  every  place,  it  discards  the  authority  of 
]'ustic<*,  which  is  called  the  safely  of  the  peo- 
ple; that  is  to  say,  the  prcvniliiit^  nhjrrl  of  popular 
ambition,  nr,  in  nttur  tmrdi,  tiirrc  fnrrt,  c<>nie»  in  itn 
$tfad.  Would  you  know  its  internal  policy : 
difTcrcDce  of  opinion  is  considered  as  a  crime  ; 
«U'.pirion  is  arrest;  punishment,  death:  it 
ktiMU  -  no  law  but  force  to  govern  mankind. 
Kr  •  Ttcrnal  policy.     It  r'-u'anls  nfilher 

thf  1  of  tr^nties  nor  the  rights  of  neu- 

trals, nor  the  inviolability  of  their  territories, 
nor  the  conditions  of  their  capitulations:  its 
diplomacy  is  nolhini?  else  but  war;  that  is  to 
say.  for<'e,  its  last  n'sourcc  in  all  cmergfiicirs. 
In  its  internal  governnienl  it  has  recourse  to 
no  ltni;lhenfd  disrusmnn,  In  no  dtlay»,  Jio  thiw  dtlil- 
eratinn.1  .•  caprice,  anger,  murder,  cut  short  all 
questions,  without  permitting  the  other  side  to 
be  heanl.  In  a  word,  in  that  system,  force 
think-;,  deliberates,  wishes,  and  executes.  It 
rejects  all  the  authority  of  time  and  the  lessons 
of  experience ;  the  past  it  destroys,  the  future 
it  devours.  It  must  invade  every  thing,  over- 
come every  thin?,  in  a  sinijle  day.  Marrhim; 
•n  the  head  of  incnaring  tnafxi,  it  rampth  nil  iriihcs, 
«fi  ruistance,  all  genius,  all  grandeur,  all  virttu,  to 


bend  before  those  terrible  waves,  ivhere  thirc  is  no- 
thing enlightened  which  is  not  perverted,  nor  worlh'g 
%vhich  is  not  buried  in  obscurity.  What  it  calls 
liberty  consists  in  the  power  of  dictating  its  caprice 
to  the  rest  of  mankind;  to  the  judge  on  the  seat  of 
justice,  to  the  citizen  at  his  fireside,  to  the  legislator 
in  his  curule  chair,  to  the  king  on  his  throne.  Thus 
it  advances,  overturning,  destroying.  But  do 
not  speak  to  it  of  building ;  .that  is  beyond  its 
power.  It  is  the  monster  of  Asia,  which  can 
extinguish  but  not  produce  existence." — Pp 
230,  231. 

At  the  moment  that  we  are  translating  this 
terrible  picture,  meetings  of  the  masses  of  man 
kind  have  been  convened,  by  the  reforming 
agents,  in  every  part  of  the  country,  where  by 
possibility  they  could  be  got  together,  to  control 
and  overturn  the  decisions  of  parliament. 
Fifty,  sixty,  and  seventy  thousand  men,  are 
stated  to  have  been  assembled  at  Manchester, 
Birmingham,  Glasgow,  and  Edinburgh  :  their 
numbers  are  grossly  exaggerated ;  disorders 
wilfully  ascribed  to  them;  menacing  language 
falsely  put  into  their  mouth  in  order  to  intimi- 
date the  more  sober  and  virtuous  class  of  citi- 
zens. The  brickbat  and  bludgeon  system  is 
invoked  to  cover  the  freedom  of  the  next,  as  it 
did  of  the  last  general  election,  and  obtain  that 
triumph  from  the  force  of  brutal  violence, 
which  it  despairs  of  efl!ecting  by  the  sober  in- 
fluence of  reason  or  justice.  Who  is  so  blind 
as  not  to  see  in  this  ostentatious  parade  of 
numbers,  as  opposed  to  knowledge ;  in  this  ap- 
peal to  violence,  in  default  of  argument;  in 
til's  recourse  to  the  force  of  masses,  to  over- 
come the  energ}-  of  patriotism,  the  same  revo- 
lutionary spirit  which  Salvandy  has  so  well 
described  as  forming  the  scourge  of  modem 
France,  and  which  never  yet,became  predomi- 
nant in  a  country,  without  involving  high  and 
low  in  one  promiscuous  ruin  ? 

"England,"  says  the  same  eloquf^ut  writer, 
"  has  two  edifices  standing  near  to  i;uh  other: 
in  the  one,  assemble  from  generation  to  gene- 
ration, to  defend  the  ancient  liberties  of  their 
country,  all  that  the  three  kintrdiuns  can  as- 
semble that  is  illustrious  or  r>  '  :  it  is 
the  chapel  of  St.  Stephens.  Ti  .  •  com- 
bated Pitt  and  Fox:  there  we  have  seen 
Brougham,  Peel,  and  Canning,  engaged  in 
those  noble  strifes  which  elevate  the  dignity  ol 
human  nature,  and  the  very  sight  of  which  is 
enough  to  attach  the  mintl  to  freedom  for  the 
rest  of  its  life  \\  a  few  paces  distance  you 
find  another  arena,  other  combats,  other  cham- 
pions :  physical  force  contending  with  its  like ; 
man  striiegiing  with  his  fellow-creature  for  a 
miserable  prize,  and  exerting  no  ray  of  intelli- 
gence, but  to  plant  his  blows  with  more  accu 
racy  in  the  body  of  his  antag<  nist.  From  iha' 
sprctacic  to  the  glorious  one  exhibited  in  p.ir 
liamcnt,  the  distance  is  not  greater  than  from 
revolutionarv  liberty  to  constitutional  free- 
dom."—P.  233. 

To  what  does  the  atrocious  system  of  popu 
lar  intimidation,  so  long  encoiira^ed  or  taken 
advantage  of  by  the  reforming  party,  necessa- 
rily lead  but  to  such  a  species  of  rev»Ifltianary 
liberty;  in  other  words,  to  the  unrestrained  ty- 
ranny of  the  mob,  over  all  that  is  A\j,\\i\\c(],  of 
virtuous,  or  praiseworthy,  in  society  ?     Ii  will 


816 


ALISON'S   MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


tc  the  eternal  disgrace  of  that  party ;  it  will  be 
the  damning  record  of  the  reforming  adminis- 
tration, tliat  in  the  straggle  for  power,  in  the 
pursuit  of  chimerical  and  perilous  changes, 
they  invoked  the  aid  of  these  detestable  allies, 
and  periled  the  very  existence  of  society  upon 
a  struggle  in  which  they  could  not  be  success- 
ful bu^  by  the  aid  of  powers  which  never  yet 
were  let  loose  without  devastating  the  world 
with  their  fury. 

"  lu  vain,"  continues  our  author,  "  the  Move- 
ment party  protest  against  such  a  result,  and 
strive  to  support  their  opinions  by  the  strange 
paradox,  that  the  anarchy,  towards  which  all 
their  efforts  are  urging  us,  will  this  time  be  gen- 
tle, pacific,  beneficent ;  that  it  will  bring  back 
the  days  of  legitimacy,  and  bring  them  back  by 
flowery  paths"  This  brilliant  colouring  to  the 
horrors  of  anarchy  is  one  of  the  most  deplora- 
ble productions  of  the  spirit  of  party.  For  my 
part,  I  see  it  in  colours  of  blood;  and  that  not 
merely  from  historic  recollection,  but  the  na- 
ture of  things.  Doubtless  we  will  not  see  the 
Reign  of  Terror  under  the  same  aspect :  we 
will  not  see  a  Committee  of  Public  Safety 
holding  France  enchained  with  a  hand  of  iron  : 
we  will  not  see  that  abominable  centralization 
of  power:  but  what  we  will  see  is  a  domici- 
liary terror,  more  rapid  and  more  atrocious ; 
more  destructive  than  on  the  first  occasion,  be- 
cause it  will  be  more  nearly  allied  to  the  pas- 
sion fo(  gain  and  plunder.  What  will  ulti- 
mately f  ome  out  of  it,  God  only  knows ;  but 
this  we  may  well  afiirm,  that  when  the  revolu- 
tionary party  shall  become  master  of  France, 
it  will  slay  and  spoil  as  it  has  slain  and 
spoiled ;  that  it  will  decimate  the  higher  classes 
as  it  has  decimated  them.  I  assert,  that  those 
of  the  present  leaders  of  the  party  who  shall 
oppose  themselves  to  this  horrible  result,  and 
assuredly  the  greater  number  will  do  so,  will 
be  crushed  under  the  wheels  of  the  chariot 
which  they  have  so  insanely  put  in  motion.  I 
maintain  that  this  is  a  principle  of  its  existence 
— a  law  of  nature;  in  fine,  the  means  destined 
by  Providence  for  its  extinction.  Existing  solely 
on  the  support  of  the  masses  of  mankind;  having 
no  support  but  in  their  aid,  it  can  admit  of  no 
genius  to  rule  its  destinies  but  their  genius. 
Thenceforward  it  is  condemned,  for  its  existence  and 
Us  power,  to  model  itself  on  the  multitude  :  to  live 
and  reign  according'to  its  dictation.  And  the 
multitude,  to  use  the  nervous  words  of  Odillon 
Barrot,  is  '  characterized  by  barbarity  through- 
out all  the  earth.' 

"Thence  it  is  that  every  state,  which  has 
once  opened  the  door  to  democratic  doctrines, 
totters  under  the  draught,  and  falls,  if  it  is  not 
speedily  disgorged.  Thence  it  is  that  every 
society  which  has  received,  which  has  become 
intoxicated  with  them,  abjures  the  force  of  rea- 
son, devotes  itself  to  the  convulsions  of  anar- 
cny,  and  bids  at  once  a  long  adieu  to  civiliza- 
tion and  to  freedom.  For  the  revolutionary 
party,  while  they  are  incessantly  speaking  of 
ameliorations  and  of  perfection,  is  a  thous°and 
limes  more  adverse  to  the  progress  of  the  so- 
tial  order  and  of  the  human  mind,  than  the  party 
»f  theancient  regime,  which  at  least  had  its  prin- 
cipal seat  in  the  higher  regions  of  society;  a 
region  cultivated,  fruitful  in  intelligence,  and 


where  the  progress  of  improvement,  howeveJ 
suspended  for  a  time  by  the  spirit  of  party,  can- 
not fail  speedily  to  regain  its  course.  But  our 
Revolutionists  do  more ;  they  bring  us  back  to 
the  barbarous  ages,  and  do  so  at  one  bound. 
All  their  policy  maybe  reduced  to  two  points, 
within,  Revolution;  without,  War.  Every 
where  it  is  the  same — an  appeal  to  the  law  ot 
the  strongest;  a  return  to  the  ages  of  barba- 
rism."—P.  248. 

Salvandy  paints  the  classes  whose  incessant 
agitation  is  producing  these  disastrous  effects. 
They  are  not  peculiar  to  France,  but  will  be 
found  in  equal  strength  on  this  side  of  the 
Channel. 

"  Would  you  know  who  are  the  men,  and 
what  are  the  passions,  which  thus  nourish  the 
flame  of  Revolution ;  which  stain  with  blood, 
or  shake  with  terror  the  world;  which  sadden 
the  people,  extinguish  industry,  disturb  repose, 
and  suspend  the  progress  of  nations  1  Behold 
that  crowd  of  young  men,  fierce  republicans, 
barristers  without  briefs,  physicians  without 
patients,  who  make  a  Revolution  to  fill  up  their 
vacant  hours — ambitious  equally  to  have  their 
names  inscribed  in  the  roll  of  indictments  for 
the  courts  of  assizes,  as  in  the  records  of  fame. 
And  it  is  for  such  ambitions  that  blood  has 
flowed  in  Poland,  Italy,  and  Lyons !  The  ri- 
valry of  kings  never  occasioned  more  disas- 
ters."—P.  270. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  parts  of  this  va- 
luable work,  is  the  clear  and  luminous  account 
which  the  author  gives  of  the  practical  changes 
in  the  constitution,  ideas,  and  morals,  of 
France,  by  the  late  Revolution.  Every  word 
of  it  may  be  applied  to  the  perils  which  this 
country  runs  from  the  Reform  Bill.  It  is  evi- 
dent that  France  has  irrecoverably  plunged  in- 
to the  revolutionary  stream,  and  that  it  will 
swallow  up  its  liberties,  its  morals,  in  the  end, 
its  existence. 

"The  constitution  of  the  National  Guard," 
saj's  our  author,  "  is  monstrous  from  beginning 
to  end.  There  has  sprung  from  it  hitherto 
more  good  than  evil,  because  the  spirit  of  the 
people  is  still  better  than  the  institutions  which 
the  revolutionary  party  have  given  it;  and  that 
they  have  not  hitherto  used  the  arms  so  insane- 
ly given  them,  without  any  consideration.  But 
this  cannot  continue ;  the  election  of  ofiicers 
by  the  privates  is  subversive  of  all  the  princi- 
ples of  government.  The  right  of  election  has 
been  given  to  them  ivithout  reserve,  in  direct  vio- 
lation of  the  Charter,  on  the  precedent  of  1791, 
and  in  conformity  to  the  wishes  of  M.  Lafayette. 

"  In  this  National  Guard,  this  first  of  political 
powers,  since  the  maintenance  of  the  Charter 
is  directly  intrusted  to  it — in  that  power,  the 
most  democratic  that  ever  existed  upon  earth, 
since  it  consists  of  six  million  of  citizens,  equal 
among  each  other,  and  possessing  equally  the 
right  of  suffrage,  which  consists  in  a  bayonet 
and  ball-cartridges,  we  have  not  established  for 
any  ranks  any  condition,  either  of  election  or 
of  eligibility.  It  is  almost  miraculous  that  the 
anarchists  have  not  more  generally  succeeded 
in  seizing  that  terrible  arm..  They  have  done 
so,  hoAvever,  in  many  places.  Thence  has 
come  that  scandal,  that  terrible  calamity  of 
the  National  Guards  taking  part  in  tile  insure     H 


EFFECTS  OF  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTIOIV  OF  1830. 


317 


rections,  and  marching  in  the  ranks  of  anar- 
chy with  drums  beating  and  colours  flying. 
The  sword  is  now  our  only  refuge,  and  the 
sword  is  turned  against  us  !  While  I  am  yet 
writing  these  convictions,  in  the  silence  of  me- 
ditation and  grief,  a  voice  stronger  than  mine 
proclaims  them  in  accents  of  thunder.  Lyons 
has  shown  them  written  in  blood.  It  is  the 
handwriting  on  the  wall  which  appeared  to 
Belshazzarr"— P.  391. 

Of  the  changes  in  the  electoral  body,  and  the 
power  of  parliament,  effected  since  the  Revolu- 
tion of  Jul}',  he  gives  the  following  account: 

"  The  power  of  parliament  has  been  strength- 
ened by  all  which  the  royal  authority  has  lost. 
It  has  gained  in  addition  the  power  of  propos- 
ing laws  in  either  chamber.  The  elective 
power,  above  all,  has  been  immensely  extend- 
ed; for  of  the  two  chambers,  that  \\-hich  was 
esteemed  the  most  durable,  and  was  intended 
to  give  stability  to  our  institutions,  has  been  so 
cnuelly  mutilated  by  the  exclusions  following 
the  Revolution  of  July,  and  the  subscquciit  crea- 
tions to  scn'e  a  particular  purpose,  that  it  is  no 
longer  of  any  weight  in  the  stale.  The  whole 
powers  of  government  have  centred  in  the 
Chamber  of  Deputies." 

The  right  of  election  has  been  extended  to 
300,000  Frenchmen ;  the  great  colleges  have 
been  abolished;  the  qualification  for  eligibility 
has  been  lowered  one  half  as  the  qualification 
for  electing;  and  the  farmers  have  been  sub- 
stituted fur  the  great  proprietors  in  the  power 
of  a  double  vote.  The  power  of  regulating  the 
affairs  of  departments  has  been  devolved  to 
800,000  citizens;  that  of  regulating  the  com- 
munes to  2,.500,000.  The  power  of  arms  has 
been  surrendered  to  all ;  and  the  power  of 
electing  its  leaders  given  to  the  whole  armed 
force  without  distinction. 

"  In  this  way  property  is  entirely  excluded 
from  ail  influence  in  the  election  of  magis- 
trates; it  has  but  one  privilege  left,  that  of 
bearing  the  largest  part  of  the  burdens,  and 
every  sp<'cics  of  outrage,  vexation,  and  abuse. 
As  a  natural  consequence,  the  communes  have 
been  ill  administered,  and  nothing  but  the 
worst  passions  regulate  the  cleriifin  of  thrir 
officers.  The  municipal  councils  arc  com- 
posed f>{  infinitely  worse  members  than  they 
were  before  the  portentous  addition  made  to 
the  niimbT  of  ihoir  electors.  To  secure  the 
triumph  of  h.iving  a  bad  mayor,  a  mayor  suited 
;o  their  bisf  and  ignorant  jealousies,  they  are 
constrained  to  elect  bad  magistrates.  Mysatu 
abyntum  vocal. 

"  In  the  political  class  of  electors,  the  cfTects 
of  the  democratic  changes  have  bnen  Mill 
worse.  Tlie  pmrcr  nf  iiinhi  lirii  lirromr.  irrrnittililr. 
Thf':  electoral  body,  whieh  for  fifteen  years  ha^ 
strugglf'il  for  the  liberties  of  France,  has  been 
dispossessed  by  a  body  possessing  less  inde- 
pendence, less  intelligpncc,  which  understands 
less  thf  duties  to  which  it  is  called.  Every- 
where the  refjirrlahlc  rliisurr,  ture  nf  (iriiii;  oul- 
Xolffl,  h'lvc  ttnycd  away  from  tht  clcrlinns.  In  the 
fepartment  in  which  I  write,  an  hundred 
Toices  have  carried  the  election,  because  300 
respectable  electors  have  not  made  ihrir  ap- 
pearance. In  all  parts  of  the  kingdom,  the 
same  melancholy  spectacle    presents    itself. 


The  law  has  made  a  class  arbiters  of  the  af« 
fairs  of  the  kingdom,  which  has  the  good  sense 
to  perceive  its  utter  unfitness  for  the  task,  or 
its  inability  to  contend  with  the  furious  torrent 
with  which  it  is  surrounded ;  and  the  conse* 
quence  everywhere  has  been,  that  intrigue, 
and  every  unworthy  passion,  govern  the  elec- 
tions, and  a  set  of  miserable  low  intriguers 
rule  France  with  a  rod  of  iron.  In  the  stats, 
the  department,  the  communes,  the  National 
Guard,  the  prospect  is  the  same.  The  same 
principle  governs  the  organization,  or  rather 
disorganization,  throughout  the  whole  of  so- 
ciety. Universally  it  is  the  lower  part  of  the 
electoral  body,  tvhich,  being  the  most  mtmerous,  the 
most  reckless,  and  the  7nost  compact,  casts  the  bw 
lance;  in  short,  it  is  the  tail  which  governs 
the  head.  There  is  the  profound  grievance 
which  endangers  all  our  liberties.  On  such  con- 
ditions, no  social  union  is  possible  among  men. 

"  Recently  our  electors  have  made  a  dis- 
covery, which  fixes  in  these  inferior  regions 
not  merely  the  power  of  election,  but  the  whole 
political  authority  in  the  state  ;  it  is  the  prac- 
tice of  exacting  from  their  representatives, 
before  they  are  elected,  pledges  as  to  every  view 
sure  of  importance  which  is  to  come  before  them. 
By  that  single  expedient,  the  representative 
system,  with  all  its  guarantees  and  blessings, 
has  crumbled  into  dust.  Its  fundamental  prin- 
ciple is,  that  the  three  great  powers  form  the 
head  of  the  state ;  that  all  throe  discuss,  de- 
liberate, decide,  with  equal  freedom  on  the 
afi'airs  of  the  state.  The  guarantee  of  this 
freedom  consists  in  the  composition  of  these 
powers,  the  slow  method  of  their  procedure, 
the  length  of  previous  debates,  and  the  control 
of  each  branch  of  the  legislature  by  the  others. 
But  the  exacting  of  pledges  from  members  of 
parliament  destroys  all  this.  Deliberation  and 
choice  are  placed  at  the  very  bottom  of  the 
political  ladder,  and  there  alone.  Wliat  do  I 
say!  Deliberation!  the  thiug  is  unknown 
even  there.  A  hair-brained  student  seizes  at 
the  gate  of  a  city  a  peasant,  asks  him  if  he  is 
desirous  to  see  feudality  with  all  its  seig- 
nrurial  rights  re-established,  jMits  into  his 
hands  a  name  to  vote  for,  which  will  preserve 
him  from  all  these  calamities,  and  having  thus 
sent  hun  totally  deluded  into  the  election  hall, 
returns  to  his  companions,  and  laughs  with 
them  at  having  thus  secured  a  vote  for  the 
abolition  of  the  jieerage. 

".\s  little  is  the  jn<*linalion  of  the  elector* 
consulted  in  their  preliminary  resolutions.  It 
is  in  the  wine-shops,  amidst  the  fumes  of  intoxi- 
cation, that  the  greatest  questions  arc  decided; 
without  hearing  the  other  side, 'without  any 
knowledge  on  the  subjerl;  without  tin-  small- 
est information  as  to  the  matter  on  which  aa 
irrevocable  decision  is  thus  taken.  This  ia 
what  is  called  the  liberty  of  democracy;  a 
brutal,  ignorant,  reckless  liberty,  which  cuts 
short  all  disrussion.  and  derides  every  ques- 
tion without  knowledge,  without  discussion, 
without  examination,  from  the  mere  force  of 
passion." 

Of  the  present  slate  of  the  French  press.  w« 
have  the  following  emphatic  account.  De- 
mocracy, it  will  be  seen,  pro<lucc3  e^'cry  where 
the  same  effects. 


8i6 


ALISON'S   MISCELLANEOUS   ESSAYS. 


"At  the  spectacle  of  the  press  of  France,  I 
experienced  the  grief  of  an  old  soldier,  who 
sees  his  arms  profaned.  The  press  is  no 
longer  that  sure  ally  of  freedom,  v/hich  follows, 
step  by  step,  the  depositories  of  power,  but 
without  contesting  with  them  their  necessary 
prerogatives,  or  striving  to  sap  the  foundations 
of  the  state.  It  is  an  Eumenides,  a  Bacchante, 
which  agitates  a  torch,  a  hatchet,  or  a  poniard; 
which  insults  and  strikes  without  intermis- 
sion ;  which  applies  itself  incessantly,  in  its 
lucid  intervals,  to  demolish,  stone  by  stone, 
the  whole  social  edifice;  which  seems  tor- 
mented by  a  devouring  fever ;  which  requires 
to  revenge  itself  for  the  sufferings  of  a  consum- 
ing pride,  by  the  unceasing  work  of  destruc- 
tion. In  other  states,  it  has  been  found  that 
calumny  penetrates  into  the  field  of  polemical 
contest.  But  France  has  gone  a  step  farther; 
it  possesses  whole  workshops  of  calumny. 
Insult  possesses  its  seats  of  manufacture.  We 
have  numerous  journals,  which  live  by  attack- 
ing every  reputation,  every  talent,  every  spe- 
cies of  superiority.  It  is  an  artillery  incessantly 
directed  to  level  every  thing  ivhich  is  elevated,  or 
serves  or  honours  its  country.  It  is  no  Avonder 
that  the  observation  should  be  so  common, 
that  society  is  undergoing  an  incessant  degra- 
dation. A  society  in  the  midst  of  which  a 
disorder  so  frightful  is  daily  appearing,  with- 
out exciting  either  attention  or  animadversion, 
is  on  the  high  road  to  ruin.  It  is  condemned 
to  the  chastisement  of  heaven." — Pp.  394 — 399. 

One  would  imagine  that  the  following  pas- 
sage was  written  expressly  for  the  state  of  the 
British  revolutionary  press,  during  the  discus- 
sion of  the  Reform  Bill. 

"  The  more  that  the  progress  of  the  Revolu- 
tion produced  of  inevitable  concessions  to  the 
passion  for  democracy,  the  more  indispen- 
sable it  was,  that  the  press  should  have  taken 
an  elevated  ground,  to  withstand  the  torrent. 
The  reverse  has  been  the  case.  Thence  have 
flowed  that  perpetual  degradation  of  its  ten- 
dency, that  emula^tion  in  calumny  and  detrac- 
tion, that  obstinate  support  of  doctrines  subver- 
sive of  society,  those  appeals  to  the  passions  of 
the  multitude,  that  ostentatious  display  of  the  logic 
of  brickbats,  that  indignation  at  every  historic 
.  name,  those  assaults  on  every  thing  that  is 
dignified  or  hereditary,  on  the  throne,  the  peer- 
age, property  itself.  Deplorable  corruption! 
permanent  corruption  of  talent,  virtue,  and 
genius !  total  abandonment  of  its  s-lorious  mis- 
sion to  enlighten,  glorify,  and  defend  its  coun- 
tr}^"— P.  402. 
^  The  radical  vice  in  the  social  system  of 
France,  our  author  considers  as  consisting  in 
the  overwhelming  influence  given  to  that  class 
a  little  above  the  lowest,  in  other  words,  the  lOl. 
householders,  in  whom,  with  unerring  accu- 
racy, the  Revolutionists  of  England  persuaded 
an  ignorant  and  reckless  administration  to 
centre  all  the  political  power  of  this  country. 
Listen  to  its  practical  working  in  France,  as 
detailed  by  this  liberal  constitutional  writer: 

"  The  direct  tendency  of  all  our  laws,  is  to 
dtUver  over  the  empire  to  one  single  class  in  society : 
that  class,  elevated  just  above  the  lowest, 
which  has  enough  of  independence  and  edu- 
cation to  be  inspired  with  the  desire  to  centre 


in  itself  all  the  powers  of  the  state,  but  too 
little  to  wield  them  with  advantage.  Thia 
class  forms  the  link  hetiveen  the  upper  ranks  of 
the  Tiers  Etat  and  the  decided  anarchists ;  and  i' 
is  actuated  by  passion,  the  reverse  of  those  of 
both  the  regions  on  w^hich  it  borders.  Suffi- 
ciently near  to  the  latter  to  be  not  more  dis- 
turbed than  it  at  the  work  of  destruction,  it  is 
sufficiently  close  to  the  former  to  be  filled  with 
animosity  at  its  prosperity :  it  participates  in 
the  envy  of  the  one,  and  the  pride  of  the  other 
in  fatal  union,  which  corrupts  the  mediocrity 
of  their  intelligence,  their  ignorance  of  the  af- 
fairs of  state,  the  narrow  and  partial  view  they 
take  of  every  subject.  Thence  has  sprung 
that  jealous  and  turbulent  spirit  which  can  do 
nothing  but  destroy:  which  assails  with  its 
wrath  every  thing  which  society  respects,  the 
throne  equally  with  the  altar,  power  equally 
with  distinction:  a  spirit  equally  fatal  to  all 
above  and  all  below  itself,  which  dries  up  all 
the  sources  of  prosperity,  by  overturning  the 
principles,  the  feelings,  which  form  the  counter- 
poise of  society ;  and  which  a  divine  legislator 
has  implanted  on  the  most  ancient  tables  of 
the  law,  the  human  conscience. 

"Thus  have  we  gone  on  for  eighteen  months, 
accumulating  the  principles  of  destruction : 
the  more  that  we  have  need  of  public  wisdom 
for  support,  the  more  have  we  receded  from 
it.  The  evil  will  become  irreparable,  if  the 
spirit  of  disorder,  which  has  overthrown  our 
authorities,  and  passed  from  the  authorities  . 
into  the  laws,  should  find  a  general  entrance 
into  the  minds  of  the  people. — There  lies  the 
incurable  wound  of  France." — P.  405. 

It  was  in  the  face  of  such  testimony  to  the 
tremendous  effect  of  rousing  democratic  am- 
bition in  the  lowest  of  the  middling  class  of 
society;  it  was  within  sight  of  an  empire 
wasting  away  under  their  withering  influence, 
that  the  Reformers  roused  them  to  a  state  of 
perfect  fury,  by  the  prospect  of  acquiring, 
through  the  10/.  clause,  an  irresistible  pre- 
ponderance in  the  state.  We  doubt  if  the  his- 
tory of  the  world  exhibits  another  instance  of 
such  complete  infatuation. 

Is  the  literature  of  France  in  such  a  state 
as  to  justify  a  hope,  that  a  better  day  is  likely 
to  dawn  on  its  democratic  society  1  Let  us 
hear  what  the  friend  of  constitutional  freedom 
says  on  that  vital  subject — 

"  There  is  a  moral  anarchy  far  worse  than 
that  of  society,  which  saps  even  the  founda- 
tion of  order,  which  renders  it  hardly  consist- 
ent even  with  despotism  :  utterly  inconsistent 
with  freedom.  We  have  seen  political  princi- 
ples and  belief  often  sustain  the  state,  in  de- 
fault of  laws  and  institutions  ;  but  to  what  are 
we  to  look  for  a  remedy  to  the  disorder  which 
has  its  seat  in  the  heart  1 

"  Were  literature  to  be  regarded  as  the  ex- 
pression of  thought,  there  is  not  a  hope  left 
for  France.  Literary  talent  now  shows  itself 
stained  with  every  kind  *of  corruption.  It 
makes  it  a  rule  and  a  sport  to  attack  every 
sentiment  and  interest  of  which  society  is 
composed.  One  would  imagine  that  its  object 
is  to  restore  to  French  literature  all  the  vices 
with  which  it  was  disgraced  in  the  last  cen- 
tury-.   If,  on  the  faith  of  daily  eulogiums,  yoi: 


EFFECTS  OF  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION  OF  1830. 


319 


go  into  a  theatre,  you  see  scenes  represented 
where  the  dignity'  of  our  sex  is  as  much  out- 
raged as  the  modest)'  of  the  other.  Everywhere 
the  same  spectacles  await  you.  Obscene  ro- 
mances are  the  model  on  which  they  are  all 
formed.  The  muse  now  labours  at  what  is 
indecent,  as  formerly  it  did  at  what  would 
melt  the  heart.  How  unhappy  tlic  young 
men,  who  think  they  ape  the  elegance  of 
riches  by  adopting  its  vices, — who  deem  them- 
selves original,  merely  because  they  are  re- 
trograding, and  who  mistake  the  novels  of 
CrebiLon  and  Voltaire  for  original  genius ! 
It  would  seem  that  these  shameful  excesses 
are  the  inevitable  attendant  of  ancient  civil- 
ization. How  often  have  I  myself  written, 
that  that  degrading  literature  of  the  last  cen- 
tury flowed  from  the  corruptions  of  an  abso- 
lute monarchy!  And  now  Liberty,  as  if  to 
turn  into  derision  my  worship  at  its  altars,  has 
taken  for  its  model  the  school  of  Louis  XV., 
and  improved  upon  its  infamous  inspirations." 
-Pp.  408,  409. 

This  revolutionary  torrent  has  broken  into 
everj'  department ;  it  has  invaded  the  opinions 
of  the  thoughtful,  the  manners  of  the  active, 
the  morals  of  the  young,  and  the  sanctity  of 
families.  The  fatal  doctrine  of  a  general  di- 
vision of  property,  is  spreading  to  an  extent 
hardly  conceivable  in  a  state  possessing  much 
property,  and  great  individual  ability. 

"  When  the  spirit  of  disorder  has  thus  taken 
possession  of  all  imaginations,  when  the  revolu- 
tionary herald  knocks  with  redoubled  strokes, 
not  only  at  all  the  institutions,  but  at  all  the 
doctrines  and  opinions  which  hold  together 
the  fabric  of  society,  can  property,  the  corner- 
stone of  the  edifice,  be  respected^  Let  us  not 
flatter  ourselves  -with  the  hope  that  it  can. 

"  Property  has  already  ceased  to  be  the  main 
pillar  of  the  social  constitution.  It  is  treated 
as  con([nered  by  the  laws,  as  an  enemy  by  the 
politicians.  Should  the  present  system  con- 
tinue, it  will  soon  become  a  slave." — P.  41fi. 

"The  proof  that  the  revolutionary  torrent 
;ias  ovcrwhrlmed  us,  and  that  wc  are  about  to 
"tro^rade  for  several  centuries,  is,  that  the 
jirinciple  of  confiscation  is  maintained  without 
intermission,  without  exciting  any  horror.  .\n 
able  young  man,  M.  Lherminier,  has  lately  ad- 
vanced the  ijoclrinf,  that  society  is  ciilillfd  to 
dispossess  the  minority,  to  make  way  for  the 
majority.  Well,  a  learncti  professor  of  the 
law  has  advanced  this  doctrine,  and  France 
hears  it  without  surprise.  Nay,  fartlier,  we 
;iave  a  public  worship,  an  hierarchy,  mission- 
aries— in  fine,  a  whole  rf)rps  of  militia,  wlui 
go  from  town  to  town,  incessantly  preaching 
to  the  pef)ple  the  necessity  of  ovcrtnrninR  the 
hereditary  descent  of  property;  and  that  scan- 
dalous olTence  is  openly  tolerated.  The  state 
permits  a  furious  nssoeialion  to  be  formed  in 
its  very  bosom,  to  divide  the  properly  of 
others !  Yet  more — the  French  society  as- 
sists at  that  systematic  destruction  of  its  last 
pillar,  as  it  would  at  a  public  game.  Lyons 
even  cannot  rouse  them  to  their  danger, — the 
cnnrtagratirin  of  the  second  city  in  the  empire 
fails  to  illuminate  the  public  thought." — 
"p.  418,  41  n. 

In  the  midst  of  this  universal  fusion  of  pub- 


lic thought  in  the  revolutionary  crucible,  the 
sway  of  religion,  of  private  morality,  and  pa- 
rental  authority,  could  not  long  be  expected  to 
survive.  They  have  all  accordingly  given 
way. 

"  Possibly  the  revolutionary  wor"^hip  has 
come  in  place  of  the  service  of  the  altar, 
which  has  been  destroyed.  Every  religions  tit 
has  long  been  exlinguished  amongst  ns.  But  now, 
evcti  its  semblance  has  been  abandoned.  A  Cham- 
ber which  boasts  of  having  estab.ished  free- 
dom, has  seriously  entertained  a  project  for 
the  abolition  of  the  Sunday,  and  all  religious 
festivals.  That  would  be  the  most  complete 
of  all  reactions,  for  it  would  at  once  confound 
all  ages,  and  exterminate  every  chance  of  sal- 
vation. 

"  Such  is  the  estimation  in  which  religion  is 
now  held,  that  every  one  hastens  to  clear  him- 
self from  the  odious  aspersion  of  being  in  the  least 
degree  attached  to  it.  The  representatives  in 
parliament,  if  by  any  chance  an  allusion  is 
made  to  the  clergy,  burst  out  into  laughter  or 
sneer;  they  think  they  can  govern  a  people, 
while  they  are  incessantly  outraging  their 
worship — that  cradle  of  modern  civilization. 
If  a  journal  accidentally  mentions  that  a  regi 
nient  has  attended  mass,  all  the  generals  in 
the  kingdom  hasten  to  repel  the  calumny,  tc 
protest  by  all  that  is  sacred  their  entire  inno- 
cence, to  swear  that  the  barricades  hare  taught 
them  to  forget  the  lessons  of  Napoleon,  to  bow 
the  knee  at  the  name  of  God." — P.  420. 

"In  this  universal  struggle  for  disorganiza- 
tion, the  fatal  ardour  gains  every  character. 
The  contest  is,  who  shall  demolish  most  effec- 
tually, and  give  the  most  vehement  strokes  to 
society.  M.  de  Schonen  sees  well  that  less 
good  was  done  by  his  courage  in  resisting  the 
attacks  on  the  temples  of  religion,  than  evil 
by  the  weight  lent  by  the  proposition  for  di- 
vorce, to  the  last  establishment  which  was  yet 
untouched,  the  sanctity  of  private  life.  To 
defend  our  public  monuments,  and  overturn 
marriage,  is  a  proceeding  wholly  for  the  bene- 
fit of  anarchy ;  I  say  overturn  it;  for  in  the 
corrupted  state  of  society  where  we  live,  to 
dissolve  its  indissolubility,  is  to  strike  it  in  its 
very  essence." — Pp.  412,  41.'}. 

"The  recent  Revolution  has  exhibited  a 
spectacle  which  was  wanting  in  that  of  1789. 
Robespierre,  in  the  Consliluent  .\ssembly,  pro- 
posed the  abolition  of  the  punishment  of  death  : 
no  one  tRen  thought  of  death,  none  dreamed 
of  hathin?  them>>e|ves  in  i>looil.  Now,  the 
case  is  widely  diHerenf — we  have  arrived  at 
terror  at  one  leap.  It  is  while  knowing  it, 
while  viewing  it  full  in  the  fare,  that  it  is  se- 
riously recommended.  We  have,  or  we  affect, 
the  unhappy  passion  for  blood.  The  speeches 
of  Robespierre  ami  St.  Just  are  printed  and 
sold  for  a  few  sous,  Imring  nut  onbj  his  f pitch  in 
fiirnur  of  the  Siiprrmf  Tirins;.  .Ml  this  goes  on 
in  peaceable  times,  when  we  are  .•\ll  as  yet  in 
cold  blood,  without  the  double  excuse  of  terror 
and  passion  which  palliated  their  enormities 
— Poetry  has  taken  the  same  line.  The  ('"nsii- 
tutionil,  while  publishing  their  revolting  pane- 
.gyrics  on  blood,  expresses  no  horror  at  this 
tendency.  Incessantly  we  am  told  the  reicm 
of  blood  cannot  be  renewed ;  but  our  Jays 


320 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


have  done  more,  they  have  removed  all  horror 
at  it."— P.  421. 

On  the  dissolution  of  the  hereditary  peerage, 
the  great  conquest  of  the  Revolution,  the  fol- 
lowing striking  observations  are  made. 

"The  democrats,  in  speaking  of  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  hereditary  peerage,  imagine  that 
ihey  have  only  sacrificed  an  institution. 
There  never  was  a  more  grievous  mistake ; 
they  have  destroyed  a  principle.  They  have 
thrown  into  the  gulf  the  sole  conservative 
principle  that  the  Revolution  had  left ;  the 
sole  stone  in  the  edifice  which  recalls  the 
past ;  the  sole  force  in  the  constitution  which 
subsists  of  itself  By  that  great  stroke,  France 
has  violently  detached  itself  from  the  Euro- 
pean continent,  violently  thrown  itself  beyond 
the  Atlantic,  violently  married  itself  to  the 
virgin  soil  of  Pennsylvania,  whither  we  bring 
an  ancient,  discontented,  and  divided  society; 
a  population  overflowing,  which,  having  no 
deserts  to  expand  over,  must  recoil  upon  it- 
self, and  tear  out  its  own  entrails  ;  in  fine,  the 
tastes  of  servitude,  the  appetite  for  domina- 
tion and  anarchy,  anti-religious  doctrines,  anti- 
social passions,  at  which  that  young  state, 
which  bore  Washington,  nourished  freedom, 
and  believes  in  God,  would  stand  aghast. 

"  The  middling  rank  has  this  evil  inherent 
in  its  composition ;  placed  on  the  confines  of 
physical  struggle,  the  intervention  of  force 
does  not  surprise  it ;  it  submits  to  its  tyranny 
without  revolt.  Has  it  defended  France,  for 
the  last  sixteen  months,  from  the  leaden  scep- 
tre which  has  so  cruelly  weighed  upon  her 
destinies  1  What  a  spectacle  was  exhibited 
when  the  Chamber  of  Peers,  resplendent  with 
talent,  with  virtues,  with  recollections  dear  to 
France,  by  its  conscientious  votes  for  so  many 
years,  was  forced  to  vote  against  its  conviction ; 
forced,  I  say,  to  bend  its  powerful  head  before  a 
bridal,  jealous,  and  ignorant  vndtitude.  The  class 
which  could  command  such  a  sacrifice,  en- 
force such  a  national  humiliation,  is  incapable 
of  governing  France  ;  and  will  never  preserve 
the  empire,  but  suffer  it  to  fall  into  the  jaws 
of  the  pitiless  enemy,  who  is  ever  ready  to 
devour  it." — P.  487. 

"  No  government  is  possible,  where  the  mor- 
tal antipathy  exists,  which  in  France  alienates 
the  lower  classes  in  possession  of  power  from 
the  ascendant  of  education  or  fortune.  Can 
any  one  believe  that  power  will  ultimately  re- 
main m  the  hands  of  that  intermediate  class 
which  is  detached  from  the  interests  of  pro- 
perty, without  being  allied  to  the  multitude  1 
Is  It  not  evident,  that  its  nathral  tendency  is  to 
separate  itself  daily  more  and  more  from  the 
first  class,  to  unite  itself  to  the  second  1  Com- 
munity of  hatred  will  occasion  unity  of  exer- 
tion ;  and  the  more  that  the  abyss  is  enlarged 
which  separates  the  present  depositaries^f 
power  from  its  natural  possessors,  the  more 
will  the  masses  enter  into  a  share,  and  finally 
the  exclusive  possession,  of  power.  Thence 
it  will  proceed  from  demolition  to  demolition, 
from  disorder  to  disorder,  by  an  inevitable  pro- 
gress, and  must  at  length  end  in  the  anti-social 
state,  the  rule  of  the  multitude. 

"The  moment  that  the  opinion  of  the  domi- 
nant classes  disregards  established  interests,  that 


it  takes  a  pleasure  in  violating  those  august 
principles  which  constitute  the  soul  of  society, 
Ave  see  an  abyss  begin  to  open ;  the  earth 
quakes  beneath  our  feet — the  commirnity  is 
shaken  to  its  very  entrails.  Theti  begins  a  pro- 
found and  universal  sense  of  suffering.  Capital 
disappears :  talents  retreat — become  irritated 
or  corrupted.  The  national  genius  becomes 
intoxicated  —  precipitates  itself  into  every 
species  of  disorder,  and  bears  aloft,  not  as  a 
light,  but  a  torch  of  conflagration,  its  useless 
flame.  The  whole  nation  is  seized  with  dis- 
quietude and  sickness,  as  on  the  eve  of  those 
convulsions  which  shake  the  earth,  and  trouble 
at  once  the  air,  the  earth,  and  the  sea.  Every 
one  seeks  the  causes  of  this  extraordinary 
state;  it  is  to  be  found  in  one  alone — the  social 
state  is  trembling  to  its  foundations. 

"  This  is  precisely  the  state  we  have  been  in 
for  sixteen  months.  To  conceal  it  is  impossi- 
ble. What  is  required  is  to  endeavour  to 
remedy  its  disorders.  France  is  well  aware 
that  it  would  be  happy  if  it  had  only  lost  a  fifth  \ 
of  its  immense  capital  during  that  period.  Every  i 
individual  in  the  kingdom  has  lost  a  large  portion 
of  his  incotne.  And  yet  the  Revolution  of  1830 
was  the  most  rapid  and  the  least  bloody  re- 
corded in  history.  If  we  look  nearer,  we  shall 
discover  that  every  one  of  us  is  less  secure  of 
his  property  than  he  was  before  that  moral 
earthquake.  Every  one  is  less  secure  of  his 
head,  though  the  reign  of  death  has  not  yet 
commenced;  and  in  that  universal  feeling  of 
insecurity  is  to  be  found  t'iie  source  of  the  uni-  , 
versal  suffering." — II.  491. 

But  we  must  conclude,  however  reluctantly 
these  copious  extracts.  Were  we  to  translate 
every  passage  which  is  striking  in  itself, 
which  bears  in  the  most  extraordinary  way  on 
the  present  cri-sis  in  this  country,  we  should 
transcribe  the  whole  of  this  eloquent  and  pro- 
found disquisition.  If  it  had  been  written  in 
this  country,  it  would  have  been  set  down  as 
the  work  of  some  furious  anti-reformer;  of 
some  violent  Tory,  blind  to  the  progress  of 
events,  insensible  to  the  change  of  society.  It 
is  the  work,  however,  of  no  anti-reformer,  but 
of  a  liberal  Parisian  historian,  a  decided  sup- 
porter at  the  time  of  the  Revolution  of  July ;  a 
powerful  opponent  of  the  Bourbons  for  fifteen 
years  in  the  Chamber  of  Deputies.  He  is 
commended  in  the  highest  terms  by  Lady 
Morgan,  as  one  of  the  rising  lights  of  the 
age  ;*  and  that  stamps  his  character  as  a 
leader  of  the  liberal  party.  But  he  has  become 
enlightened,  as  all  the  world  will  be,' to  the 
real  tendency  of  the  revolutionary  spirit,  by 
that  most  certain  of  all  preceptors,  the  suffer- 
ing it  has  occasioned. 

Salvandy,  like  all  the  liberal  party  in  France, 
while  he  clearly  perceives  the  deplorable  state 
to  which  their  Revolution  has  brought  them, 
and  the  fatal  tendency  of  the  democratic  spirit 
which  the  triumph  of  July  has  so  strongly  de- 
veloped, is  unable  to  discover  the  remote 
cause  of  the  disasters  which  overwhelm  them 
At  this  distance  from  the  scene  of  action,  wo 
can  clearly  discern  it.  "  Ephraim,"  says  the 
Scripture,  "has   gone   to  his   idols    ^et  him 


♦  France,  ii.  342. 


DESERTION  OF  PORTUGAL. 


931 


alone."  In  these  words  is  to  be  found  the 
secrer  of  the  universal  suffering,  the  dcplora- 
ole  condition,  the  merciless  tyranny,  which 
prevails  in  France.  It  is  labouring  under  the 
chastisement  of  Heaven.  An  oflended  Deity 
has  rained  down  upon  it  a  worse  scourge  than 
the  brimstone  which  destroyed  the  cities  of  the 
Jordan — the  scourge  of  its  own  passions  and 
vices.  The  terrible  cruelty  of  the  Reign  of  Ter- 
ror— the  enormous  injustice  of  the  revolution- 
ary rule,  is  registered  in  the  book  of  fate ;  the 
universal  abandonment  of  religion  by  all  the 
influential  classes,  has  led  to  the  extirpation 
of  all  the  barriers  against  anarchy  which  are 
fitted  to  secure  the  well-being  of  society.  Its 
fate  is  sealed ;  its  glories  are  gone ;  the  un- 
fettered march  of  passion  will  overthrow 
every  public  and  private  virtue ;  and  national 
ruin  will  be  the  consequence.  We  are  follow- 
ing in  the  same  course,  and  will  most  certainly 
share  in  the  same  punishment. 

In  this  melancholy  prospect  let  us  be  thank- 
ful that  the  conservative  party  have  nothing 
with  which  to  reproach  themselves ;  that 
though  doomed  to  share  in  the  punishment, 
they  are  entirely  guiltless  of  the  crime.  Noble 
indeed  as  was  the  conduct  of  the  Duke  of 


Wellington,  in  coming  forward  at  the  eleventh 
hour,  to  extricate  the  crown  from  the  perilous 
situation  in  which  it  was  placed,  and  the  de- 
grading thraldom  to  which  it  was  subjected, 
we  rejoice,  from  the  bottom  of  our  hearts,  that 
the  attempt  was  frustrated.  Had  he  gone  ci; 
with  the  bill  as  it  stood,  from  a  sense  of 
overwhelming  necessity,  ail  its  consequences 
would  have  been  laid  on  its  opponents.  The 
Whigs  brought  in  the  Reform  Bill — let  them 
have  the  dreadful  celebrity  of  carrying  it 
through.  Let  them  inscribe  on  their  banners 
the  overthrow  of  the  constitution;  let  them  go 
down  to  posterity  as  the  destroyers  of  a  cen- 
tury and  a  half  of  glory;  let  them  be  stigma- 
tized in  the  page  of  history  as  the  men  who 
overthrew  the  liberties  of  England.  Never 
despairing  of  their  countiy,  let  the  great  and 
noble  Conservative  party  stand  aloof  from  the 
fatal  career  of  revolution  ;  let  them  remain  for 
ever  excluded  from  power,  rather  than  gain  it 
by  the  sacrifice  of  one  iota  of  principle ;  and 
steadily  resisting  the  march  of  wickedness,  and 
all  the  allurements  of  ambition,  take  for  their 
motto  the  words  of  ancient  duty,  '"Fais  ce  que 
dois:  advienne  ce  que  pourra." 


DESERTIOTs^  OF  rORTUGAL* 


Lightly  as  in  a  moment  of  political  frenzy, 
and  under  the  influence  of  the  passion  for 
innovation,  we  may  speak  of  the  wisdom  of 
our  ancestors,  their  measures  were  founded  on 
considerations  which  will  survive  the  tempest 
of  the  present  times.  They  arose  not  from  any 
sagacity  in  them  superior  to  what  we  possess, 
but  from  experience  having  forced  upon  them 
prudf-nt  measures  from  the  pressure  of  ne- 
cessity- As  France  is  the  power  which  had 
been  found  by  experience  to  be  most  formida- 
ble to  the  liberties  of  Europe,  and  in  an  espe- 
cial manner  perilous  to  the  independence  of 
England,  our  policy  for  two  hundred  years  has 
been  foundcil  npon  the  principle,  that  Ilnllaiid 
on  the  one  side,  and  Portugal  on  the  oth<-r, 
should  be  supported  against  it.  By  a  close 
alliance  with  these  two  powers,  we  extended 
our  arms,  as  it  were,  around  our  powerful 
neighbour;  she  could  not  go  far  in  any  direc- 
tion williout  encounlering  either  the  one  or  the 
other.  Ho  strongly  was  the  necessity  of  this 
felt,  that  so  far  bank  as  1GG.3,  in  the  treaty 
concluiled  with  Portugal,  it  was  stipulated 
"that  England  should  resent  any  insult  or  ag- 
gression offered  to  Portugal  in  the  s.imc  way, 
and  with  the  same  power  as  if  its  own  domi- 
nions were  invadeil." 

The  result  has  proved  the  wisdom  of  their 
stipulations.  In  the  two  greatest  wars  which 
have  distracted  Europe  for  the  last  two  centu- 
ries, the  Netherlands  and  the  Peninsula  have 
been  Ihe  theatre  where  the  armies  of  France 
and  England  have   encountered  each  other. 

*  Blackwood's  Mag.n/.inc,  December,  lb31, 

21 


France  has  never  been  cfTcctually  checked  but 
when  assailed  in  Spain  and  Flanders.  Five- 
and-twenty  years'  peace  followed  the  treaty  cf 
Utrecht,  and  sixteen  have  already  followed  the 
peace  of  Paris.  All  other  treaties  lor  the  last 
hundred  and  fifty  years  can  only  be  considered 
as  truces  in  comparison.  Such  is  the  import- 
ance of  the  Peninsula,  that  a  considerable 
success  there  is  almost  sulhcicnt  to  neutralize 
the  greatest  advantages  in  the  central  parts  of 
Europe;  the  victory  of  .Mmanza  had  well  nigh 
neutralized  the  triumphs  of  Oudeiiarde.  Ra- 
millies,  and  Malpla<iuel,  and  the  cannon  of 
Salamanca  startled  Napoleon  even  on  the  eve 
of  the  carnage  of  Borodino,  and  when  almost 
within  sight  of  lln-  Kremlin. 

"Th<"  sea,"  says  General  Jomini,  "  which  is 
the  worst  possible  base  to  cveiy  power,  is 
the  best  to  England.  That  which  is  but  a 
sterile  and  inhospitable  desert  to  a  military 
power,  conveys  to  the  menaced  point  the 
llccls  and  the  Ibrci-s  of  Albion."  It  is  on  this 
principli',  that  the  strict  allianci"  and  close 
connection  with  Portugal  was  formed.  Its  ex- 
tensive sea-coast,  mountainous  ridges,  and 
numerous  harbours,  allbnled  the  utmost  faci- 
lities for  pouring  into  its  bosom  tin'  resr>urces 
and  armies  of  England,  while  its  own  fi)rce 
was  not  so  considerable  as  to  render  its  people 
jealous  of  the  protection,  or  averse  to  the 
generals,  of  England.  The  result  proved  the 
wisdom  of  the  choice  made  of  Portui;al  as  iha 
fulcrum  on  which  the  military  power  of  Eng- 
land, when  engaged  in  contiiK'nt.il  war,  should 
be  rested.  It  is  there  alone  that  an  uncon- 
querable stand  was  made  against  the  force.s  of 


ALISON'S   MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


Napoleon.  That  which  neither  the  firmness 
of  Austria,  nor  the  valour  of  Prussia,  nor  the 
power  of  Russia  could  accomplish,  has  been 
achieved  by  this  little  slate,  backed  by  the 
might  and  the  energy  of  England.  Austria 
has  to  lament  the  defects  of  Ulm  and  Wagram ; 
Prussia  the  overthrow  of  Jena;  Russia  the 
catastrophes  of  Austerlitz  and  Friedland ; 
but  the  career  of  Portugal,  in  the  same  terrible 
strife,  was  one  of  uninterrupted  success ;  be- 
fore the  rocks  of  Torres  Vedras,  the  waves  of 
Gallic  aggression  first  permanently  receded ; 
and  from  the  strongholds  of  the  Tagus,  the 
British  standards  advanced  to  a  career  of  glory 
greater  than  ever  graced  the  days  of  her  Hen- 
rys and  her  Edwards. 

It  is  a  point  on  which  military  men  are  at 
variance,  whether  fortresses  are  of  more  value 
on  the  frontier  or  in  the  centre  of  a  menaced 
state.  Perhaps  the  question  may  be  solved  by 
a  distinction : — where  the  state  assailed  is  one 
of  firstrate  importance,  as  France  or  Austria, 
fortified  towns  on  its  frontier  are  of  incalcula- 
ble importance,  because,  if  the  invading  army 
stops  to  invest  them,  it  gives  time  for  great 
armaments  in  the  interior;  if  it  pushes  on  and 
neglects  them,  it  necessarily  becomes  so  weak- 
ened by  the  detachments  made  for  the  purpose 
of  maintaining  their  blockade,  that  it  is  inca- 
pable of  achieving  any  considerable  success. 
Two  memorable  examples  of  this  occurred  in 
French  Flanders  in  1793,  when  the  invading 
army,  an  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  strong, 
was  so  long  delayed  by  besieging  the  frontier 
fortresses  of  Valenciennes,  Conde,  Maubeuge, 
and  Landrecy,  that  time  was  given  for  the 
Convention  to  organize  and  equip  the  great 
armaments  in  the  interior,  which  finally  re- 
pelled the  invasion  ;  and  in  Iiombardy,  in  1796, 
when  the  single  fortress  of  Mantua  arrested 
the  career  of  Napoleon  for  six  months,  and 
gave  time  for  Austria  to  assemble  no  less  than 
four  successive  and  powerful  armies  for  its 
relief.  On  the  other  hand,  the  extraordinary 
advantage  attending  the  great  central  fortifica- 
tions of  Wellington  at  Torres  Vedras,  and  the 
corresponding  successes  gained  by  Skrzynecki, 
from  the  possession  of  Warsaw,  Zamosc,  and 
Modlin,  during  the  late  Polish  war,  and  by 
Napoleon,  from  the  fortresses  of  Dresden, 
Torgau,  and  Wittemberg,  on  the  Elbe,  in  1813, 
demonstrate,  that  where  the  state  assailed  is 
more  inconsiderable  when  compared  to  the 
attacking  force,  fortifications  are  of  more  avail 
when  placed  in  the  centre  of  the  threatened 
state,  and  when  its  armies,  retiring  upon  their 
central  strongholds,  find  both  a  point  d'appui  in 
case  of  disaster,  and  an  interior  line  of  com- 
munication, M-hich  compensates  inferiority  of 
forces,  and  aflTords  an  opportunity  for  accumu- 
lating masses  on  detached  bodies  of  the 
enemy. 

But  his  majesty's  present  government  have 
solved  the  question  in  a  totally  difll^rent  man- 
ner. Tiiey  have  relinquished  both  the  frontier 
and  the  central  fortresses  which  bridled 
France ;  both  those  which  checked  its  irrup- 
tion into  the  centre  of  Europe,  and  those  which 
afforded  a  secure  and  central  position  on  which 
the  armies  of  England  could  combat  when 
lualters  became  more  serious.     We  have  lost 


both  the  frontier  barrier  of  Marlborough  ix 
Flanders,  and  the  interior  barrier  of  Welling. 
ton  in  Portugal ;  with  one  hand  we  have  aban- 
doned the  safeguard  of  northern,  with  the  other 
the  citadel  of  southern  Europe. 

Deviating  for  the  first  time  from  the  policy 
of  two  hundred  years,  we  have  not  only  loaded 
Portugal  with  injuries  and  indignities  our» 
selves,  but  we  have  permitted  her  to  be  tht 
victim  of  revolutionary  violence  and  rapine 
on  the  part  of  France.  The  Portuguese 
wines,  long  the  favoured  object  of  British 
protection,  have  been  abandoned;  the  duties 
of  French  and  Oporto  wines  have  been  equal- 
ized, and  our  ancient  and  irreconcilable  ene- 
my placed  on  the  footing  of  the  most  favoured 
nation ! 

The  consequence  of  this  must  in  time  be 
the  destruction  or  serious  injury  of  the  im- 
mense capital  invested  in  the  raising  of  port 
wine  on  the  banks  of  the  Douro.  The  cultiva- 
tion of  Avine  there  has  been  nursed  up  by  a  , 
century's  protection,  and  brought  to  its  pre- 
sent iiourishing  state  by  the  fostering  influence 
of  the  British  market.  But  how  is  that  exces- 
sive and  exotic  state  of  cultivation  to  continue, 
when  the  duties  on  Portuguese  and  French 
wines  are  equalized,  and  the  merchants  of 
Bordeaux  can,  from  a  shorter  distance,  send 
wines  adapted  to  the  English  taste  from  the 
mouth  of  the  Garonne  1  Two  shillings  a  gal- 
lon has  been  taken  off  French,  and  as  much 
laid  on  Portuguese  wines;  the  Portuguese 
grower,  therefore,  in  competition  with  the 
French,  finds  himself  saddled  with  a  difference 
of  duty  amounting  to  four  shillings  a  gallon. 
It  requires  no  argument  to  show  that  such  a 
difl^erence  of  taxation  deprives  the  Portuguese 
of  all  their  former  advantages,  and  must  in 
the  end  extinguish  the  extraordinary  growth 
of  vines  in  the  province  of  Entre  Douro 
Minho. 

What  are  the  advantages  which  ministers 
proposv^  to  themselves  from  this  abandonment 
of  their  ancient  ally  ?  Is  it  that  the  English 
commerce  with  France  is  so  much  more  con- 
siderable than  that  of  Portugal,  that  it  is  worth 
while  to  lose  the  one  in  order  to  gain  the 
other?  The  reverse  is  the  fact — the  British 
exports  to  France  are  only  700,000/.  a  year, 
while  those  to  Portugal  amount  to  2,000,OOOZ. 
Is  it  that  France  has  done  so  much  more  for 
British  commerce  than  Portugal  7  The  re- 
verse is  the  fact — France  has,  by  the  most 
rigid  system  of  prohibitions,  excluded  all  Bri- 
tish manufactures  from  its  shores  ;  while  Por- 
tugal has,  by  a  series  of  the  most  favourable 
treaties,  given  them  the  greatest  possible  en- 
couragement. Is  it  because  a  more  extend- 
ed commerce  with  France  may  in  future  be 
anticipated  from  the  friendly  intercourse  be- 
tween the  tM^o  countries,  and  a  spirit  of  rising 
liberality  has  manifested  itself  on  the  part  of  j 
its  manufacturers  and  merchants  ?  The  re- 
verse is  the  fact.  France,  so  nearly  in  its 
northern  parts  in  the  same  latitude  with  Eng- 
land, has  the  same  coal,  the  same  steam-en- 
gines, the  same  manufactures,  whereas  Portu- 
gal, exposed  to  the  influence  of  a  vertical  suuj 
without  coal  or  manufacturing  capital,  is 
unable  to  compete  with  any  of  the  produc- 


DESERTION  OF  PORTUGAL. 


329 


tions  of  British  industry.  The  consequence 
is,  that  the  utmost  possible  jealousy  has  ai- 
wa)'s,  and  especially  of  late  years,  existed  on 
the  part  of  the  French  against  the  British 
manufactures;  and  that  all  our  measures  for 
their  encouragement  have  been  met  by  in- 
creased duties,  and  more  rigid  prohibitions  of 
the  produce  of  our  industry.  Is  it  because 
France  has  been  so  much  more  friendly,  of 
late  j'ears,  to  Britain  than  Portugal  ]  The 
reverse  is  the  fact.  France  has,  for  three 
centuries,  done  every  thing  she  possibly 
could  to  destroy  our  industry  and  our  inde- 
pendence, while  Portugal  has  done  every 
thing  in  her  power  to  support  the  one  and 
the  other. 

The  reason  of  this  difference  in  the  con- 
duct of  the  two  states,  is  founded  in  the  dif- 
ference of  the  physical  situation  of  the  two 
countries,  and  of  their  climate  and  produce. 
Portugal,  the  country  of  the  vine  and  the 
olive,  without  coal,  wood,  or  fabrics  of  any 
sort,  destitute  of  canals  or  carriage-roads, 
intersected  by  immense  mountain  ridges,  is 
as  incapable  of  competing  with  the  fabrics 
or  manufoctures  of  England,  as  England  is 
of  emulating  their  oil,  fruit,  and  wines.  The 
case  might  have  been  the  same  with  France, 
if  it  had  been  possessed  merely  by  its  south- 
ern provinces  ;  but  the  northern  lying  nearly 
in  the  same  latitude  as  England,  with  their 
coal  mines,  cotton  and  iron  manufactories, 
are  in  exactly  the  same  line  of  industry  as 
the  British  counties,  and  their  jealousy  in 
consequence  of  our  manufactures  is  exces- 
sive. The  manufacturers  of  Rouen  and  Ly- 
ons, being  a  much  more  opulent  and  \xnited 
body  than  the  peasant  vine-growers  of  the 
south,  have  got  the  entire  control  of  govern- 
ment, and  hence  the  extraordinary  rigour 
with  which  they  exclude  our  manufactures, 
and  the  inconsiderable  amount  of  the  trade 
which  we  carry  on  with  that  populous  king- 
dom. This  jealousy,  being  founded  on  simi- 
larity of  industry,  and  the  rivalry  of  the  same 
kind  of  manufactures,  will  continue  to  the  end 
of  lime.  By  encouraging  the  wines  of  France, 
therefore,  we  are  favouring  the  industry  of  a 
country  which  has  not  only  always  been  our 
enemy,  but  never  will  make  any  return  in 
facilitating  the  consumption  of  our  manufac- 
tures !  By  encouraging  the  wines  of  Portugal, 
we  are  fostering  the  industry  of  a  country 
which  has  always  been  our  frifMitl ;  and,  from 
the  absence  of  all  manufacturing  jf-alousy, 
may  be  relied  upon  as  likely  to  continue  per- 
manently to  take  off  the  greatest  possible 
amount  of  our  manufactures. 

Hut  this  is  not  all.  Not  content  with  in- 
j  Aiding  this  severe  blow  upon  the  industry  of 
an  allied  state,  which  takes  of  2,0(10,006/.  a 
year  of  otir  produce,  and  is  so  likely  to  con- 
tinue to  do  so,  we  have  insulted  and  injured 
Portugal  in  the  tenderest  point,  and  alltnvi-d 
our  new  allv,  revolutionary  Franci*.  to  destroy 
iier  national  inilependence,  and  extinguish  all 
recollenion  of  the  protection  and  the  guardian- 
ship of  England. 

Don  Miguel,  as  everybodv  knows,  is  rk 
fiirtiy,  if  not  (k  jnri\  king  of  Portugal.  He  is 
cot  a  legiiimutc  monarch ;  he  stands  upon  the 


people's  choice.  We  do  not  pretend  to  vindi- 
cate either  his  character  or  his  system  of  go* 
vernment.  They  are  both  said  to  be  bac^ 
though,  from  the  falsehood  on  this  subject 
which  evidently  pervades  the  English  press, 
and  the  firm  support  which  the  Portuguese 
have  given  him  when  under  the  ban  of  all 
Europe,  there  is  every  reason  to  believe  that 
the  accounts  we  receive  are  grossly  exagge- 
rated: but  of  that  we  have  no  authentic  ac- 
counts. Suffice  it  to  say,  the  Portuguese  have 
chosen  him  for  their  sovereign,  and,  after  the 
experience  of  both,  prefer  an  absolute  monar- 
chy to  the  democratic  constitution  with  which 
they  were  visited  from  this  country.  Noav, 
our  government  is  avowedly  founded  on  the 
system  of  non-intervention ;  and  when  the 
French  and  Belgians  made  choice  of  a  revo- 
lutionary monarch,  we  were  not  slow  in  snap- 
ping asunder  all  treaties  with  the  expelled 
dynasty,  and  recognising  the  new  monarch 
whom  they  placed  on  the  throne.  Don  Miguel 
has  now  held  for  four  years  the  Portuguese 
sceptrp ;  his  throne  is  more  firmly  established 
than  that  of  either  Louis  Philippe  or  Leopold. 
He  has  received  neither  countenance  nor  aid 
from  any  foreign  power;  and  if  he  had  not 
been  agreeable  to  the  great  bulk  of  the  Portu- 
guese, he  must,  long  ere  this,  have  ceased  to 
reign.  On  what  ground,  then,  is  the  recogni- 
tion of  Don  Miguel  so  long  delayed"?  Why  is 
he  driven  into  a  course  of  irregular  and  des 
perate  conduct,  from  the  refusal  of  the  Eu- 
ropean powers  to  admit  his  title  1  If  they 
acted  on  the  principle  of  never  recognising 
any  one  but  the  legitimate  monarch,  we  could 
understand  the  consistency  of  their  conduct; 
but  after  having  made  such  haste  to  recognise 
the  revolutionary  monarchs,  it  is  utterly  im- 
possible to  discover  any  ground  on  which  we 
can  withhold  the  same  homage  to  the  absolute 
one,  or  refuse  the  same  liberty  of  election  to 
the  Portuguese  which  we  have  given  to  the 
French  and  Belgian  people. 

But  this  is  not  all — France  has  committed 
an  act  of  the  most  lawless  and  violent  kind 
to  the  Portuguese  government;  and  we  have 
not  only  done  nothing  to  check,  but  every  thing 
to  encourage  it. 

Two  Frenchmen  were  arrested,  it  is  said,  for 
political  offences  in  Portugal,  and  sentenced  to 
pay  a  heavy  fine  by  the  courts  there.  What  they 
had  done  we  know  not.  The  Portuguese  say 
they  were  endeavouring  to  effect  a  revolution 
in  that  country — the  French  deny  the  fact,  and 
assert  that  they  were  unjustly  condemned. 
However  that  may  be,  the  French  fleet  sailed 
to  the  Tagus,  forced  the  passage  of  the  forts, 
and  took  possession  of  the  fleet  without  any 
declaration  of  war.  They  required  the  re- 
versal of  the  sentence  against  their  condemned 
countrymen,  the  payment  of  a  large  sum  in 
name  of  damages  to  them,  and  a  public  apo- 
logy; and  having  gained  all  these  objects.  rAry 
rnrrial  <i(f  tin'  I'urhii^iirFC  flirt  alnii!;  iritli  llinn  to 
Frnnrr,  while  their  ambassador  still  remained 
on  a  pacific  footing  at  the  court  of  Lisbon! 
Now,  this  was  plainly  an  act  of  rapine  and 
piracy.  Without  entering  into  the  justice  or 
injustice  of  the  proceedings  against  the  ac- 
cused in  the  Portuguese  courts,  supposing  tha 


S24 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


they  were  as  unjustifiable  as  possible,  is  that 
any  ground  for  seizing  the  -vvhole  navy  of  Por- 
tugal, after  the  sentence  complained  of  had 
been  reversed,  ample  satisfaction  made  to  the 
injured  party,  and  a  public  apology  placarded 
on  the  streets  of  Lisbon  by  the  Portuguese 
government  1 

Against  this  flagrant  kind  of  revolutionary 
violence,  England  has  neither  protested  nor 
demonstrated: — we  have  witnessed  in  silence 
the  spoliation  of  the  Portuguese  fleet,  as  the 
partition  of  the  Dutch  territory,  and  France 
can  boast  of  greater  naval  trophies  obtained 
from  the  allies  of  England  in  peace,  than  she 
ever  obtained  during  the  twenty  years  of  the 
revolutionary  war.  Injuries  are  often  com- 
plained of  by  the  subjects  of  one  country 
against  the  government  of  another ;  satisfac- 
tion is  often  demanded  and  obtained,  and  da- 
mages awarded  to  the  aggrieved  party.  But 
was  it  ever  heard  of  before,  that  after  such 
satisfaction  had  been  obtained,  the  whole  fleet 
of  the  power  from  whom  it  was  demanded 
should  be  seized  hold  of,  and  carried  off  as  in 
open  war  1  If  this  is  a  specimen  of  revolu- 
tionary justice,  and  of  the  new  eras  of  liberty 
and  equality,  certainly  Astrcea  in  leaving  the 
world  has  not  left  her  last  footsteps  among 
them. 

In  this  iniquitous  and  violent  proceeding 
towards  our  old  and  faithful  ally,  let  it  always 
be  recollected,  the  English  govei'nment  has 
tamely  acquiesced.  Well  might  the  Duke  of 
Wellington  declare  in  the  House  of  Lords, 
that  nothing  in  life  had  ever  given  him  so 
much  pain,  and  that  his  cheeks  were  filled 
with  blushes,  when  he  thought  of  the  conduct 
of  our  government  towards  its  ancient  ally. 
Would  the  government  of  Louis  Philippe,  we 
ask,  have  ventured  upon  such  a  step,  if  the 
Duke  of  Wellington  had  been  at  the  head  of 
our  administration  1  Would  they  have  ven- 
tured on  it,  if  they  had  not  been  aware  that  no 
violence  of  theirs  towards  the  Portuguese  go- 
vernment was  likely  to  be  resented  by  our  re- 
forming government  1  In  what  light  are  we 
likely  to  be  viewed  by  posterity,  when,  after 
having  made  such  heroic  efforts  to  save  the 
Portuguese  from  the  yoke  of  France,  for  eight 
years  during  the  reign  of  Napoleon,  we  suffer 
them  to  become  the  victims  of  such  revolu- 
tionary violence,  the  moment  that  a  new  ad- 
ministration is  called  to  the  helm  of  aftairs  1 

How  can  we  expect  that  our  allies  are  to 
stand  by  us  in  periods  of  peril,  when  we  de- 
.strt  them  in  so  extraordinary  a  manner  the 
moment  that  a  new  administration  succeeds 
to  our  guidance"!  Have  we  arrived  at  that 
state  of  vacillation  and  instability,  so  well 
known  as  the  symptom  of  weak  and  demo- 
cratic societies,  that  there  is  nothing  stable 
or  fixed  either  in  foreign  or  domestic  policy, 
but  government  is  tossed  about  by  every  wind 
of  doctrine,  and  at  the  mercy  of  every  ao-ita- 
lion  raised  from  the  lowest  classes  of  the  peo- 
jile  ]  Have  the  reformers  brought  this  country, 
whose  firmness  and  stability  in  time  past  had 
rivalled  that  of  the  Roman  senate,  to  such  a 
Ftate  of  weakness  in  so  short  a  time,  that  the 
British  alliance  forms  no  security  against  ex- 
ternal violence,  and  every  state  that  wishes  to 


avoid  plunder  and  devastation,  must  range  it< 
self  under  the  banners  of  our  enemies  1  Wha. 
the  motive  for  such  conduct  may  have  been, 
it  is  difficult  to  divine ;  but  the  fact  is  certain, 
that  we  have  done  so,  and  every  Englishman 
must  bear  the  humiliation  which  it  has  brought 
upon  his  country. 

"  The  meanest  Englishman,"  said  Mr.  Can- 
ning, "shall  not  walk  the  streets  of  Paris  with- 
out being  considered  as  the  compatriot  of 
Wellington ;  as  a  member  of  that  community 
which  has  humbled  France  and  rescued  Eu- 
rope." The  noblest  Englishman  shall  not  now 
walk  the  streets  of  any  European  capital,  with- 
out being  considered  as  the  compatriot  of  Grey ; 
the  member  of  that  community  which  has  par- 
titioned Holland  and  deserted  Portugal.  With 
truth  it  may  now  be  said,  that  the  indignities 
and  contempt  which  now  await  a  traveller 
among  all  our  former  allies,  are  equalled  only 
by  the  respect  which  he  formerly  experienced. 
Ask  any  traveller  who  has  lately  returned  from 
Vienne,  Berlin,  the  Hague,  or  Lisbon,  in  what 
light  he  is  now  regarded ;  whether  he  has  ex 
perienced  the  same  kindness  or  respect  which 
so  lately  attended  the  English  character  ?  He 
will  answer  that  they  consider  the  English  as 
absolutely  insane,  and  that  the  ancient  respect 
for  our  people  is  not  quite  extinguished,  only 
because  they  look  upon  our  delirium  as  tran- 
sient, and  trust  to  the  restoration  of  the  ancient 
spirit  of  the  nation. 

It  is  impossible  it  can  be  otherwise.  To  see 
a  people  suddenly  relinquish  all  their  former 
allies,  and  connect  themselves  with  their  an- 
cient enemies — abandon  at  one  blow  the  ob- 
jects of  two  hundred  years'  contest,  and  forget 
in  one  year  the  gratitude  and  the  obligations 
of  centuries — is  so  extraordinary,  that  to  those 
at  a  distance  from  the  innovating  passions 
with  which  we  have  been  assailed,  it  must  ap- 
pear like  the  proceedings  of  men  who  had  lost 
their  reason.  Such  a  proceeding  might  be  in- 
telligible, if  experience  had  proved  that  this 
former  policy  had  been  ruinous ;  that  these 
ancient  allies  had  proved  unfaithful ;  that  these 
hereditary  obligations  had  been  a  source  of 
humiliation.  But  what  is  to  be  said  when  the 
reverse  of  all  this  is  the  fact  1  when  this  policy 
had  been  attended  with  unprecedented  tri- 
umphs, these  allies  having  stood  by  us  in  the 
extremity  of  disaster,  and  these  obligations 
having  brought  with  them  a  weight  of  national 
gratitude  1  when  the  Dutch  remind  England 
that  it  was  not  till  Pichegru  had  conquered 
Amsterdam  that  they  withdrew  unwillingly 
from  their  alliance;  and  the  Portuguese  re- 
count that  they  remained  faithful  to  their  en- 
gagements, when  the  spoiler  was  ravaging  their  I 
land ;  when  the  army  of  England  had  fled  from 
Corunna ;  when  Oporto  was  in  the  hands  of 
Soult;  when  a  devouring  flame  ravaged  their 
central  provinces,  and  the  leopards  of  England 
were  driven  to  their  last  defences  on  the  rocks 
of  Mafra  I 

The  French  accuse  their  government  of 
yielding  too  much  to  British  ascendency;  and 
it  may  be  judged  from  the  preceding  state- 
ments whether  we  are  not  too  obsequious  to 
their  revolutionary  rulers.  The  truth  is,  tha*. 
both  charges  are  well  founded.     The  govern 


OARLIST  STRUGGLE  IN  SPAIN. 


325 


inents  of  both  countries  appear  to  play  into 
each  other's  hands,  to  an  extent  inconsistent 
\vith  the  honour  or  the  welfare  of  either.    When 
the  revolutionary  dynasty  of  France  deem  an 
advance  into  Belgium,  or  an  assault  on  Por- 
tugal, requisite  to  give  an  impulse  to  their  de- 
■■lining  popularity,  the  reforming  ministers  of 
England  offer  no  opposition  to  the  spoliation 
^f  their   allies.    If  the   reforming  ministers 
iiere  deem  their  situation  critical,  by  a  formi- 
iable  opposition  to  the  projected  change  in  the 
oonstituiion,  the  French  troops  are  directed  to 
withdraw  from  Belgium — to  encamp  on  the 
frontier — and  preserve  their  advanced  guard, 
u     consisting  of  the  Belgian  army,  led  by  French 
ofhcers  alone,  in   the  fortresses  of  Flanders. 
We  ascribe  no  bad  motives  to  our  rulers ;  we 
have  no  doubt  that  they  think  they  are  per- 
forming the  part  of  true  patriots :  we  mention 
only  the  facts  which  have  occurred,  and  pos- 
terity will  judge  of  these  facts  with  inflexible 
justice — nor  excuse  weakness  of  conduct,  be- 


cause  it  is   founded   on   goodness   of  inten. 
tion. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  conduct  we 
have  explained  on  the  part  of  our  pi'esen 
rulers  towards  Flanders  and  Portugal,  would 
have  been  sufficient  to  have  overturned  any 
former  administration — and  that  at  any  other 
time,  the  press  of  England  would  have  rung 
from  shore  to  shore  with  indignant  declama- 
tion at  the  inconsistency  and  imbecility  of  our 
present  foreign  policy.  How,  then,  has  it 
happened,  that  this  important  matter  is  com- 
paratively forgotten,  and  that  we  hear  so  little 
of  a  course  of  conduct  which  future  ages  will 
class  with  the  fatal  aberration  from  British 
policy  by  Charles  II.  ?  The  reason  is,  that  we 
are  overwhelmed  with  domestic  disasters, — 
that  revolution  and  anarchy  are  staring  us  in 
the  face  at  home, — and  that  seeing  the  danger 
at  our  own  throats,  we  have  neither  leisure 
nor  inclination  to  attend  to  the  circumstances 
or  disasters  of  our  allies. 


CARLIST   STRUGGLE  IN  SPAIN.* 


Amidst  all  our  declarations  in  favour  of  the 
lights  of  the  age,  the  influence  of  the  press, 
and    the   extension   of  journals   in   diffusing 
correct   ideas  on  every  subject  of  policy,  fo- 
reign and  domestic,  it  may  be  doubted,  whether 
there  is  to  be  found  in  the  whole  history  of 
human   delusion,  not  even   excepting  the  be- 
nighted ages  of  papal  despotisin,  or  the  equally 
dark  era  of  Napoleon's  tyrann)'-,  an  example 
of  ignorance  so  complete  and  general,  as  has 
prevailed  in  this  countrj^  for  the  last  seven 
years,  as   to   the  aflairs   of  Spain.     While   a 
contest  has  been  going  on  there  during  all  that 
period  between  constitutional  right  and  revolu- 
tionary spoliation;  while  the  Peninsula  has 
been  convulsed  by  the  long  protracted  con- 
flict between  legal  government  and  democratic 
despotism;  while   the  same  cause  which  has 
been  supported  since  1830  in  Great  Britain  iiy 
the  arms  of  reasoning,  eloquence,  or  influence, 
has  there  been  carried  on  with  the  edge  of  the 
sword  ;  while  fnr  the  last  four  years  a  struggle 
has   been   maintained   by  the   Basque   moun- 
taineers  for   iheir   rights  and  th^ir  liberties, 
their  hearths  and  their  religion,  which  history 
will  place  beside  the  glories  of  Marathon  and 
Salamis,  of  Nacfeis  and  Morgarten  ;  while  an 
heroic   prince   and    his  heroic   brothers  havi- 
borne  up  against  a  htad  of  oppression,  foreign 
and  domestic,  in  defence  of  legal  righl  and  con- 
stitutional freedom,  with  a  courage  and  a  skill 
rarely  paralleled   in   the  annals   of   military 
achievement,   the  great  bulk  of  the  English 
nation  have  looked  with  supincncss  or  indilTor- 
ence  on   the  glorious  spectacle.    They  have 
been  deceived,  and  willingly  deceived,  by  the 
endless    falsehoods   which   the   revolutionary 

•Blackwood's  Mnga/.ini'.  Alay,  ISS".  Written  dnrinctlie 
heroir  rontpst  of  the  Uasqiic  provinces  for  their  liberty 
and  Uidependence. 


press  and  the  holders  of  Spanish  bonds  spread 
abroad  on  this  subject ;  they  have  been  carried 
aM-ay  by  the  false  and  slanderous  appellations 
bestowed  on  Don  Carlos ;  they  have  been 
mystified  by  a  denial  of  his  clear  and  irresisti 
bie  title  to  the  throne ;  they  have  not  duly  con- 
sidered the  stern  and  inexorable  ncccsgily  which 
compelled  him  to  abandon  the  humane  system 
of  warfare  which  he  at  first  adopted,  and  re- 
taliate upon  his  enemies  the  atrocious  and 
murderous  rule  of  war  which  they  had  so  long 
practised  against  him  and  his  followers;  and 
by  their  supineness  permitted  the  royal  arms 
of  England  to  be  implicated  in  the  most  savage 
crusade  ever  undertaken  in  modern  times 
against  the  liberty  of  mankind,  and  a  band  oi 
brave  but  deliuled  mercenaries,  to  prolong  to 
their  own  and  their  country's  eternal  disgrace 
a  frightful  conflict  between  sordid  democratic 
despotism,  striving  to  elevate  itself  on  the  ruins 
of  its  country,  and  the  free-born  bravery  of  un- 
conquerable patriots. 

We  take  blame  to  ourselves  on  this  subject 
we  confess  ourselves  implicated  in  the  charge 
which,  through  all  the  succeeding  ages  of  the 
world,  will  attach  to  the  name  of  England,  for 
its  deplorable  concern  in  this  heroic  conflict, 
which  will  go  far  to  oblilcrate  the  recollection 
of  all  its  memorable  exertions  in  the  cause  of 
freedom.  The  calamity  is  not  the  defeat  sus- 
tained at  St.  Sebastian  or  Hernani :  not  the 
disgrace  of  English  regiments  being  routed 
ami  driven  back  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet  in 
shameful  confusion;  these  stains  are  easily 
wiped  out :  the  national  courage,  when  brought 
into  the  field  in  a  just  cause,  will  soon  obliter 
ate  the  recollection  of  the  defeat  which  was 
sustained  in  supporting  that  of  cruelly  and  in 
justice.  The  real  disgrace — the  calamity  which 
England  has  indeed  to  mourn,  is  that  of  having 


886 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


joined  in  an  alliance  to  beat  down  the  liberties 
of  mankind;  in  having  aided  a  selfish,  execra- 
ble band  of  Peninsula  murderers  and  plunderers 
to  oppress  and  massacre  our  faithful  allies;  in 
having  combined  with  France,  in  defiance 
alike  of  the  faith  of  treaties  and  the  rules  of 
intei-national  law,  to  deprive  a  gallant  prince 
of  his  rightful  inheritance;  in  having  sent  out 
the  royal  forces  of  England,  under  the  old  flag 
of  Wellington,  to  aid  a  set  of  Spanish  cut- 
throats and  assassins,  of  robbers  and  plun- 
derers, in  carrying  fire  and  sword,  mourning 
and  despair  through  the  valleys  of  a  simple 
and  virtuous  people,  combined  in  no  other 
cause  but  that  for  which  Hampden  bled  on 
the  field  and  Sidney  on  the  scaffold. 

"  Wo  unto  those,"  says  the  Scripture,  "  who 
call  evil  good  and  good  evil ;  for  theirs  is  the 
greater  damnation."'  It  is  in  this  fatal  delusion 
— in  the  confusion  of  ideas  produced  by  trans- 
posing the  names  of  things,  and  calling  the  cause 
of  despotism  that  of  freedom,  merely  because 
it  is  supported  by  urban  despots — and  that  of 
freedom  slavery,  because  it  is  upheld  by  rural 
patriots,  that  the  true  cause  of  this  hideous 
perversion,  not  merely  of  national  character, 
but  even  of  party  consistency,  is  to  be  found. 
We  are  perfectly  persuaded  that,  if  the  people 
of  England  were  aware  of  the  real  nature  of 
the  cause  in  which  they  embarked  a  gallant 
but  unfortunate  band  of  adventurers;  if  the 
government  were  aware  of  the  real  tendency 
of  the  quasi-intervention  which  they  have 
carried  on,  both  the  one  and  the  other  would 
recoil  with  horror  from  the  measures  which 
they  have  so  long  sanctioned.  But  both  were 
deluded  by  the  name  of  freedom;  both  were 
carried  away  by  the  absurd  mania  for  the  ex- 
tension of  democratic  institutions  into  coun- 
tries wholly  unprepared  for  them;  and  both 
thought  they  were  upholding  the  cause  of 
liberty  and  the  ultimate  interests  of  Great 
Britain,  by  supporting  a  band  of  Spanish  Re- 
volutionists who  have  proved  themselves  to 
be  the  most  selfish,  corrupt,  and  despotic  tyrants 
who  ever  yet  rose  to  transient  greatness  upon 
the  misery  and  degradation  of  their  country. 
But,  while  we  thus  absolve  the  government 
and  the  country  from  intentional  abuse  of 
power  in  the  deplorable  transactions  which 
both  have  sanctioned,  there  is  a  limit  beyond 
which  this  forbearance  cannot  be  extended. 

This  result  of  our  shameful  intervention  to 
oppress  the  free,  and  aid  the  murderers  in 
massacring  the  innocent,  is  now  fixed  and  un- 
alterable, and  in  no  degree  dependent  on  the 
future  issue  of  the  contest.  What  that  may 
finally  be,  God  only  knows.  It  is  possible, 
doubtless,  that  the  weight  of  the  Quadruple 
Alliance — the  direct  intervention  of  France — 
the  insidious  support  of  England — the  exhaus- 
tion of  a  protracted  contest — and  the  extirpa- 
tion of  the  population  capable  of  bearing  arms 
in  the  Basque  provinces,  may  beat  down  these 
heroic  mountaineers,  and  establish  amidst 
blood  and  ashes,  anguish  and  mourning,  the 
cruel  oppression  of  the  Madrid  democrats  in 
the  lovely  valleys  of  Navarre: — "  Quum  soli- 
•udincm  fecerunt,  pacem  appellant."  In  that 
rase,  the  interest  of  the  struggle  Avill  be  en- 
hanced by  its  tragic  termination ;  the  sympa- 


thies, the  indignant  sympathies  of  mankind  in 
every  future  age,  will  be  with  the  unfortunate 
brave ; — like  the  Poles  or  the  Girondists,  the 
errors  of  their  former  conduct  will  all  be  fop 
gotten  in  the  Roman  heroism  of  their  fall 
They  will  take  their  place  in  history,  beside 
their  ancestors  in  Numantia  and  Saguntum, 
who  preferred  throwing  themselves  into  the 
flames,  to  the  hated  dominion  of  the  stranger ; 
and  the  Sai'agossans  or  Geronists  in  later  days, 
who  perished  in  combating  the  formidable 
legions  of  Napoleon,  or  the  gallant  patriots, 
who,  with  Kosciusko,  shed  their  last  blood, 
when  the  grenadiers  of  Suwarrow  were  storm- 
ing the  entrenchments  of  Prague,  and  the  Vis 
tula  ran  red  with  Polish  blood.  Or  it  may  be, 
that  Providence  has  reserved  a  difl^erent  destiny 
for  these  gallant  patriots,  and  that  on  this,  as 
on  so  many  previous  occasions,  the  God  of 
battles  will  bless  the  righteous  side.  In  that 
case,  their  struggle  will  form  one  of  the  most 
animating  periods  in  the  page  of  history — one 
of  the  bright  and  consoling  spots  in  the  annals 
of  human  suffering,  to  which  the  patriot  will 
point  in  every  succeeding  age  as  the  animat- 
ing example  of  successful  virtue,  at  the  recital 
of  which  the  hearts  of  the  generous  will  throb, 
so  long  as  valour  and  constancy  shall  be  ap- 
preciated upon  earth. 

We  speak  thus  warmly,  because  we  feel 
strongly — because  we  sympathize  from  the 
bottom  of  our  hearts  with  the  cause  of  free- 
dom all  over  the  world.  But  we  are  not  de- 
luded, as  so  many  of  our  countrymen  are,  who 
never  look  beyond  the  surface  of  things,  by  the 
mere  assumption  of  false  names.  We  have 
learned  from  our  own  experience,  as  well  as 
the  annals  of  history,'  that  tyranny,  plunder, 
and  oppression  can  stalk  in  the  rear  of  the 
tricolour  flag,  and  urban  multitudes  be  roused 
by  a  ruthless  band  of  sordid  revolutionists,  to 
their  own  and  their  country's  ultimate  ruin. 
We  have  learned  also  from  the  same  sources 
of  information,  that  hearts  can  beat  as  warmly 
for  the  cause  of  freedom,  and  arms  combat  as 
bravely  in  its  defence  on  the  mountain  as  on 
the  plain,  in  the  sequestered  valley  as  in  the 
crowded  city,  under  the  banners  of  religion 
and  loyalty,  as  under  the  standard  of  treason 
and  perfidy.  We  yield  to  none  in  the  ardent 
love  of  liberty ;  but  what  we  call  liberty  is  the 
lasting  protection  of  the  rights  and  privileges 
of  all  classes  of  the  people,  not  the  trampling 
them  under  foot,  to  suit  the  fanciful  theories 
of  visionary  enthusiasts,  or  the  sordid  specu- 
lations of  stock  exchange  revolutionists.  We 
look  around  us,  and  behold  liberty  still  flour- 
ishing in  the  British  isles,  after  a  hundred  and 
fifty  years'  duration,  under  the  banner  of  reli- 
gion and  loyalty,  despite  all  the  efforts  of  infi- 
del democracy  for  its  destruction.  We  cast 
our  eyes  to  the  other  side  of  the  channel,  and 
we  see  freedom  perishing,  both  in  France  and 
Spain,  after  unheard-of  calamities,  under  the 
ascendant  of  a  revolutionary  and  freethinking 
generation.  Taught  by  these  great  examples, 
we  have  learned  to  cling  the  more  closely  tc 
the  faith  and  the  maxims  of  our  fathers,  to  see 
in  the  principles  of  religion  and  loyalty  the 
only  secure  foundation  for  real  freedom;  anc 
to  expect  the   ultimate  triumph  of  constitu- 


CARLIST  STRUGGLE  IN  SPAIN. 


3S7 


tional  principles,  not  from  the  sudden  irrup- 
tion of  blood-thirsty  fonatics,  or  the  selfish 
ambition  of  rapacious  democrats,  but  the  gra- 
dual and  pjvcific  growth  of  a  middling  class  in 
society,  under  the  protecting  influence  of  a 
durable  government. 

We  make  these  remarks,  too,  in  the  full 
knoTT  edge  of  the  hideous  massacres  which 
have  so  long  disfigured  this  unhappy  war — 
having  before  our  eyes  the  Durang.-)  decree, 
and  the  Carlist  executions ;  and  yielding  to 
none  in  horror  at  these  sanguinary  atrocities, 
and  the  most  ardent  wish  for  their  termination. 
We  make  them  also,  agreeing  with  the  Slaud- 
ard,  that  if  this  frightful  system  liad  l>ci;un  with 
the  Carlists,  or  had  even  been  adopted  by  them 
under  the  influence  of  an}- other  cause  than  the 
sense  of  unbearable  executions  of  a  similar 
kind  previously  suffered  by  them,  and  begun  by 
the  Revolutionists,  and  the  overwhelming  ne- 
cessity of  mournful  retaliation,  not  onl}'  would 
their  cause  be  unworthy  of  the  sympathy  of 
any  brave  or  good  man,  but  that  Don  Carlos 
himself  would  "be  a  monster  unfit  to  live," 
But  admitting  all  this,  we  see  it  as  clearly 
proved  as  an)-^  proposition  in  geometrj^  that 
this  execrable  S)'stem  bcgrni  u-ith  the  Spanish 
democrats,  and  them  alone,  and  was  never  resort- 
ed to  by  the  Carlists,  till  years  after  they  had 
suffered  under  its  atrocious  execution  by  their  ene- 
mies;  and  the  Carlist  valle3-s  were  filled  with 
mourning  from  the  death  of  old  men,  women 
and  children,  murdered  in  cold  blood  by  the 
democratic  tyrants  who  sought  to  plunder  and 
enslave  them.  And  in  such  circumstances, 
we  know  that  retaliation,  however  dreadful  and 
mournful  an  extremit}',  is  unavoidable,  and  that 
brave  and  humane  men  are  forced,  like  Zuma- 
lacarregui,  to  sentence  prisoners  to  be  shot, 
even  when  the  order,  as  it  did  from  him,  draws 
tears  like  rain  from  their  eyes.  Unquestion- 
ably none  can  admire  more  than  we  do  the 
noble  proclamation  of  the  Duke  of  York  in 
1793,  in  answer  to  the  savage  orders  of  the 
Directory  to  the  Revolutionary  armies  of 
France  to  give  no  quarter.  None  can  feel 
greater  exultation  at  the  humane  conduct  of 
the  Vendeans,  who,  in  reply  to  a  similar  order 
from  their  inhuman  oppressors,  sent  eleven 
thousand  prisoners  back,  with  their  heads 
merely  shaved,  to  the  republican  lines.  But  it 
belongs  to  the  prosperous  and  the  secure  to 
act  up<in  such  generous  and  noble  principles; 
— the  endurance  of  cold-blooded  cruelly,  the 
pangs  of  murdered  innocence,  the  sight  of  pa- 
rents and  rhildrcn  slaughtered,  will  drive,  and 
in  every  age  have  driven,  the  most  mild  and 
numanc  to  the  dreadful  but  unavoidable  sys- 
tem of  retaliation. 

Wr  know  that  the  Vendeans  themselves, 
despite  all  the  heroic  humanity  of  their  chiefs, 
were  forced  in  the  end  to  retaliate  upon  their 
enemies  the  system  of  giving  no  quarter.  We 
know  that  Charette,  the  most  humane  of  men 
in  the  outset  of  his  heroic  career,  for  the  two  ' 
last  years  of  his  career,  found  it  impossible  to 
acton  any  other  principle.  We  go  back  to 
the  annals  of  our  own  country,  and  we  see  in 
them  too  melancholy  proof,  that  even  in  the 
sober-niindeil.  or,  it  may  be,  right  thinking;  in- 
habitants of  the  British  isles,  a  certain  endur- 


ance of  suflering,  and  the  commencement  of  » 
cruel  system  of  war  by  one  party,  will  at  all 
times  dri^'e  their  antagonists  into  a  hideous 
course  of  reprisals.  Have  we  forgotten,  that 
in  the  wars  of  the  Roses,  quarter  was  refused 
on  both  sides  by  the  contending  armies,  for 
nine  long  years;  and  that  eighty  princes  of  the 
blood,  and  almost  all  the  nobility  of  England 
were  put  to  death,  and  most  of  them  in  cold 
blood,  by  the  ruthless  cruelty  of  English 
armies  1  Have  we  forgotten,  that  utter  de- 
struction was  vowed  by  the  Scottish  Cove- 
nanters against  the  Irish  auxiliaries  in  Mon- 
trose's army;  and  that  they  carried  their  ven- 
geance so  far,  as  to  massacre  all  their  prison- 
ers in  cold  blood,  and  drown  at  the  bridge  of 
Linlithgow  even  their  innocent  babes  ?  Have 
we  forgotten  the  cruel  atrocities  of  the  Irish 
Rebellion,  or  the  fierce  retaliation  of  the  indig- 
nant Orangemen  1  Seeing  then  that  a  certain 
extremity  of  suffering,  and  the  endurance  of 
a  certain  amount  of  cruelty  by  intestine  oppo- 
nents, will,  in  all  ages,  and  in  all  nations,  even 
the  most  moderate  and  humane,  induce  the 
dreadful  necessity  of  retaliation,  we  look  with 
pity,  though  with  poignant  grief,  on  the  stern 
reprisals  to  which  Don  Carlos  has  been  driven, 
and  earnestly  pray  that  similar  civil  discord 
may  long  be  averted  from  the  British  isles 
and  that  we  may  not  be  doomed  by  a  righteous 
Providence,  as  we  peihaps  deserve,  to  undergo 
the  unutterable  wretchedness,  which  our  un- 
called for  and  unjust  support  of  those  who 
began  the  execrable  system  of  murder,  has  sc 
long  produced  in  the  Spanish  peninsula. 

In  attempting  to  make  amends  for  our  hith- 
erto apparent  neglect  of  this  interesting  sub- 
ject, we  rejoice  to  think  that  the  materials  by 
which  we  can  now  vindicate  the  righteous 
cause,  and  explain  to  our  deluded  countrymen 
the  gross  injustice  of  which  they  have  been 
rendered  the  unconscious  instruments,  have, 
within  these  last  few  months,  been  signally  en- 
larged. First,  Captain  Henningsen's  animated 
and  graphic  narrative  enlisted  our  sympa- 
thies in  favour  of  the  gallant  mountaineers, 
beside  whom  he  drew  the  sword  of  freedom 
Next,  Mr.  Ilonan's  able  and  well-informed 
work  unfolded  still  more  fully  the  nature  of 
the  contest,  and  the  resources  from  which  the 
Basque  peasantry  have  maintained  so  long 
and  surprising  a  struggle  in  defence  of  their 
privileges  against  all  the  forces  which  have 
l)cen  arrayed  against  them.  Then  Lortl  Caernar- 
von's admirable  disquisition  on  the  war,  an- 
nexed to  his  highly  interesting  tour  in  the  Por- 
tuguese provinces,  gave  to  the  statements  of 
his  excellent  predecessors  the  weight  of  his 
authority,  the  aid  of  his  learning,  and  the  sup- 
port of  his  eloquence.  Though  last,  not  least, 
Mr.  Walton  has  taken  the  field  with  two  octavo 
volumes,  which  throw  a  flood  of  light  on  the 
real  nature  of  the  contest  now  raging  in  the 
Peninsula, — the  objects  of  the  parties  en- 
gaged,— the  claims  of  the  competitors  to  lhf> 
throne, — the  ctmsequencc  of  the  triumph  of 
the  one  or  the  other  on  the  future  interests  of 
religion  and  freedom, — the  cruel  severities  to 
which  the  Carlists  were  subjected  by  their 
blood-thirsty  enemies  liefore  they  were  reluc- 
tantly driven  to  retaliation, — and  the  fri{;htfu 


3S8 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


consequences  which  have  resulted,  and  must 
continue  to  result  while  it  endures,  from  our 
iniquitous  co-operation  with  the  cause  of  op- 
pression.     All  these   momentous   topics  are 
treated  in  the  volumes  before  us  with  a  clear- 
ness, temper,  moderation,  and   ability  which 
leave  nothing  to  be  desired,  and  render  them 
by  far  the  most  important  work  on  the  affairs 
of  the  Peninsula  which  has  yet  issued  from  the 
European   press.     When  we   see  the    ability 
and  candour,  the  courage  and  energy,  the  learn- 
ing and  eloquence,  which,  unbought  by  the 
gold  of  the  stock  exchange,  uninfluenced   by 
speculations  in  Spanish  bonds,  unsolicited  by 
the  rewards  of  a  deceived  democratic  and  com- 
mission-granting administration,  is  thus  gene- 
rously and  gratuitously  coming  forward  from 
so  many  quarters  at  once  in   defence  of  the 
cause  of  religious  truth  and  independence,  we 
recognise  the  revival  of  the  spirit  of  old  Eng- 
land ;  we  indulge  a  hope  that  the  press,  like 
the  Thames  water,  may  yet  work  off  its  own 
impurities ;    and  we  are   ready  to   take   our 
humble  part  in  so  good  a  cause,  and  bear  with 
equanimity  the  torrent  of  abuse  with  which  the 
servile  writers  of  the  Treasury,  or  the  hireling 
scribes  of  the  stock  exchange,  will  assail  our 
endeavours  to  give  greater  publicity  than,  in  a 
selfish  and  engrossed  age,  they  might  otherwise 
obtain  to  their  all-important  disclosures. 

From  the  statements  proved,  and  documents 
brought  forward,  in  Mr.  Walton's  work,  it  is 
manifest, — 

1.  That  the  constitution  of  1812,  so  long  the 
darling  object  of  democratic  contention  in  the 
Peninsula,  and  now  the  avowed  basis  of  its 
government,  is  an  ultra-republican  system, 
which  never  obtained  the  legal  consent  of  the 
nation,  but  was  merely  imposed  on  their 
countrymen  for  their  own  selfish  ends  by  a 
knot  of  urban  democrats  at  Cadiz,  who  at  tlrat 
unhappy  period,  when  four-fifths  of  the  country 
was  occupied  by  the  French  armies,  had  con- 
trived to  usurp  the  powers,  not  only  of  sove- 
reignty, but  of  remodelling  the  state. 

2.  That  it  is  not  only  utterly  unsuitable  to 
the  Spanish  people,  and  necessarily  produc- 
tive of  (as  it  ever  has  produced)  nothing  but 
plunder,  massacre,  and  democratic  oppression ; 
but  is  of  so  absurd  and  ill-considered  a  cha- 
racter as  even,  if  established  in  England,  amidst 
a  people  habituated  for  centuries  to  the  exer- 
cise of  freedom,  would  tear  society  to  atoms 
in  six  months. 

3.  That,  from  experience  of  the  devastating 
effects  of  this  ultra-radical  constitution,  and 
the  sordid  cupidity  of  the  democratic  agents 
whom  it  instantly  brings  to  the  head  of  afi'airs, 
the  great  majority  of  the  Spanish  nation,  almost 
all  who  are  distinguished  by  their  patriotism, 
principle,  or  good  sense,  are  decidedly  opposed 
to  its  continuance ;  that  though  often  established 
by  military  violence  or  democratic  intrigue,  it 
has  ever  fallen  to  the  ground  by  its  own  weight 
when  not  upheld,  as  it  now  is,  by  powerful  lb- 
reign  co-operation ;  and  that  at  this  moment, 
if  this  co-operation  wt1-c  really  withdrawn,  it 
would  sink  to  the  dust  in  three  months,  with  all 
.ts  accessaries  of  democratic  spoliation,  royal- 
ist blond,  and  universal  suffering,  never  more 

'>  risi 


4.  That  the  democratic  party,  since  the  time 
that  nine-tenths  of  the  nation  had  become  the 
decided  enemies  of  their  usurpation,  fell  upon 
the  expedient  of  engrafting  the  maintenance 
of  their  cause  upon  a  disputed  succession  to 
the  throne, — prevailed  on  Ferdinand  VII.,  when 
in  a  state  of  dotage,  to  alter  the  law  of  royai 
succession  in  favour  of  his  infant  daughter,— 
got  together  the  farce  of  a  Cortes,  to  give  their 
sanction  to  the  illegal  act, — and  have  since 
contrived  to  keep  her  on  the  throne,  as  a  mere 
puppet,  to  serve  as  a  cover  to  their  revolution- 
ary designs,  despite  the  clearly  proved  voice 
of  the  nation,  by  filling  the  army  and  all  civii 
offices  with  their  own  creatures,  and  maintain 
ing  an  usurped  and  hateful  usurpation  by  the 
aid  of  urban  democracy,  foreign  co-operation, 
and  stock-jobbing  assistance. 

5.  That  the  title  of  Don  Carlos  to  the  throne 
is  clear,  not  less  on  the  legitimate  principle  of 
legal  succession,  which  we  were  bound,  in 
the  most  solemn  manner,  by  the  treaty  of 
Utrecht,  to  guaranty,  than  on  the  liberal  prin- 
ciple of  a  violation  of  the  social  contract,  and 
a  trampling  under  foot  all  the  rights  and  pri- 
vileges of  the  people,  dissolving  the  title  of  a 
sovereign,  how  well-founded  soever  in  itself, 
to  the  supreme  direction  of  aflairs. 

6.  That  the  frightful  system  of  murdering 
the  prisoners  was  first  introduced  by  the  Revo- 
lutionists ;  that  it  was  carried  on  with  ruthless 
severity  and  heartless  rigour  by  them  /oj- years 
before  it  was  imitated  by  the  Royalists ;  that  they 
have  repeatedly  made  endeavours,  both  pub- 
licly and  privately,  to  put  a  stop  to  its  con- 
tinuance, but  always  been  foiled  by  the  refusal 
of  their  savage  antagonists. 

7.  That  the  English  auxiliaries,  both  under 
General  Evans  and  Lord  John  Hay,  lent  their 
powerful  aid  to  the  Revolutionary  party,  not 
only  without  the  English  government  having 
made  any  effectual  stipulation  in  favour  of  the 
abandoning  that  atrocious  system  of  warfare, 
but  at  a  time  when,  without  such  aid,  the  wai 
was  on  the  point  of  being  brought  to  a  glorious 
termination  by  the  freeborn  mountaineers  of 
Biscay  and  Navarre,  and  have  thus  become 
implicated,  through  the  fault  or  neglect  of 
their  government,  in  all  the  woful  conse- 
quences of  a  continuance  of  the  struggle. 

8.  That  the  stand  made  by  the  Basque  pro- 
vinces is  for  their  rights  and  their  liberties, 
their  privileges  and  their  immunities,  enjoyed 
by  their  ancestors  for  five  hundred  years, 
asserted  by  them  in  every  age  with  a  con- 
stancy and  spirit  exceeding  even  the  far-famed 
resolution  of  the  Swiss  Cantons,  but  which 
were  all  reft  from  them  at  one  fell  swoop  by  the 
ruthless  tyranny  of  a  democratic  despotism. 

It  is  impossible,  in  the  limits  of  an  article  in 
a  periodical,  to  quote  all  the  documents,  or  de 
tail  all  the  facts,  which  Mr.  Walton  has  accu 
mulated,  with  irresistible  force,  to  prove  ever) 
one  of  these  propositions.  If  any  one  doubts 
them,  we  earnestly  recommend  him  to  studj 
his  work ;  and  if  he  is  not  convinced,  we  say, 
without  hesitation,  neither  would  he  be  per- 
suaded though  one  rose  from  the  dead.  But  even 
in  this  cursory  notice  a  few  leading  facts  may 
be  brought  forward,  which  cannot  fail  to  throw 
a  clear  light  on  this  important  subject,  and 


CARLIST  STRUGGLE  IN  SPAIN. 


S2d 


may  tend  to  aid  the  efTorts  of  those  brave  and 
enlightened  men  who  are  now  striving  to  pre- 
vent Briti:sh  blood  from  being  any  longer  shed 
in  the  most  unjust  of  causes,  and  hinder  the 
British  standards  from  being  any  longer  un- 
furled, in  the  name  of  freedom  and  liberty,  to 
uphold  the  cause  of  infidelity,  rapine,  and  op- 
pression. 

Of  the  manner  in  which  the  Constitution  of 
1812  was  fabricated  by  a  cli(juc  of  urban  agita- 
tors in  Cadiz,  when  blockaded  by  the  French 
forces  in  1810,  and  thrust,  amidst  the  agonies 
of  the  war  with  Napoleon,  on  an  unconscious 
or  unwilling  nation,  the  following  account  is 
given  by  our  author: — 

"In  the  decrees  and  other  preparations  made 
by  the  central  junta,  in  anticipation  of  the 
meeting  of  Cortes,  the  old  mode  of  convening 
the  national  a'^scmbly  had  been  abandoned,  the 
jUuminati  congregated  at  Seville  being  of 
opinion  'that  the  ancient  usages  \verc  more  a 
matter  of  historical  research  than  of  practical 
importance.'  It  was  therefore  agreed,  that  in 
their  stead  a  new  electoral  law  should  be 
framed,  more  congenial  to  the  general  princi- 
ple of  representation  ;  the  result  of  which  was, 
that  those  cities  which  had  deputies  in  the 
Cortes  last  assembled  were  to  have  a  voice,  as 
well  as  the  superior  juntas,  and  that  one  deputy 
should  besides  be  elected  for  every  fifty  thou- 
sand souls.  It  was  also  settled  that  the  South 
American  provinces,  at  the  time  actually  in  a 
state  of  insurrection,  should,  for  the  present, 
have  substitutes  chosen  for  them,  until  they 
sent  over  delegates  duly  elected.  It  is  a  cu- 
rious fact,  that  on  the  18th  of  the  previous 
April,  Joseph  Bonaparte  had  convened  the 
Cortes,  and  it  was  at  the  time  thought  that  this 
example  served  to  stimulate  the  central  junto 
to  perform  their  long  forgotten  promise. 

"  The  new  fashioned  Cortes  opened  on  the 
24th  of  September,  consisting  only  of  popular 
deputies,  or  one  estate,  the  other  two  being 
excluded.  When  the  inaugural  ceremonies  were 
over,  the  members  assembled  declared  them- 
selves legally  constituted  in 'general  and  extra- 
ordinary Cortes,'  in  whom  the  national  sove- 
reignty resided ;  or,  in  other  wor(N,  they  at  once 
declared  themselves  a  constituent  assembly. 

"  In  one  respect,  the  assembly  of  the  Spanish 
Cortes  of  1810,  resrmblcd  that  of  the  French 
Stales-general  in  1791,  the  members  being 
mostly  new  men  whose  names  had  scarcely 
been  heard  of  Ijefurc.  In  another  sense,  the 
disparity  between  the  two  assemblies  was 
great.  The  States-general  opened  their  sit- 
tings under  legal  forms,  with  the  three  orders, 
ani^,  after  stormy  di'bales,o»/'  csiulr  ijrrird  nr  nli- 
Korlicil  ihi'  oihrr  Iwn,  when  the  triumphant  party, 
declaring  themselves  a  constituent  assembly, 
proceeded  to  enact  laws  and  frame  a  constitu- 
tion ;  in  the  end,  rendering  themselves  superior 
to  the  authority  which  had  convened  them,nn<l 
no  longer  responsible  to  those  whom  they  were 
intended  to  represent.  Tim  Cadiz  Cortes 
adopted  a  readier  and  less  complicated  plan. 
In  utter  defiance  of  legal  forms  and  ancient 
usages,  lliP  SpiinisU  Commons  before  hnnd  rjilmlcil 
the  tiroprivili'i^crl  rffrtlci ;  and  assembling  entirely 
on  their  own  account,  at  once  voted  ihrmulwx  to 
be  a  constilucnl  asscmblij,  possessing  all  the  es- 


sential attributes  of  sovereignty  and  ielibe' 
ately  proceeded  to  imitate  the  example  of  then 
Parisian  prototypes. 

"The  examples  given  in  our  early  pages 
show  the  little  analogy  between  the  ancient 
and  new  Cortes.     The  latter  did  not  meet  to 
supply  the  want  of  a  regal  power,  to  provide 
means  of  defence,  obtain  the  redress  of  griev- 
ances, or  reconcile  opposite  and  jarring  inte- 
rests.   Their  object  was  not  to  heal  the  wounds 
in  the  state,  to  introduce  order  and  concert,  or 
remove  those  obstacles  which  had  hitherto  im- 
peded the  progress  of  the  national  cause.    As 
the  genuine  offspring  of  the  central  junta,  they 
rather  thought  oi  seizing  ttpon  power,  enjoying  its 
sweets,  and  carrying  into  cflcct  those  theories 
with  a  fondness  for  which  an  admiration  of  the 
French  Revolution  had  infected  many  leading 
members,  some  of  whom  were  anxious  to  shine 
after  the  manner  of  Mirabeau, — whilst  others 
thought   they  could  emulate  the  example  of 
Abb6  Sieves,  or  took  Brissot  as  their  model. 
In  a  word,  wholly  unpractised  in  the  science 
of  legislation,  and  unmindful  that  the  enemy 
was  at  their  gates,  they  set  to  work  with  a  full 
determination  to  tread  in  the  footsteps  of  the 
French  Constituent  Assembly,  and  began  by  a 
vote  similar  to  that  passed  by  our  House  of 
Commons  in  1648,  whereby  they  declared  that 
the  sovereign  power  cxclusivchj  resided  in  them, — and 
consequently,  that  whatever  they  enacted  was 
law,  without  the  consent  of  either  king,  peers, 
or  clergy." 

The  ruinous  step  by  which,  to  the  exclusion 
of  the  real  representatives  of  the  nation,  a 
band  of  urban  Revolutionists  contrived  to 
thrust  themselves  into  the  supreme  direction 
of  the  Constituent  Assembly  in  the  Isle  of  Le- 
on, is  thus  explained. 

"On  the  10th  September,  1810,  a  fortnight 
before  the  opening  of  ibe  Cortes,  the  regents 
issued  an  edict,  accompanied  by  a  decree,  in 
which  the  impossibility  of  obtaining  proper  re- 
presentatives from  the  ultra-marine  provinces 
and  those  occupied  by  the  enemy,  is  lamented, 
and  a  plan  devised  to  remedy  the  defect,  by 
means  of  substitutes  chosen  upon  the  spot.  It 
was  accordingly  ordained  that  twenty-three 
persons  should  be  piehedout  lo  represent  the  places 
held  hy  the  French,  and  thirty  for  the  Indies; 
which  number  of  substitutes,  incorporated 
with  the  real  delegates,  already  arrived  or  about 
to  arrive,  it  was  thought  wonld  compose  a  re- 
spectable congress,  sufficient,  imdor  existing 
circumstances,  to  open  the  house  and  carry  on 
business,  even  although  others  should  unfortu- 
nately not  arrive."* 

From  tho  official  records  of  the  Cortes,  it  ap- 
pears that  its  numbers  stood  thus: 
Members  returned  by  provinces  of  Spain 

unoccupied  by  the  French,        .  127 

Substitutes    provided   at  Cadiz,    for   ihe 

others, 45 

"  It  would  be  almost  insulting  to  the  jtidg- 
ment  of  the  reader  to  offer  an}'  remarks  upon 
either  the  illegality  or  the  incongruity  of  a  le- 
gislature composed  of  such  elements  as  the 
preceding  sketch  presents.    Independently  cf 

♦  "  For  the  clortors  nnd  the  rlrrlcd  Iho  only  n"^""'"'*- 
lioiis  ri'Tuirnl  wi^re  to  l)u  a  liousclioUler  and  twoiily-fiv^ 
yrara  of  ugc." 


880 


AI  [SON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


a  total  abandonment  of  ancient  usages,  and  an 
utter  disregard  of  the  elective  franchise  prac- 
tised in  former  times;  besides  the  exclusion 
of  two  estates,  and  the  enlargement  of  the  third 
on  a  basis  not  only  impracticable  but  also  ri- 
diculous ;  substitutes  are  put  in  to  represent  an 
infinitely  larger  proportion  of  territory  in  both 
hemispheres  than  that  which,  with  the  free 
agency  of  the  inhabitants,  is  enabled  to  return 
representatives,  elected  according  to  the  scale 
proposed  by  the  conveners  of  the  Cortes  them- 
selves, founded  on  rules  of  their  own  framing. 
The  representative  principle  teas  thus  entirely  lost ; 
and  how  a  party  of  politicians  and  philoso- 
phers, circumscribed  to  a  small  spot  of  ground, 
and  protected  only  by  the  naval  force  of  an 
ally,  could,  during  eighteen  months,  sit  quietly 
down  and  frame  a  constitution  for  the  accept- 
ance of  nearly  thirty  millions  of  people,  situ- 
ated in  three  quarters  of  the  globe,  and  opposed 
in  interests  as  well  as  in  habits,  on  a  plan  so 
defective  in  all  its  parts,  is  the  most  extraordi- 
nary of  the  many  singularities  which  marked 
the  Spanish  contest. 

"In  the  new  representative  plan,  neither  po- 
pulation nor  wealth  was  taken  as  a  basis. 
Valencia,  with  1,040,740  souls,  was  allowed 
nineteen  deputies;  whilst  Granada,  including 
Malaga,  and  containing  1,100,640,  had  only 
two.  The  ancient  kingdom  of  Navarre,  with 
271,285  souls;  Biscay,  with  130,000;  Guipus- 
coa,  with  126,789;  and  Alava,  with  85,139,  are 
rated  at  one  each ;  whereas  the  mountains  of 
Ronda  had  two.  Spain,  with  fourteen  millions 
of  souls,  is  set  down  at  one  hundred  and  fifty- 
four  deputies ;  when  the  South  American  and 
Asiatic  provinces,  by  the  central  junta  declared 
integral  and  equal  parts  of  the  monarchy,  and 
containing  a  population  of  more  than  seven- 
teen millions,  were  represented  by  fifty-four. 
Never  was  an)'-  thing  more  monstrous  than  the 
organization  of  the  Cadiz  legislature — more 
opposed  to  the  practice  in  ancient  times,  or 
more  at  variance  with  the  objects  for  which 
the  Cortes  were  to  meet.  It  was  not  even  in 
accordance  with  the  wild  theories  of  the  day. 
The  absence  Tf  opposition  was  the  only  sanc- 
tion given  to  their  labours;  a  circumstance 
which  may  be  easily  accounted  for  in  the  ex- 
isting stale  of  the  Peninsula." 

These  Revolutionists  were  not  long  in  invok- 
ing the  aid  of  the  same  principles  which,  ema- 
nating from  the  Jacobins  of  Paris,  had  con- 
signed France  to  slavery  and  Europe  to  blood. 
"Eight  or  nine  journals  were  immediately 
established  in  Cadiz,  of  which  one  was  called 
*  The  Robespierre.'  " 

"The  principles  proclaimed  by  the  constitu- 
tion, if  possible,  are  more  monstrous  than  the 
manner  in  which  it  was  constructed.  It  be- 
gins by  declaring  that  the  legislature  is  com- 
posed of  the  general  and  extraordinary  Cortes 
of  the  Spanish  nations,  represented  by  deputies 
from  Spain,  America,  and  Asia;  that  the  na- 
tional sovereignty  resides  in  the  Cortes,  and 
that  the  power  of  making  laws  belongs  to  them, 
jointly  with  the  king ;  that  the  population  is  to  be 
taken  as  a  basis  for  the  new  electoral  hiw,  without 
any  defined  qualification  for  eligibility ;  that  the 
Cortes  were  to  meet  every  year,  and,  on  closing, 
leave  a  permanent  deputation  sitting,  to  watch 


over  the  observance  of  the  constitution,  report 
infractions,  and  convene  the  legislature  in  ex- 
traordinary cases,  and  that  the  king  should  be 
at  the  head  of  the  executive,  and  sanction  the 
laws.  A  new  plan  was  also  formed  for  the 
government  of  the  provinces,  the  election  of 
municipalities,  the  assessment  of  taxes,  and  a 
variety  of  other  purposes.  In  a  word,  the  Ca- 
diz code  deprived  the  king  of  the  power  of  dissolving 
or  proroguing  the  Cortes,  and  in  other  respects 
destroyed  the  royal  prerogative,  as  well  as  feudal 
tenures  and  the  rights  of  property.  It  con- 
founded the  various  classes,  reduced  the  power 
of  the  clergy,  extinguished  the  civil  rights  of  a 
whole  community,  cancelled  all  previous  com- 
pacts made  between  the  sovereign  and  the  peo- 
ple, broke  the  bond  of  union,  tore  asunder  the 
charters,  confiscated  the  privileges  and  fran- 
chises so  highly  valued  by  the  inhabitants,  and, 
in  a  word,  obliterated  every  line  and  feature  of  the 
ancient  institutions,  by  transforming  Spain  into 
the  reverse  of  what  she  had  been.  It  was  a 
sweeping  proscription  of  every  privileged  and 
corporate  body  in  the  country,  annihilating  the 
whole,  and  leaving  neither  wreck  nor  vestige 
behind." 

Of  this  constitution,  which  is  now  the  con- 
stitution of  Spain,  which  the  arms,  ay,  the 
royiil  arms  of  England  are  employed  to  uphold, 
it  is  sufficient  to  say  that  it  establishes — 
1,  Universal  Scffhage  ;  2,  One  Legislativi 
Chamber  ;  3,  Annual  Parliaments  ;  4,  It  an 
nihilates  all  the  power  of  the  nobles  and  cler- 
gy ;  5,  Sweeps  away  all  corporate  rights  and 
feudal  privileges;  6,  Exterminates  the  ichole 
royal  prerogative.  How  long  would  the  British 
empire  withstand  the  shock  of  such  a  constitu- 
tion 1     Not  one  week. 

Even  before  it  was  brought  into  operation, 
or  the  French  armies  had  been  driven  by  Bri- 
tish valour  from  the  soil  of  Spain,  the  ruinous 
effect  of  this  monstrous  constitution  was  so 
clearly  perceived,  that  the  democratic  despots 
were  fearful  of  its  overthrow. 

"  Such  a  transition  as  that  which  this  code 
was  calculated  to  effect,  was  too  sudden  and 
too  violent  not  to  meet  with  decided  opposition. 
Its  levelling  principles  and  subversive  doc- 
trines were  accordingly  denounced  from  the 
pulpit  and  by  the  press.  Every  epithet  of 
odium  and  contempt  was  applied  to  its  of- 
ficious framers ;  and  so  great  M-as  the  appre- 
hension of  disturbances  entertained  by  the  go- 
vernment itself,  that  within  a  month  after  its 
promulgation,  they  prevented  arms  from  being 
intrusted  to  the  Galician  peasantrj'.  Indivi- 
duals of  rank  and  influence  were  banished  for 
merely  expressing  their  disapprobation  of  its 
provisions,  or  their  dread  of  the  calamities 
which  it  was  likely  to  produce." 

The  fate  of  this  monstrous  democratic  abor- 
tion is  well  knc  wn.  On  Ferdinand's  accession 
it  fell  to  the  ground  from  its  own  weight ;  not 
a  SM'ord  required  to  be  drawn,  or  a  shot  fired,  to 
dissolve  the  destructive  fabric.  His  famous 
decree  from  Valencia,  on  May  4,  1814,  at  once 
extinguished  the  Cadiz  constitution.  In  that 
instrument,  Ferdinand  justly  said: 

"  To  this  Cortes,  in  1810,  convened  in  a  man- 
ner never  practised  in  Spain,  even  in  the  most 
arduous  cases,  and  in  the  turbulent  times  of 


CARLIST  STRUGGLE  IN  SPAIN. 


331 


minorities,  when  the  meeting  of  deputies  has 
been  more  numerous  than  in  usual  and  ordi- 
nary Cortes,  the  estates  of  the  nobility  and  cler- 
gy were  not  called,  notwithstanding  the  central 
junta  ordered  this  to  be  done  by  a  decree,  art- 
fully concealed  from  the  council  of  regency, 
who  were  equally  unaware  that  to  them  the 
junta  had  assigned  the  presidency  of  the  Cortes ; 
a  prerogative  which  otherwise  never  would 
have  been  left  at  the  will  of  the  Congress. 
Every  thing  was  thus  placed  at  the  disposal  of 
the  Cortes,  who  on  the  very  day  of  their  instal- 
lation, and  as  a  commencement  of  their  acts, 
stripped  me  of  the  sovereignty  which  thg  depu- 
ties themselves  had  just  before  acknowledged, 
nominally  attributing  it  to  the  nation,  in  order 
to  appropriate  it  to  themselves,  and  by  this 
usurpation  enact  such  laws  as  they  deemed  fit, 
imposing  on  the  people  the  obligation  of  forci- 
bly receiving  them  in  the  form  of  a  new  con- 
stitution, which  the  deputies  established,  and 
afterwards  sanctioned  and  published  in  1812, 
without  powers  from  either  provinces,  towns, 
or  juntas,  and  without  even  the  knowledge  of 
those  said  to  be  represented  by  the  substitutes 
of  Spain  and  the  Indies. 

"This  first  outrage  against  the  royal  prero- 
gative was,  as  it  were,  a  basis  for  tbt  many 
others  which  followed;  and  notwithstanding 
the  repugnance  of  many  deputies,  laws  wen! 
enacted,  adopted,  and  called  fundamental  ones, 
amidst  the  cries,  threats,  and  violence  of  those 
who  frequented  the  Cortes  galleries  ;  whereby 
to  that  which  was  only  the  work  of  a  faction 
the  specious  colouring  of  the  general  will  was 
given,  and  for  such  made  to  pass  among  a  few 
seditious  persons  at  Cadiz,  and  afterwards  at 
Madrid.  These  are  notorious  facts,  and  thus 
were  those  good  laws  altered  which  once  con- 
stituted the  felicity  of  our  nation.  The  ancient 
form  of  the  monarchy  was  changed,  and  by 
copying  the  revolutionary  and  democratic 
principles  of  the  French  constitution  of  1791, 
were  sanctioned,  not  the  fundamental  laws  of 
a  moderate  monarchy,  but  rather  those  of  a 
popular  government,  with  a  chief  magistrate 
at  its  head — a  mf-re  delegated  executive,  and 
not  a  king,  notwithstanding  the  introduction  of 
the  name  as  a  deception  to  the  incautious." 

The  joy  of  the  nation  at  this  specific  libera- 
tion from  their  revolutionary  tyrants  knew  no 
bounds.  It  was  like  that  of  the  English  on 
the  Restoration.  The  journey  of  the  king  fioin 
Valencia  to  the  capital  was  a  continued  tri- 
umph. 

"Some  members  and  other  flaming  patriots 
proposed  open  resistance,  but  sonii  found  that 
they  possessed  neither  pliysical  nor  moral 
power.  As  far  as  outward  appearances  went, 
they  preserved  their  consistency,  or  rather 
their  delirium,  till  the  close.  Some  of  the  most 
vociferous  were  however  seized;  and  this  put 
an  end  to  the  show  of  opposition.  IVnlinriiid 
VII.  entered  the  capital  on  the  Mth,  amidst  ge- 
neral acclamations  and  other  demonstrations 
of  joy.  Persons  present  attest  that  never  did 
Madrid  witness  such  a  scene  of  general  exulta- 
tion. When  the  king  alighted,  the  pinplc  took 
him  up  in  their  arms,  and  triumphantly  showed 
him  to  the  immense  concourse  assembled  in 
front  of  the  palace,  and  in  their  arms  conveyed 


him  to  his  apartment.  From  Aranjuez  to  Ma. 
drid,  his  carriage  had  been  previously  drawn 
by  the  people.  In  the  afternoon  of  the  IGth, 
he  walked  through  several  parts  of  the  town, 
the  streets  thronged  with  spectators;  but  not 
a  single  constitutionalist  ventured  to  show  his 
face." 

We  have  dwelt  the  longer  on  the  original 
illegal  formation,  and  revolutionary  principles 
of  the  constitution,  because  it  lies  in  trnth  at 
the  bottom  of  the  whole  question.  The  Cadiz 
democrats,  like  all  other  reckless  revolu- 
tionists, bestowed  on  the  nation  at  once,  without 
either  preparation  or  reason,  the  prodigal  gift 
of  unbounded  political  influence.  The  whole 
powers  of  government  were  by  them  vested 
in  one  Chamber:  the  Cortes  combined  the 
powers  of  the  executive  and  legislature  ir 
England,  being  vested  at  once  with  the  exclu 
sive  right  of  imposing  taxes,  passing  laws, 
declaring  war  and  peace.  These  vast  powers 
were  vested  in  one  single  assembly,  unfettered  by 
any  separate  House  of  Peers,  or  the  repre- 
sentation of  the  clergy  in  any  shape.  And 
how  was  this  omnipotent  assembly  chosen? 
By  universal  suffrage;  by  the  votes  of  every 
man  in  Spain  who  had  a  house  and  was  twen- 
ty-five years  of  age.  No  qualification  was  re- 
quired either  in  the  electors  or  representatives, 
A  majority  of  beggars  might  rule  the  state, 
and  dispose  at  will  of  all  the  property  it  con- 
tained! ! ! 

The  urban  revolutionists  of  Spain,  an  ar- 
dent, energetic,  insolvent  class,  instantly  per- 
ceived the  enormous  advantages  which  this 
extravagant  constitution  gave  them.  They 
saw  clearly  that  luidcr  this  radical  constitu- 
tion, they  would  in  fact  be  the  rulers  of  the 
state;  that  its  whole  offices,  emoluments,  in- 
fluence, and  property  would  ere  long  be  at  their 
disposal ;  and  that  by  simply  sticking  to  that 
one  point,  "The  constitution  of  ISI'2,"  they 
would  soon,  and  without  bloodshed  as  they 
hoped,  and  by  the  mere  force  of  legislative 
enactment,  strip  all  the  holders  of  property, 
not  only  of  their  influence,  but  their  posses- 
sions. In  the  few  great  towns,  accordingly, 
which  the  Peninsula  contains,  in  Madrid,  Ca- 
diz, Seville,  Barcelona,  Valentia,  Bilboa,  and 
Malaga,  a  clirjue  of  agitators  was  immediately 
foriuod,  who,  destitute  of  proper!}'^,  education, 
or  character,  wore  yet  formidable  to  the  hold- 
ers of  property  over  the  kingdom  by  their  in- 
fluence over  the  population  in  these  great 
centres  of  profligacy,  pauperism,  and  ambition. 
Thi-y  were  closely  lield  togetlier  by  the  hellish 
bond  of  anticipated  plunder.  Freeilom,  liberty, 
and  independence  were  ever  in  their  mouths; 
tyranny,  plunder,  massacre  'inceasingly  in 
their  hearts.  But  though  a  miserable  minority, 
not  amounting  to  a  fiftieth  part  of  the  whole 
nation,  they  had  great  advantages  in  the  poli- 
ties! strife  in  which  they  were  i  n';;iL:i(i.  from 
their  position  in  the  great  fortified  low  us  of  the 
kingdom,  from  their  sway  over  the  depraved 
and  deluded  populace,  from  the  rapid  comi.iu 
nication  which  they  maintained  with  each 
other,  from  the  want  of  tinion,  organization, 
or  intelligence  aiuong  their  rural  antagonists, 
from  the  possession  of  a  plausible  cri  ilr  guerrt 
"The  constitution  of  1812,"  which  was  sup 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


posed  to  oe  a  sovereign  charm  by  its  support- 
ers for  ever}' evil ;  and  from  the  union,  energy, 
and  resolution  which  present  insolvency  and 
the  prospect  of  future  plunder  had  diffused 
universally  through  their  ranks. 

It  is  the  more  material  to  attend  to  these 
considerations,  because  it  is  the  struggle  to  re- 
establish this  radical  constitution  which  is  the 
real  matter  that  has  ever  since  been  at  issue 
between  the  two  parties  in  the  Peninsula.  The 
Queen  at  Madrid  was  from  the  first  a  mere 
puppet;  the  Estatido  Real  a  mere  instalment; 
the  revolt  of  La  Granja  brought  to  light  their 
real  projects,  and  revealed,  in  its  pristine  na- 
kedness, the  violence  and  iniquity  of  the  de- 
mocratic faction.  By  it  the  constitution  of 
1812  has  again  become  the  basis  of  the  con- 
stitution :  a  nocturnal  revolt,  an  irruption  into 
the  bed-chamber  of  the  queen,  a  drunken  ser- 
geant and  ten  treasonable  grenadiers  were  suf- 
ficient to  knock  down  the  phantom  of  a  con- 
stitutional monarchy,  which,  as  a  masli  to 
their  ulterior  designs,  the  revolutionists  had 
set  up.  And  it  is  to  support  such  a  cavsc,  to 
establish  such  a  revolutionary  regime,  that  Gene- 
ral Evans  and  his  unhappy  band  have  been 
exposed  to  defeat  and  dishonour,  and  500,000/. 
worth  of  arms  and  ammunition  sent  to  the  de- 
mocratics  of  the  Peninsula,  and  the  I'oyal  flag 
of  England  displayed  beside  the  abettors  of 
spoliation,  robbery,  and  murder! 

The  evils  experienced  and  anticipated  from 
this  radical  constitution,  however,  were  so 
powerful,  that  it  probably  never  again  would 
have  reared  its  hated  head  in  Spain,  were  it 
not  that  in  an  evil  hour  Ferdinand  VIL  resolved 
upon  an  expedition  to  South  America  in  1821, 
to  subdue  the  revolted  provinces,  and  assem- 
bled 20,000  men  in  the  Isle  of  Leon  for  that 
purpose.  This  distant  service  was  to  the  last 
degree  unpopular  in  the  Spanish  army;  its 
inglorious  dangers,  its  certain  hardships,  its 
boundless  fatigues,  its  remote  situation,  its 
probable  disastrous  termination,  were  present 
toevery  mind,  and  filled  both  officers  and  men 
with  the  most  gloomy  presentiments,  and  left 
them  in  that  state  of  moody  despair  when  the 
most  desperate  and  flagitious  projects  are  most 
likely  to  be  embraced  with  alacrity.  The 
presence  of  20,000  men  close  to  Cadiz  or  with- 
in its  walls,  influenced  by  these  feelings,  was 
too  favourable  an  opportunity  lor  the  revolu- 
tionists in  that  great  centre  of  democracy  to 
let  slip  for  re-establishing  their  hated  do- 
minion. While  the  troops  were  waiting  for 
the  transports  to  convey  them  across  the  At- 
lantic, Avhich,  with  the  usual  want  of  foresight 
in  the  Spanish  character,  were  very  long'^of 
being  prepared,  intrigues  were  actively  set  on 
foot  by  the  Cadiz  c/uyuc ;  and  in  the  subaltern 
officers  of  the  army,  which  in  Spain  is  almost 
wholly  destitute  of  men  of  property,  and  filled 
with  mere  adventurers,  they  found  the  most 
ready  reception.  Soldiers,  unless  restrained 
by  preponderance  of  property  and  education 
in  their  officers,  are  never  averse  to  playing 
the  part  of  pr^torians ;  they  are  seldom  disin- 
clined to  setting  an  empire  up  to  sale.  The 
glittering  prospect,  on  the  one  hand,  of  escaping 
a  perilous,  hateful,  and  inglorious  foreign  ser- 
vice, and  on  the  other,  disposing  of  the" whole 


emoluments  and  advantages  of  gover^mep 
for  themselves  or  their  connections,  was  mor« 
than  the  military  adventurers  of  the  Isle  of 
Leon  could  withstand ;  they  revolted ;  raised 
the  cry  of  "The  constitution  of  1812,"  amidst 
the  transports  of  the  democratic  party  over  all 
Spain  ;  and  the  king,  destitute  of  any  military 
force  to  withstand  so  formidable  an  insurrec- 
tion, was,  after  a  trifling  attempt  at  resistance, 
forced  into  submission.  The  promised  boon 
was  not  withheld  from  the  traitor  soldiers,  who 
had,  by  violating  their  oaths,  brought  about 
the  revolution ;  they-were  retained  at  home ; 
the  expedition  against  South  America  was  laid 
aside,  and  the  crown  of  the  Indies  for  ever  lost 
to  the  throne  of  Castile.  But  Avhat  was  that 
to  the  Spanish  democrats  1  What  did  it  sig- 
nify that  the  empire  was  dismembered,  and  the 
transatlantic  colonies  consigned  to  an  anarchy, 
despotism,  and  suffering,  unparalleled  in  mo- 
dern times  1  They  had  got  to  the  head  of  af- 
fairs ;  the  pillar  of  the  constitution  was  raised 
in  every  considerable  town  of  Spain ;  the  Ca- 
diz clique  had  become  prime  ministers ;  and 
every  province  of  the  Peninsula  was  placed 
under  the  rule  of  a  set  of  Ioav  rapacious  revo- 
lutionary employes,  who  made  use  of  all  their 
authority  to  promote  the  election  of  such  ex- 
treme deputies  for  the  Cortes  as  might  insure 
the  total  revolutionizing  of  the  state. 

Even  Mdiile  the  Liberals  lay  at  Cadiz,  they 
had  begun  their  sj'stem  of  rapacious  ini- 
quity:— 

"  M.  Alcala  Galiano,"  says  Walton,  "  assisted 
in  a  civil  capacity,  and  when  the  mutineers 
were  shut  up  in  La  Isx^,  wrote  the  principal 
proclamations  and  addresses  which  served  to 
extend  the  insurrection.  On  reaching  Madrid, 
this  civilian  became  one  of  the  leading  spealf- 
ers  at  the  debating  society  of  the  Fontana  de 
Ore,  and  was  afterwards  named  Intendant  of 
Cordova.  In  1822  he  was  elected  to  the  Cor- 
tes, from  which  period  he  is  classed  among 
the  leaders  of  the  cxaltados.  His  speeches 
were  marked  with  impetuosity  and  extreme 
liberalism  ;  but  his  ideas  were  not  always  re- 
gular, or  his  conduct  consistent.  He  was  among 
the  emigrants  in  this  country,  and  a  warm  ad- 
mirer of  radicalism, — a  blessing  of  which  the 
last  importation  into  Spain  has  been  pretty  ex- 
tensive. The  latter  part  of  his  political  career 
was  the  most  successful,  his  labours  having 
been  crowned  with  the  appointment  of  Minis- 
ter of  Marine.  Whilst  the  army  remained  at 
La  Isla,  the  naval  arsenals  tvere  completely  gutted. 
The  copper,  brass  caiman,  rigging,  and  other  valio- 
ablcs,  ivere  sold  to  the  Gibraltar  Jews,  who  ascended 
the  river  of  Santi  Petri  and  fetched  their  pur 
chases  away." 

The  worshippers  of  the  constitution  of  1812 
were  not  slow  in  beginning  with  the  first  and 
greatest  of  all  revolutionary  projects,  the  con- 
fiscation of  the  property  of  the  church. 

"Various  reports,"  says  Mr.  Walton,  "on  the 
poverty  of  the  treasury,  the  annual  deficit,  the 
arrears  of  pay,  and  a  variety  of  other  finan- 
cial  matters,  had  been  submitted  to  the  cham- 
ber, and  produced  no  small  degree  of  embar- 
rassment. The  expedient  of  a  foreign  loan  was 
adopted ;  and  it  being  no  longer  necessary  to 
temporize  with  the  clergy,  a  plan  was  formed 


CARLIST  STRUGGLE  IN  SPAIN. 


333 


for  ike  appropriation  of  chnrrh  properly,  which  it 
was  supposed  would  yield  an  abundant  har- 
vest. By  a  decree  passed  October  1st,  the 
monasteries  were  suppressed,  excepting  a  cer- 
tain number,  and  also  several  of  the  military 
orders,  the  revenues  of  which,  it  was  agreed, 
should  be  set  apart  for  the  payment  of  the  na- 
tional debt,  after  pensions  had  been  secured  to 
Riega,  Quiroga,  and  the  other  leaders  of  the 
La  Lsla  mutiny.  The  inmates  of  the  sup- 
pressed convents  were  to  receive  stipends 
from  the  government;  but  it  was  clear  that 
the  exigencies  of  the  state,  if  no  other  reasons 
existed,  would  prevent  the  performance  of  this 
promise.  Hitherto  the  king  had  remained 
passive,  and  sanctioned,  certainly  against  his 
M'ill,  yet  without  any  remonstrance,  the  various 
acts  tending  to  destroy  the  little  authority  left 
to  him;  but  when  called  upon  for  his  assent  to 
the  suppression  of  the  regular  orders,  he  hesi- 
tated. At  the  end  of  a  month  his  signature 
was  reluctantly  affixed,  and  the  next  day  he 
departed  for  the  Escurial." 

Nor  were  tyrannic  measures  to  enforce  the 
authority  of  these  popular  despots  wanting. 

•'  Among  the  new  measures  was  a  decree 
awarding  the  penalty  of  bnnhkment  for  eight 
■years  against  any  one  endeavouring  to  dis- 
suade the  people  from  the  observance  of  the 
constitution,  and  imprisonment  for  that  period 
if  an  ecclesiastic." 

This  violent  spoliation,  however,  excited  at 
the  time  a  general  feeling  of  indignation. 

"This  precipitate  if  not  unjust  measure  on 
the  part  of  the  Cortes,  could  not  fail  to  rouse 
public  indignation  and  prepare  the  waj^  for  their 
own  downfal.  Besides  the  nature  of  the  act, 
"Brhich  general  opinion  regarded  as  a  profana- 
tion, numbers  of  persons  venerable  in  the  eyes 
of  the  people  were  sent  forth  from  their  seclu- 
sion to  beg  their  bread.  The  project,  there- 
fore, came  before  the  public  stamped  with  a 
double  title  to  reprobation.  It  was  pronounced 
a  violent  spoliation,  as  well  as  a  revolting  act 
of  irreligion ;  &nd  it  appears  strange  that  the 
patriotic  senators  of  1820,  after  clashing  with 
the  nobles  and  depriving  so  many  public  func- 
tionaries of  their  places,  should  have  thus 
braved  the  anger  of  so  powerful  a  body  as  the 
clergy. 

"  Having  obtained  possession  of  the  political 
stage,  they  formed  a  confederacy  to  keep  it  ex- 
clusively to  themselves  ;  and  if  any  thing  was 
wanting  to  complete  their  usurpation,  it  was 
to  vote  their  own  perpetuity,  as  the  long  par- 
liament did  in  1G42,  and  by  means  of  intimi- 
dation obtain  the  king's  consent.  They  had 
an  army  at  their  disposal,  an<l,  as  was  done  in 
the  time  of  Charles  I.,  some  of  the  king's  advi- 
sers were  denounced  as  enemies  of  the  slate. 
The  indignity  offered  to  him  previously  to  his 
abrupt  departure  for  the  Escurial,  called  into 
action  all  the  elements  of  collision.  The  re- 
duction of  the  monastic  orders  might  be 
deemed  advisalde — nay,  necessary, — so  it  had 
been  thought  before;  but  the  constitutionalists 
having  resolved  upon  that  important  measure, 
contrived  to  render  it  doubly  dangerous  by  the 
manner  and  iegree  in  which  it  was  to  be  exe- 
tuted,  and  Uie  time  chosen  for  carrying  it  into 
effect.    Religious  establishments  of  this  kind 


had  been  interwoven  with  the  frame  of  socier^ 
in  Spain — they  were  considered  as  a  principal 
appendage  of  the  religion  of  the  state,  had 
been  formed  by  the  collective  funds  of  private 
individuals,  were  associated  with  proud  recol- 
lections of  the  past,  and  still  held  in  veneration 
by  all  excepting  the  liberal  party.  When, 
therefore,  the  people  saw  these  establishments 
suppressed,  the  aged,  who  had  spent  their  little 
all  to  procure  an  asylum  for  life,  cast  upon  the 
world,  and  their  substance  bestowed  upon  per- 
sons who  had  set  the  worst  possible  example 
by  heading  a  military  rebellion — their  resent- 
ment passed  all  bounds."* 

The  first  commencement  of  the  civil  war  of 
1822  and  of  that  atrocious  system  of  massacre, 
which  has  ever  since  disgraced  the  Peninsula, 
is  then  given  by  our  author;  and  as  murder 
was  their  grand  weapon,  so  they  were  so  dead 
to  all  sense  of  justice  or  shame,  that  they  ac- 

tUall}^    HAD     ITS     EJIBLEM    ENGllATED    OX    THEIR 

SEALS.  It  was  in  the  massacre  of  a  man  who 
had  merely  counselled  "a  free  and  national 
government." 

"A  paper  of  a  mixed  character  made  its 
appearance  in  the  capital,  tending  to  excite  a 
counter-revolutionary  movement.  It  preached 
— '  No  despotism  and  no  anarchy — no  camarilla 
and  no  factious  Cortes;  hut  a  free  and  national 
s.ovcrnmcnt  founded  on  the  ancient  institutions,^ 
The  author  being  discovered,  was  thrown  into 
prison,  and  his  name  ascertained  to  be  Vinu 
esa,  formerly  the  curate  of  Tamajon,  a  smal' 
town  in  the  province  of  Gaudalajara,  seven 
leagues  from  the  capital,  and  lately  one  of  tht 
king's  honorary  chaplains.  At  a  moment  of 
public  excitement  an  incident  of  this  kind  was 
likely  to  produce  much  noise  in  a  place  where 
idlers  and  politicians  abound.  A  surmise  got 
abroad  that  the  prisoner,  in  consequence  of  his 
high  connections,  would  be  protected,  and  an 
evasion  of  justice  was  apprehended.  This 
sufficed  to  rouse  the  ardent  spirits  frequenting 
the  Puerta  del  Sol,  and  in  the  true  sense  of  the 
sovereignty  of  the  people,  they  rushed  in  a 
crowd  to  the  prison,  forced  open  the  door,  en- 
tere<l  the  curate's  cell,  and  with  a  blacksmith's 
hammer  beat  out  his  brains.f 

"'i'his  murder  was  a  signal  for  general  agi- 
tation. The  nobles,  royalist  officers,  and  ex- 
functionaries,  held  up  to  contempt  and  derision 
the  conduct  of  those  who  were  unable  to  pre- 
vent the  commission  of  such  an  atrocity.  The 
ejected  monks  called  the  jieasants  to  arms,  by 
invoking  the  altar  and  the  throne,  or  appealing 
to  their  own  wmngs. 


♦  "QiiirnLM.  I'lir  cviimplo,  Ivid  r.ipitali/cd  l>is  pension, 
nml  lliiiM  iilitaiiii'il  pimxfssioii  iil'lln'  (iraiij:!  ih-  <'<Tri:iiI;i8 
a  valiKililr  I'Ktali'  iK'nr  lli'ian/n.i,  in  Calici:!,  Ix'tiinciiK;  to 
llie  iiHUiaslcry  of  .*<aii  Martin,  at  Sanliatro,  nl'  llic  llciu— 
dirtini'  order,  npon  uliirli  In-  nit  a  \:\ts.v  iiiianlily  ol'liiii 
lior.  OtliiTB  liail  olitaiiii-il  cMtalrs,  tin-  properly  of  tho 
supprcssi'il  firdtTH,  in  a  xiinilar  inannnr." 

t  "Tills  ilri'd  was  rrlcliraliMl  in  siini;!',  sung  atioiit  tt»e 

stroi'l-i  and  in  tin-  u'lard-liniiscs.    In  il<  riinimciiMration, 

Hralu  wcrr-  \vr)rn  willi  a  rrrxt  n-pri'sriilina  a  lirawny  ami 

I  naiccil  arm  linldine  a  liaiiinu-r  in  tin'  liand.     This  ntnl  hc- 

cnmc  fiifhionalile  nmnng  Ihr  niartille  -r   haiiiiiirr  faetien, 

I  and  trilors  at  tliat  tiinr,  rrrcivc'il  in  F.ncland.  l'ro(iiii'nlly 

I  had  tliat  iniprn-mion  npon  llirm.     Tho  inoh  wcri;  nl»o  in 

I  tlie  lialiit  of  cxprc.isinK  llirir  diiplcasiiro  at   llit;  conduct 

of  an  individniil  liy  lM>alini;  liaiiinirrs  on  llir  pavement 

!  iindi'r  liiM  windows;  a  prrlly  sicniliiant  indication  of  Iho 

fate  Willi  h  awaited  him  if  lie  xinncd  a^iainst  tlw  sove- 

,  roign  p«opIe." 


834 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


"The  large  cities  were,  in  a  contrary  sense, 
agitateil  by  clubs  and  debating  societies.  At 
arst  these  clubs  had  been  the  organs  of  go- 
vernment; now  they  wished  to  dictate  the 
means  by  which  the  commonwealth  was  to  be 
saved.  They  publicly  reproached  the  minis- 
ters for  their  apathy,  almost  accused  them  of 
being  leagued  with  the  king,  whom  they  de- 
nounced as  the  chief  plotter,  and  his  palace  as 
a  ready  receptacle  for  the  Scrvilcs." 

And  now  we  come  to  a  most  important  sub- 
ject— one  to  which  we  earnestly  request  the 
serious  attention  of  our  countrymen.  It  is  the 
COMMENCEMENT  of  that  war  of  extermination, 
which,  as  Mr.  Walton  justly  observes,  has  ever 
since  raged  in  the  Peninsula.  Let  us  see  with 
whom  the  responsibility  of  its  introduction 
rests : — 

"  Catalonia  was  the  cause  of  great  disquie- 
tude to  the  constitutionalists ;  and  in  order  to 
put  down  the  Army  of  the  Faith,  and  dislodge 
the  regency  from  the  Seo  de  Urgel,  Mina  was 
appointed  early  in  September  to  command  that 
principality,  and  entered  on  his  duties  at  Le- 
rida.  As  he  himself  states,  he  found  '  the 
factious,  to  the  number  of  thirty-three  thousand, 
masters  of  almost  all  the  country,  in  posses- 
sion of  various  strong  places  and  fortresses, 
protected  by  a  great  part  of  the  towns,  and, 
what  was  of  still  greater  importance,  they  had 
a  centre  of  union  and  government,  viz.,  the 
titular  Eegcncy  of  Spain,  established  in  Urgel ;' 
adding,  '  these  were  the  elements  which  pre- 
sented themselves  in  Catalonia.'  After  notic- 
ing his  preparations,  he  proceeds  thus: — 'I 
commenced  operations  on  the  13th;  and  a 
month  and  a  half  sufficed  me  to  organize  a 
small  army,  to  raise  the  siege  of  Cervera,  and 
take  possession  of  Castell-fuUit.  /  ordered  the 
total  destruction  of  this  last  mentioned  toivn,  as  a 
punishment  for  the  obstinacy  of  its  rebellious 
inhabitants  and  defenders ;  and  by  way  of  re- 
torting the  contempt  with  which  they  replied 
to  the  repeated  messages  I  sent  them,  as  well 
as  for  a  warning  to  the  rest,  upon  its  ruins  I 
ordered  the  following  inscription  to  be  placed : 
'Here  stood  Castell-fuUit.  Towns,  take  ivaming; 
shelter  not  the  enemies  of  your  country.' 

"  Thus  spoke  and  acted  the  hero  of  Cata- 
lonia at  the  close  of  1822  !  After  enumerating 
a  variety  of  other  exploits,  the  captain-general 
comes  to  his  attack  upon  the  fortress  of  Urgel, 
where  he  experienced  difficulties,  and  exuUing- 
ly  adds, '  that  in  the  end  constancy  and  hero- 
ism were  victorious,  and  six  hundred  profligates 
and  robbers,  taken  out  of  the  prisons,  who  form- 
ed the  greater  part  of  the  faction  of  the  ring- 
leader Romagosa,  the  defender  of  the  fortress 
of  Urgel,  expiated  their  crimes  on  the  morning  of 
(he  evaniation  by  their  death  upon  the  field.'  The 
men  ;hus  barbarously  butchered  were  royalists, 
the  countrymen  of  this  savage  pacificator  .' 
their  only  crime  was  that  of  having  embraced 
a  cause  opposed  to  his  own. 

"  As  a  proof  of  the  spirit  with  which  the 
constitutionalists  were  then  actuated,  subjoined 
is  an  extract  from  a  proclamation,  issued  by 
Mina  a  few  days  before  the  Duke  d'Angou- 
leme  entered  Madrid: — 'Art.  1.  All  persons 
who  may  have  been  members  of  a  junta,  so- 
eiety,  or  corporation  opposed  to  the  present 


system  of  government,  as  well  as  those  wha 
may  have  enlisted  men  or  conspired  agains 
the  constitution,  shall  be  irrevocably  shot  the  irt 
stant  they  are  taken.  Art.  2.  Any  town  in  whict 
the  inhabitants  are  called  cut  against  the  con* 
slitutional  troops  shall  be  burned  to  ashes,  and 
till  one  stone  is  not  left  upon  another.' — At  tht 
same  time  that  the  governor  of  Catalonia  pub- 
lished this  proclamation,  General  Villacampa 
at  Seville  issued  a  similar  edict,  in  which  he 
declared  that  '  every  one  who  by  word  or  deed 
co-operates  in  the  rebellion  shall  be  held  to  be 
a  traitor  and  pimished  as  such ;  further,  that  any 
one  knowing  the  situation  of  the  factions  and 
concealing  it  shall  be  held  to  be  a  traitor,  and 
as  such  treated.'  This  edict  closes  with  the 
following :  '  The  members  of  the  municipali- 
ties of  towns  situated  at  the  distance  of  six 
leagues  from  a  constitutional  column,  who  may 
fail  hourly  to  send  in  a  report  of  the  move- 
ments of  the  factious  in  their  vicinity,  shall 
pay  out  of  their  own  property  a  fine  of  ten 
thousand  rials;  and  if  any  injury  arise  out  of 
the  omission,  he  shall  be  judged  in  a  military 
manner.' " 

It  was,  therefore,  not  without  reason,  that, 
on  the  20th  November,  1822,  Count  Nessel- 
rode  declared,  in  a  public  state  paper,  expres- 
sive of  the  feelings  and  resolutions  of  the  Allied 
Powers  regarding  Spain — 

"Anarchy  appeared  in  the  train  of  revolu- 
tion— disorder  in  that  of  anarchy.  Long  years 
of  tranquil  possession  ceased  to  be  a  sufficient 
title  to  property  ;  the  most  sacred  rights  were 
disputed;  ruinous  loans  and  contributions  un- 
ceasingly renewed,  destructive  of  public  wealth 
and  ruinous  to  private  fortunes.  Religion  was 
despoiled  of  her  patrimony,  and  the  throne  of 
popular  respect.  The  royal  dignity  was  out- 
raged, the  supreme  authority  having  passed 
over  to  assemblies  influenced  by  the  blind  pas- 
sions of  the  multitude.  To  complete  these 
calamities,  on  the  7th  July,  blood  was  seen  to 
flow  in  the  palace,  whilst  civil  war  raged 
throughout  the  Peninsula." 

The  armed  intervention  to  which  these  events 
in  the  Peninsula  gave  rise  on  the  part  of  France 
in  1823,  is  well  known,  and  when  put  to  the 
proof,  it  speedily  appeared  on  how  hollow  a 
foundation  the  whole  fabric  of  revolutionary 
power  in  the  Peninsula,  with  its  whole  adjuncts 
of  church  spoliation,  democratic  plunder,  and 
royalist  massacre,  really  rested.  The  French 
troops  marched  without  opposition  from  the 
Bidassoa  to  Cadiz;  hardly  a  shot  was  fired  in 
defence  of  the  constitution  of  1812;  even  the 
armed  intervention  of  a  stranger, and  the  hate- 
ful presence  of  French  soldiers,  ever  so  obnox- 
ious in  Spain,  could  not  rouse  any  resistance 
to  the  invaders.  The  recollection  of  the  le- 
gions of  Napoleon,  and  the  terrible  hardships 
of  the  Peninsular  war,  were  forgotten  in  the 
more  recent  horrors  of  democratic  ascenden- 
cy. But  an  event  happened  at  Corunna  which 
made  a  profound  impression,  and  powerfully 
contributed  to  stamp  on  the  future  progress  of 
the  contest  that  savage  character,  by  which  it 
is  still  unhappily  distingultned. 

"  At  Corunna  the  most  barbarous  occurrence 
of  the  many  which  sullied  the  annals  of  the 
constitutional  contest  took  place.    The  French 


CARLIST  STRUGGLE   IN   SPAIN. 


3;?5 


guns  commanded  the  baj%  in  consequence  of 
which  a  number  of  royalists  confined  in  a  pon- 
toon ro^e  upon  their  guards,  cut  the  cables, 
and  drifted  out  with  the  tide.  Fearful  that  the 
other  prisoners  in  the  Castle  of  San  Anton 
might  equally  escape,  the  military  governor 
on  the  22d  ordered  fifty-two  of  them  to  be 
brought  to  the  town,  and  iu  the  afternoon  they 
were  lodged  in  the  prison;  but  the  civil  au- 
thorities objecting  to  this  step,  in  consequence 
of  the  crowded  state  of  the  prisons,  as  well  as 
of  the  convents,  the  unhappy  men  were  put 
into  a  small  vessel  and  conveyed  down  the  bay. 
After  doubling  the  point  on  which  the  castle 
stands,  and  in  front  of  the  light-house,  called 
the  Tower  of  Hercules,  they  iccre  brou<j;hl  vp  in 
pairs  from  under  the  hatches,  and  bound  together 
back  to  back  and  thrown  into  the  sea.  One  of  the 
victims,  seeing  the  fate  which  awaited  him, 
jumped  into  the  water  before  his  hands  were 
tied,  and  endeavoured  to  escape  by  swimming  ; 
but,  being  pursued  by  some  of  his  execution- 
ers in  a  boat,  they  beat  out  his  brains  with  their 
oars.  The  tide  cast  the  bodies  of  these  unfor- 
tunate creatures  ashore,  where  they  were  the 
next  morning  found  by  the  French  soldiers  on 
guard.  General  Bourke  sent  in  a  flag  of  truce, 
complaining  of  this  atrocious  act;  but  the 
monster  in  command,  who  had  given  orders 
for  its  perpetration,  had,  in  the  mean  time,  to- 
gether with  several  other  patriots,  made  off  in 
a  British  steamer,  and  eventually  found  his 
way  to  England,  where  he  shared  that  hospitali- 
ty which  was  experienced  by  the  other  refu- 
gees. On  the  12th  August,  Corunna  capitu- 
.ated." 

Nor  were  these  atrocities  confined  to  the 
north  of  the  Peninsula.  At  Granada  and  Mala- 
ga, the  same  scenes  were  enacted  with  even 
deeper  circumstances  of  horror. 

"So  insolent  had  the  nationals  become  at 
Granada,  that  royalists  and  persons  of  mode- 
rate politics  could  no  longer  live  in  the  place. 
Of  these  a  party  of  about  fifteen  resolved  to 
withdraw  into  the  country  ;  but  no  sooner  had 
they  left  the  suburbs  than  they  were  denounced 
as  having  gone  out  to  form  a  guerilla.  The 
nationals  instantly  pursued  them,  and  at  the 
distance  of  two  leagues  succeeded  in  captur- 
ing seven,  the  rest  escaping.  Among  the  parly 
seized  was  Father  Osuna,  an  old  and  venera- 
ble professor  in  the  convent  of  San  Antonio 
Abad ;  the  rest,  customhouse  guards  and  odiccrs 
on  half-pay.  .Ml,  including  the  friar,  were 
bound  to  the  tails  of  horses, — in  this  manner 
led  into  the  city  and  paraded  tlirou;:h  the 
streets;  after  which,  to  add  to  the  indignity, 
they  were  cast  into  the  dungeons  of  what  is 
called  ihc  lower  or  common  prison,  anil  herd- 
ed with  felons.  Learning  some  days  after- 
wards where  the  few  who  escaped  had  retired 
to,  the  eager  nationals  again  sallied  forth,  and 
succeeded  in  surprising  five  at  the  little  town 
of  Colomera,  situated  in  the  mountains,  four 
leagues  from  fJranada.  Their  hands  being 
bound  behind  them,  they  were  brutally  assassi- 
nated on  a  small  ridge  of  hills  overlooking  the 
bridge  Cuhillns.  So  ferociously  did  the  nation- 
als wreak  their  vengeance  upon  these  victims 
of  their  licentious  fury,  that  their  mangled 
bodies  could  not  be  recognised  by  their  friends, 


who  the  next  day  went  out  to  bury  them. 
Among  the  victims  were  two  ofl:icer3  ?f  tha 
guards,  the  handsomest  youths  in  the  province 

"  The  seven  confined  in  prison  demanded  an 
inquiry  into  the  causes  of  their  arrest  and  de 
tention  ;  but  nothing  appearing  against  thenc 
beyond  their  being  reputed  royalists,  which  did 
not  exactly  warrant  the  penalty  of  death,  the 
nationals  felt  afraid  that  their  victims  would 
escape.  In  the  afternoon  of  the  4th  February 
they  therefore  got  up  a  commotion  in  the  usual 
way,  and  heated  with  wine,  groups  passed 
along  the  streets,  demanding  the  heads -ol 
Father  Osuna  and  his  companions.  Reaching 
the  front  of  the  prison,  they  set  up  yells,  to  be 
heard  by  the  inmates,  reiterating  their  demand, 
and  endeavouring  to  force  a  passage  through 
the  gate,  where  a  sergeant  and  a  few  soldiers 
were  generally  posted ;  but  when  the  uproar 
commenced,  General  ViUacampa,  the  governor, 
doubled  the  guard,  and  stationed  a  lieutenant 
there.  The  mob  being  disappointed,  went  away. 

"  In  the  evening  the  lieutenant  was  changed, 
and  an  officer  in  the  confidence  of  the  nation- 
als was  placed  at  the  prison-gate.  The  com- 
motion was  now  renewed,  and  the  leaders  of 
the  mob  assembling  at  a  noted  coffee-house  in 
the  Plaza  Nueva,  their  usual  resort,  the  death 
of  the  prisoners  was  at  once  decreed.  Sure  oi 
their  game,  the  brave  nationals  hurried  off  to 
the  prison,  where  they  were  received  with  a 
volley  of  musketry,  pointed  so  high  that  the 
balls  struck  midway  up  the  wall  of  the  cathe- 
dral, fronting  the  prison-gale,  where  the  marks 
are  still  seen.  This  saved  appearances,  and 
the  commanding  ofiicer  thought  his  responsi- 
bility sufliciently  covered.  The  blood-thirsty 
mob  now  rushed  into  the  prison,  the  leaders 
with  their  faces  blackened  and  their  persons 
disguised.  Five  inmates  in  separate  cells  icere 
soon  laid  prostrate  upon  the  ground  covered  with 
stabs.  One  of  them,  posted  in  a  corner,  man- 
fully defended  himself  with  a  pillow,  which 
dropped  from  his  hands  after  they  had  literally 
been  cut  to  pieces. 

"  Father  Osuna  was  now  led  forth, — as  the 
old  man  supposed,  that  his  life  might  be  saved; 
but  no  sooner  had  he  gone  fifteen  paces  be- 
yond the  prison-gate  and  turned  the  corner  of 
a  narrow  street,  than  he  received  a  sabre-cut 
on  the  top  of  his  bald  head.  He  lifted  up  his 
hand  to  the  streaming  wound,  and  at  the  same 
moment  a  blow  knocked  him  against  the  wall, 
upon  which  the  bloody  imprint  of  his  hand 
was  left  as  he  endeavoured  to  save  himself 
from  falling.  Dropping  to  the  ground,  he  was 
beaten  with  sticks  and  cut  with  knives.  Sup- 
posing him  dead,  the  mob  dispersed  ;  when 
the  jailer,  hearing  his  moans,  conveyed  him 
back  to  prison,  where  his  wounds  were  dress- 
ed. The  next  day,  the  heroic  )/a/io«((/.s  hearing 
that  Father  Osuna  still  survived,  flew  to  the 
prison  ;  when  one  of  them,  after  insulting  and 
upbraiding  him  for  his  royalist  principles,  put 
a  pistol  to  his  right  car,  anil  blew  his  brains  upon 
the  (i/ijmsitc  wall,  where  the  bloody  traces  were 
seen  till  within  the  two  last  years,  and  till  the 
interior  of  the  prison  was  repaired.  The  se 
venth  victim,  who  had  been  conveyed  to  Ihc 
upp'T  prison,  was  murdered  unucr  similar  cir- 
cumstances.   These  scenes  ended  in  a  drunken 


336 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


frolic;  and  if  they  occurred  in  1823,  can 
any  one  be  astonished  that  they  should  now  be 
repeated  V 

Our  heart  sickens  at  these  atrocities;  but 
the  exhibition  of  them  at  this  crisis  is  an  in- 
dispensable duty  on  the  part  of  every  lover  of 
truth  and  justice.  It  is  now  the  game  of  the 
English  liberals  to  withdraw  all  sympathy 
from  Don  Carlos  and  his  heroic  followers,  by 
constantly  representing  him  as  a  blood-thirsty 
tyrant,  a  monster  unfit  to  live,  with  whom  the 
infamous  system  of  giving  no  quarter  origin- 
ated. The  documents  and  historical  facts  now 
quoted  may  show  how  totally  unfounded  is  this 
assertion.  Here  we  have  the  liberals  of 
Spain, — the  humane,  philanthropic  revolution- 
ists of  the  Peninsula,  committing  these  atroci- 
ties when  at  the  helm  of  affairs,  not  only  before 
the  royalists,  but  toi  years  before  the  death  of 
Ferdinand,  and  when  Don  Carlos  was  still  liv- 
ing secluded  in  private  life.  These  massacres 
were  commenced  by  the  liberals  when  in  pos- 
session of  the  government,  the  fortresses,  the 
treasury,  the  arm}^  When  such  frightful  deeds 
of  blood  stained  their  first  successes  over  their 
helpless  royalist  antagonists,  it  is  not  surpris- 
ing that  a  profound  feeling  of  indignation  was 
roused  through  the  whole  Peninsula,  which  has 
rendered  it  the  most  difficult  of  tasks  to  mode- 
rate the  sanguinary  character  of  the  conflict  in 
subsequent  times.  Hitherto,  be  it  observed, 
the  massacres  had  been  all  on  our  side ;  not 
one  act  of  retaliation  had  taken  place  on  the 
parts  of  their  opponents. 

With  truth  it  may  be  said,  that  the  revolu- 
tionary party  are  ever  the  same ;  they  learn 
nothing,  they  forget  nothing.  Mr.  Walton  thus 
sums  up,  in  a  few  words,  the  series  of  crimes 
and  follies  which  had  thus  twice  precipitated 
the  democrats  of  the  Peninsula  from  the  pos- 
session of  absolute  authority. 

"The  follies  and  illegalities  committed  by 
the  Cortes  from  the  moment  of  their  assem- 
bling at  Cadiz  may  be  easily  traced  in  the 
pages  of  this  narrative ;  and  yet  the  same  follies 
and  illegalities  were  at  Madrid  and  Cadiz  re- 
peated in  1820,  '21,  '22,  and  '23.  The  Cortes 
first  became  the  legislators  of  the  land  by 
means  of  a  flagrant  act  of  usurpation,  which, 
under  the  pretence  of  being  legally  constituted, 
they  sustained  at  all  hazards ;  the  second  time 
they  rose  into  power  by  the  aid  of  a  military 
mutinv,  and  were  not  prudent  enough  to  steer 
clear  of  the  very  shoals  upon  which  they  had 
previously  been  stranded.  The  first  time,  they 
had  a  fair  opportunity  of  judging  the  evils  of 
precipitate  and  ill-considered  legislation:  they 
then  beheld  events  pregnant  with  lessons  of 
political  wisdom,  and  still  had  not  the  sense 
or  the  courage  to  correct  old  mistakes  when 
chance  again  placed  the  helm  of  state  within 
their  grasp.  On  both  occasions  they  fell  from 
the  same  causes.  Public  indignation  hurled 
them  from  their  seats  in  1814;  and  in  1823 
:ney  were  overpowered,  not  by  the  arms  of 
France,  but  by  the  displeasure  of  their  own 
countrymen,  disgusted  and  wearied  out  with 
the  turmoils  in  which  they  had  been  kept,  as 
•well  as  by  the  many  atrocities  which  they  had 
witnessed.  Their  army  of  9G,750  men  was 
gradually  frittered  away ;  and  while  in  fortified 


towns  they  were  vainly  denouncing  vengeance, 
in  the  interior  the  lips  of  thousands  greeted 
the  Duke  d'Angouleme,  and  welcomed  him  as 
the  liberator  of  their  king  and  country." 

The  situation  of  Ferdinand  VII.,  Avhen  thus 
a  second  time  restored  to  his  throne,  was  sur- 
rounded with  difficulties.  Not  only  had  the 
most  furious  passions  been  awakened  in  the 
royalists  by  the  savage  and  imcalled-for  mas- 
sacres of  their  opponents,  but  the  public  inte- 
rests in  every  department  had  suffered  to  a 
degree  hardly  conceivable  in  so  short  a  period 
as  that  of  the  revolutionary  domination. 

"The  new  ministers,"  says  Walton,  "who 
were  the  best  men  the  country  could  produce, 
found  every  thing  unhinged  and  in  disorder. 
The  misfortunes  of  which  the  Cadiz  code  was 
so  lamentable  a  memorial,  daily  showed  them- 
selves in  some  new  shape.  The  more  the 
state  of  the  country  was  inquired  into,  the  more 
flagrant  the  errors,  if  not  the  guilt,  of  the  fallen 
party  appeared.  The  reports  from  the  pro- 
vinces were  appalling — the  treasury  empty, 
and  foreign  credit  destroyed.  On  isolated 
points  the  shades  of  opinion  might  have  varied; 
but  in  the  condemnation  of  the  acts  of  the 
liberals,  the  public  voice  was  unanimous. 
Then  only  was  ascertained  in  its  full  extent  ' 
the  galling  nature  of  their  yoke."    . 

An  amnesty  was  immediately  published  by 
the  king.  The  exceptions  were  numerous, 
amounting  to  nearly  two  thousand  persons ; 
but  "  they  were  chiefly  assassins — men  Avhom 
no  amnesty  could  reach."  The  means  of 
being  reinstated  in  favour  were  amply  afforded 
to  those  who  were  not  actually  stained  with 
blood;  and  great  numbers  were  immediately 
reinstated  in  their  employments.  The  rest,  for 
the  most  part,  withdrew  to  France  and  Eng- 
land where  they  lived  for  many  years,  main- 
tained by  public  or  private  charity,  and  an  ob- 
ject of  mistaken  interest  to  the  English  peo- 
ple, who  believed  that  the  selfish  projects  of 
aggrandisement  from  which  they  had  been 
dashed  were  those  of  freedom  and  public  hap- 
piness. 

The  repeated  and  ludicrous  attempts  which 
the  Spanish  Revolutionists  at  this  period  made 
to  regain  their  footing  in  the  Peninsula  since 

1823  to  1830,  and  the  instant  and  total  failure 
of  them  all,  demonstrated  in  the  clearest  man- 
ner the  slender  hold  they  had  of  the  public 
mind,  and  the  strong  sense  of  the  horrors  of 
revolutionary  sway  which  the  experience  of 
their  government  had  generally  produced. 

Doubtless  the  government  of  the  Royalists 
during  the  period  of  their  ascendency,  from 

1824  to  the  death  of  Ferdinand  in  1833,  was 
not  perfect.  The  ministers  of  the  king  must 
have  been  more  than  human  if,  in  a  country 
in  which  such  a  revolutionary  party  had 
obtained  for  so  ever  short  a  time  an  ascend- 
ency, they  could  at  once  have  closed  the  foun- 
tains of  evil. 

"More,"  says  Mr.  Walton,  "perhaps  might 
have  been  done — many  abuses  were  left  un- 
touched; still  commerce  and  agriculture  con- 
tinued in  a  progressive  state  of  improvement. 
The  public  burdens  had  also  greatly  dimin- 
ished. Under  the  administration  of  the  Cortes, 
the  general  taxes  levied  were  equal  to  100  mil- 


CAELIST  STRUGGLE  IN  SPAIN. 


337 


lions  of  rials,  afterwards  they  were  reduced  to 
40,  and  the  provincial  rents  from  295  millions 
lowered  to  130.  The  best  test  is  perhaps  that 
of  the  finances ;  an  idea  of  which  may  be 
formed  from  the  subjoined  approximate  state- 
ments, founded  upon  correct  data. 

The  foreign  debt  created  by  the 

Cortes  from  September,  1820 

to  October,  1823,  .         .      £19,000,000 

Ditto,  by  the  king,  from  October, 

1823,  to  September,  1830,       .  5,000,000 

Foreign  debt  cancelled  by  the 

Cortes, None! 

Duto  by  the  king,  ....  1,000,000 
Interest  paid  on  domestic  debt 

by  the  Cortes,    ....         None  ! 
Since  the  restoration,        .  Paid  regularly. 

Public  expenditure   under  the 

Cortes, 6,648,1.33 

Ditto  since  the  restoration,        .         4,197,772" 

Thus  it  appears  that  the  Liberal  Govern- 
ment, during  their  short  reign,  from  October, 
1820,  to  October,  1823,  that  is,  in  two  years,  had 
contracted,  in  spite  of  all  the  produce  of  the 
confiscated  church  lands,  xixeteen  millions 
fiTEULixG  of  debt;  and  that,  in  the  next  screw, 
the  king's  government  had  only  contracted 
FIVE :  that  the  Cortes  paid  no  interest  on  the 
national  debt,  and  the  king  paid  it  regularly. 
Finally,  that  the  annual  expenditure  of  the 
Cortes  was  a  half  greater,  besides  their  enor- 
mous loans,  than  that  of  the  king.  So  much 
for  the  realization  of  the  blessings  of  cheap 
and  good  government  by  the  Spanish  Revolu- 
tionists ! 

But  the  time  was  now  approaching  when  the 
cast  down  and  despairing  Democrats  of  Spain 
were  again  to  be  elevated  to  supreme  power, 
and,  by  the  aid  of  liberal  governments  in 
France  and  England,  a  civil  war  lighted  up  in 
the  Peninsula,  unexampled  in  modern  times 
for  constancy  and  courage  on  the  one  side,  and 
cruelly  and  incapacity  on  the  other. 

Ferdinand  VII.,  in  his  latter  years,  had  mar- 
ried a  fourth  wife,  by  whom  he  had  no  son,  but 
one  daughter.  By  the  Spanish  law,  which,  in 
this  particular,  is  an  adoption,  under  certain 
moditicalions,  of  the  famous  Salic  law,  females 
were  excluded  from  the  succession  to  the 
ihronc;  and  this  order  of  succession  to  the 
Spanish  Crown  had  been  guarantied  by  ail  the 
powers  of  Europe,  and  especially  England,  by 
the  treaty  of  Utrecht.  It  had  reirulated  the 
succession  tn  the  throne  for  an  hundred  and 
thirty  years.  Fcrdmand,  however,  was  de- 
clining both  in  years  and  mental  vigour.  The 
queen  was  naturally  desirous  of  securing  the 
kucccssion  to  licrown  ofl'spring.and  she  was  a 
woman  of  capacity  and  intrigue  wfll  filled  for 
such  an  enterprise.  I'pon  this  state  of  matters, 
the  Liherals  immediately  fixed  all  their  hopes, 
and  artfully  succeeded,  by  implicating  the  king 
and  queen  in  an  alteration  of  the  order  of  suc- 
cession in  favour  of  their  daughter,  both  to 
divide  the  Royalist  party,  distracted  between 
the  pretensions  of  the  royal  competitors,  to 
conceal  llieir  own  selfish  projects  of  aggran- 
disement under  a  pretended  zeal  for  the  main- 
tenance of  the  new  order  of  descent,  and  to 
engraft  the  interest  of  a  disputed  succession  on 


the  native  deformity  of  a  merely  sordid  revolu. 
tionary  movement. 

The  magnitude  and  importance  of  the  vast 
change  on  which  the  Liberal  party  had  now 
adventured  is  thus  ably  stated  by  Mr.  Wa' 
ton : — 

"The  law  which   excluded  females  whe 
there  was   male    issue  was  precise  and  p 
remptory.     It  had  been  enacted  with  the  di 
concurrence  of  the  Cortes,  and  formed  part  c 
a  general  settlement  of  the  peace  of  Europe, 
at  Utrecht,  guarantied  by  England  and  France. 
This  law  was  besides  recorded  in  the  statute- 
book,  and  for  one  hundred  and  twenty  years 
had  been  held  as  the  only  rule  of  succession. 
Its  abrogation,  therefore,  was  a  matter  of  th? 
most  serious  consideration,  affecting  not  only 
the  prospective  claims  of  the  king's  brother, 
strengthened  as  they  were  by  his  popularity 
and  the  royalist  interest  which  he  represented, 
but  also  those  of  other  members  of  the  Bour- 
bon family  who  came  after  him  in  the  line  of 
succession.    The  undertaking  was  indeed  ar- 
duous and  awful,  in  consequence  of  the  exten- 
sive changes  which  it  was  likely  to  introduce. 

"  It  was  not  a  matter  of  mere  family  aggran- 
disement upon  which  the  queen  had  set  her 
heart.  The  proposed  measure  arose  out  of  no 
wish  to  revive  a  principle  successfully  main- 
tained in  former  times.  It  was  part  of  a  sys- 
tem of  which  there. was  a  further  action  in 
reserve.  More  and  deeper  mischief  was  con- 
templated than  that  of  depriving  one  branch 
of  its  hereditary  rights.  2'he  alteration  in  the 
established  rule  was  intended  as  a  seal  to  a  revolu- 
tion. This  was  the  light  in  which  Ferdinand 
himself  viewed  the  proposal  when  first  made 
to  him  ;  and  although  his  scruples  gradually 
gave  way  when  he  found  himself  beset  by  the 
creatures  and  puppets  of  the  queen,  there  was 
no  other  period  of  his  life  in  which  his  resolu- 
tion on  this  point  could  have  been  shaken. 
Even  then  the  whole  scheme  would  have 
failed,  if  a  clever  a^id  fascinating  ^roinan  had 
not  been  the  principal  agent.  Her  great  aim 
was  to  raise  up  a  barrier  between  the  Infante 
Don  Carlos  and  the  throne,  and  the  king's  jea- 
lousy of  his  brother's  popularity  was  the  chord 
touciied  with  most  efi'ect.  The  queen  also 
knew  that  this  feeling  chiefly  led  to  her  own 
marriage,  and  it  was  agreed  that  the  most  pro- 
pitious moment  for  the  development  of  the 
plan  would  be  the  Icrminalion  of  the  rejoic- 
ings to  which  the  announcoinent  of  her  preg- 
nancy hail  given  rise." 

The  way  in  which  this  extraordinary  clinnge 
in  the  Constitution  was  introduced  is  thus  de- 
tailed : — 

"In  the  Gazette  of  the  fith  A|.iii,  1S30,  le 
the  astonishment  of  every  one,  an  edict, 
dated  .March  29th,  appeared  with  the  follow 
ing  remarkai>le  heading: — 'Pragmatic  Sanr 
tion,  having  the  force  of  law,  decreed  by  Kinf^ 
(Charles  IV.  on  the  petition  of  the  Cortes  fof 
17H9,  and  ordereil  to  be  published  by  hif 
reigning  majesty  for  the  jurpriunl  observance 
of  law  2,  title  15,  parlida  2,  establishing  the 
regular  succession  to  the  crown  of  Spain  ;* 
alleged  to  have  been  in  force  for  seven  hun« 
dred  years. 

"  The  publication   was    also  carried   intc 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


effect  with  the  usual  solemnities.  The  rain 
fell  in  torrents ;  nevertheless  the  magistrates 
and  heralds  proceeded  to  do  their  duty  by 
reading  the  decree  aloud  and  posting  it  up  in 
the  public  places.  The  streets  of  Madrid  were 
thronged  with  an  anxious  and  inquiring  mul- 
titude, who  did  not  hesitate,  in  no  measured 
terms,  to  express  their  surprise  and  disgust  at 
this  glaring  imposture.  Nobody  could  under- 
stand how  the  reigning  sovereign,  of  his  own 
will  and  accord,  could  venture  to  sanction  a 
law  alleged  to  have  been  passed  by  his  father 
forty-one  years  before,  and  which,  even  if  it 
had  then  been  perfected,  (and  the  reverse  was 
the  case,)  could  not  be  held  valid  for  obvious 
reasons." 

li;  is  not  our  intention  to  follow  Mr.  Walton 
through  his  able  argument  against  the  legality 
of  the  change  thus  unceremoniously  intro- 
duced of  the  king's  mm  authority,  without  any 
recourse  whatever  to  a  Cortes  or  any  other 
national  authority.  It  was  not  even  attempted 
to  get  any  such  authority ;  but  it  was  pretend- 
ed that  it  had  been  granted  when  the  altera- 
tion on  the  law  of  succession  had  been  made 
by  Charles  IV.  in  1789.  The  absurdity  of 
supposing  that  so  important  a  matter  as  the 
descent  of  the  crown  could  be  legally  altered 
by  a  pretended  act  of  a  king  on  the  petition 
of  the  Cortes,  without  its  even  being  known,  or 
even  heard  of,  for  forty  years  after  its  alleged 
enactment,  is  too  obvious  to  require  illustra- 
tion. Add  to  this,  that  the  pretended  altera- 
tion by  Charles  IV.  has  oicver  yet  been  produced, 
or  seen  by  any  one ;  and  that  the  fact  of  its 
existence  rests  on  the  assertion  of  a  bed-ridden 
doting  king  in  favour  of  his  own  daughter. 
And  even  if  such  a  deed  did  exist,  it  would, 
by  the  fundamental  laws  of  Spain,  be  utterly 
null  in  a  question  with  Don  Carlos,  or  the 
princes  born  before  its  promulgation,  as  not 
having  been  published  to  the  magistrates  of 
the  provinces  in  the  way  required  by  the  Con- 
stitution. The  more  defective  the  title  of  the 
queen  to  the  crown,  however,  the  better  for 
the  Liberals  :  they  had  now  a  revolutionary  dy- 
nasty implicated  in  their  struggle  for  supreme 
power. 

Upon  the  publication  of  this  decree,  Don 
Carlos,  the  next  male  in  succession,  and  di- 
rectly struck  at  by  the  ordinance,  was  solicit- 
ed by  the  chief  nobles  of  Spain  instantly  to 
assume  the  government. 

"  Several  grandees,"  says  Mr.  Walton,  "now 
leagued  with  the  opposite  party,  together  with 
generals  and  other  influential  persons,  urged 
the  Infante  Don  Carlos  to  come  forward  and 
accept  the  crown,  not  only  as  his  right,  but 
also  as  the  only  means  of  preserving  public 
tranquillity.  The  conscientious  prince  reject- 
ed their  ofler,  though  well  aware  of  the  extent 
of  his  p<ipularity  in  every  part  of  the  king- 
dom ;  alleging  that  so  long  as  the  king  lived, 
he  would  never  do  an  act  derogatory  to  his  character, 
either  as  a  brother  or  a  subject.  He  was  then  in- 
vited to  take  the  regency  upon  himself,  which, 
it  was  argued,  could  be  done  without  any  vio- 
lation of  his  principles,  on  the  plea  of  the 
king  b  illness,  and  to  rescue  the  country  from 
a  dreadful  crisis  ;  but  again  the  prince  de- 
clined to  interfere,  observing,  that  his  rights 


and  those  of  his  family  were  clear  and  stiL 

well  protected;  protesting  that  he  would  not 
take  any  step  that  might  hereafter  render  his 
conduct  liable  to  misrepresentation.  Had  the 
prince  then  lifted  up  his  hand,  the  regency, 
and  eventually  the  crown,  would  have  been 
his  own :  Spain  would  have  been  saved  frona 
the  horrors  of  a  long  and  sanguinary  civil  war- 
But  where  is  the  man  who  does  not  respect 
the  prince's  motives  of  action — who  does  not 
admire  the  disinterestedness  with  which  he 
refused  a  sceptre  already  within  his  grasp  ?" 

The  Cortes  never  was  assembled  to  deliberate 
on  the  alteration  of  the  order  of  succession,  or 
consent  to  it;  but  a  limited  number  of  crea- 
tures of  the  court  (seventy-six  in  number) 
were  convoked  in  June  20,  1833,  to  s?war  alle- 
giance to  the  king's  daughter,  as  a  princess 
whose  title  to  the  throne  was  unquestionable. 
A  protest  was  on  that  occasion  taken  by  the 
Neapolitan  and  Sardinian  ambassadors  against 
the  change,  on  grounds  appai'ently  unanswer- 
able.* And  even  all  the  efforts  and  influence 
of  the  court  cduld  not  give  a  national  charac- 
ter to  the  ceremony,  or  dispel  the  gloomy  pre- 
sentiments with  which  even  the  humblest  of 
the  spectators  were  inspired. 

"  Seventy-six  popular  delegates  had  been 
summoned,"  says  Walton,  "  to  take  part  in  a 
dumb  show,  at  a  moment  when  two  of  th? 
most  important  questions  which  ever  present- 
ed themselves  to  public  consideration  agitated 
the  country.  The  legality  of  the  alteration  in 
the  law  of  succession,  and  the  appointment  of 
a  regent  in  case  of  the  king's  death,  were 
points  which,  everybody  thought,  ought  to 
have  been  submitted  to  the  Cortes,  if  such  was 
the  character  of  the  meeting  just  dissolved. 
The  world  had  been  ostentatiously  informed 
that,  when  those  of  1789  met  for  the  purpose 
of  acknowledging  the  Prince  of  Asturias,  the 
question  of  succession  was  introduced,  and 
this  circumstance,  after  the  lapse  of  nearly 
half  a  centur}%  made  a  plea  for  the  establish- 
ment of  a  new  rule :  why  then  all  this  silence 
now,  in  defiance  of  public  opinion?  The 
queen,  at  the  moment,  was  supreme,  and  her 
rival  a  voluntary  exile  in  a  foreign  land. 
Every  precaution  had  also  been  adopted  to  se- 
cure the  return  of  deputies,  if  not  favourable 
to  her  views,  at  least  belonging  to  the  Move- 
ment party ;  and  the  capital  was  besides 
crowded  with  troops.  And  yet  the  queen  and 
her  advisers  had  not  the  courage  to  trust  the  deci' 


*"The  law  of  1713  was  enacted  hy  the  chief  of  a  new 
dynasty,  with  all  the  formalities  that  were  requisite  and 
indispensable  to  its  validity,  and  at  a  time  when  a  con- 
currence of  extraordinary  and  distressing  circumstances 
justified  the  propriety  of  a  new  law  of  succession  ;  that 
it  is  a  law  consecrated  by  more  than  a  century  of  unin- 
terrupted existence ;  that  it  was  the  necessary  conse- 
quence of  the  stipulations  which  secured  the  throne  of 
Spain  to  the  grandson  of  Louis  XIV.,  and  to  his  male 
descendants,  and  that  the  weighty  reasons  in  which  it 
originated  continue  to  subsist. 

"  We  have  further  considered,  that  an  order  of  suc- 
cession established  as  this  was,  by  the  consent  and 
under  the  guarantee  of  the  principal  powers  of  Europe, 
and  recognised  successively  in  various  treaties  con- 
cluded with  those  powers,  has  become  obligatory  and 
unalterable,  and  has  transmitted  to  all  the  descendants 
of  Philip  V.  rights  which,  as  they  were  obtained  by  the 
sacrifice  of  other  rights,  they  cannot  relinquish  without 
material  injury  to  themselves,  and  without  failing  iH 
the  consideration  due  to  the  illustrious  head  and  found* 
er  of  their  dynasty." 


CARLIST  STRUGGLE  IN  SPAIN. 


889 


lion  of  two  plain  questions  to  a  meeting  of  their 
tnon  ealling ;  fearful  that  amon^  its  members 
some  lurking  ro3'alist  might  be  fmncl  to  ex- 
pose their  injustice,  and  argue  the  illegality 
of  their  acts.  Any  sympathies  then  excited  in 
favour  of  the  Infante,  might  have  been  ruinous 
to  a  cause  only  half  consolidated.  It  therefore 
became  necessary  to  carry  on  the  delusion,  by 
again  resorting  to  sophistry,  tergiversation, 
and  calumny." 

Meanwhile,  however,  every  effort  was  made 
to  fill  all  offices  of  trust  in  the  army  and  civil 
department  with  liberals  of  known  resolution 
and  determined  character,  who  then  found 
themselves,  to  their  infinite  joy,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  disputed  succession  they  had 
contrived  to  get  up  to  the  throne,  reinstated  a 
third  time  in  the  possession  of  that  authority 
from  which  they  had  been  twice  chased  by  the 
experienced  evils  of  their  sway,  and  the  gene- 
ral indignation  of  the  people.  In  a  few  months 
their  preparations  were  complete.  Such  had 
been  their  activity,  that  all  the  offices  in  the 
state ;  all  the  fortresses  in  the  country ;  all 
the  commands  in  the  army,  were  in  their 
hands.  At  the  same  time  Don  Carlos  was 
banished;  his  adherents  discouraged;  his 
cause  to  all  appearance  desperate.  Suddenly 
reinforced,  through  the  intrigues  of  the  queen 
for  her  daughter,  by  the  whole  weight  of  Go- 
vernment, the  Revolutionists  had  completely 
regained  their  ascendant.  Yet,  even  in  these 
circumstances,  such  was  their  unpopularity 
in  consequence  of  the  numberless  corrupt  and 
atrocious  acts  of  which  they  had  been  guilty, 
that  all  these  preparations  would  have  been 
unavailing  to  force  an  unpopular  and  revolu- 
tionary change  of  government  on  the  country, 
had  it  not  been  for  the  instant  and  powerful 
support  which  the  Liberals  in  Spain  received 
on  the  death  of  Ferdinand  from  the  democratic 
government  of  France  and  England. 

"Ferdinand  died,"  says  Walton,  "on  29th 
September,  1833.  The  account  of  his  decease 
was  transmitted  to  Paris  by  telegraph,  and  the 
next  day  a  courier  departed  with  orders  to  M. 
de  Rayneval  to  declare  that  the  French  govern- 
ment was  disposed  to  acknowledge  the  young 
princess  as  soon  as  the  official  notification  of 
the  demise  of  the  crown  arrived.  This  step  had 
doubtless  been  agreed  upon  with  the  British 
government,  in  anticipation  of  an  event  long  ex- 
pected ;  and  to  this  joint  determinatid?!,  and  the 
immediate  announcement  of  it  in  the  Madrid 
Gazette,  it  was  that  the  queen  chiefly  owed  the 
ascendency  which  she  gained  in  the  first  period 
of  herregencj'.  At  that  time  the  eyes  of  all 
Spain  were  upon  England  and  France.  'J'hey, 
zs  it  were,  held  the  balance  in  their  own  hands ; 
for  the  numerous  and  influential  Spaniards, 
who  were  disposed  to  assert  the  rights  of  the 
lawful  heir,  intimidated  by  the  extensive  pre- 
parations of  the  government,  and  discouraged 
by  the  absence  of  their  natural  leader,  held 
back  from  any  attempt  against  the  usurped 
power  of  the  regent,  through  fear  that  for  the 
moment  opposition  would  be  fruitless.  Many 
folonels  of  regiments  intrusted  with  command 
•-even  some  liberals  of  the  old  school,  sensible 
that  the  country  was  on  the  eve  of  a  civil  war, 
hesitated,  and  only  joined  the  queen's  cause 


when  they  saw  it  pompously  proclaimed  tha 
England  and  France  had  declared  in  her  favour 
and  thrown  their  powerful  aid  into  her  scale.'' 

"The  British  and  French  governments  may 
be  said  to  have  then  assumed  the  right  to 
dietate  to  Spain  who  should  reign  over  her  ;  and,  as 
if  it  was  not  enough  to  have  appointed  to  the 
throne,  to  have  taken  upon  themselves  to  name 
a  regent;  for  it  is  impossible  to  believe  that 
the  governments  of  the  two  countries  which 
most  contributed  to  the  settlement  effected  by 
Philip  V.  were  really  convinced  of  the  legality 
of  the  last  measures  of  Ferdinand  VII.  to  annul 
that  settlement;  or  that,  with  their  boasted 
attachment  to  the  principles  of  a  limited  mo- 
narchy, they  could  be  sincere  in  professing  a 
belief  that  the  mere  testamentary  provision  of 
an  uxorious  and  enfeebled  king  could  disin- 
herit the  rightful  heir  to  the  throne,  and  sub- 
vert the  fundamental  laws  of  his  country." 

The  result  of  this  possession  of  the  treasury, 
the  seat  of  government,  the  army,  with  their 
powerful  foreign  support,  is  well  known.  The 
queen  was  proclaimed  throughout  the  king- 
dom, and  although  partial  risings  in  favour  of 
Don  Carlos  took  place  in  almost  every  pro- 
vince, yet  as  that  prince  was  in  exile,  and  his 
adherents  unarmed  and  scattered,  they  were 
without  difficulty  suppressed  by  the  military 
force,  100,000  strong,  now  at  the  disposal  ot 
the  Liberals.  But  as  Mr.  Walton  justly  ob- 
serves, 

"The  Spaniards  in  the  end  will  redress  their 
own  wrongs.  They  will  not  submit  to  insult 
and  proscription  ;  the  popular  thunder  will 
never  cease  to  roll  until  the  confederacy  formed 
between  the  Spanish  liberals  and  their  foreign 
allies  is  dissolved  for  ever.  Already,  indeed, 
are  the  oppressors  of  1823  and  1833,  treading 
on  a  terrible  volcano,  surrounded  by  every 
sign  of  past  ravage  and  impending  explosion. 
Neither  the  queen,  nor  the  party  by  which  she 
is  upheld,  has  any  hold  upon  the  confidence 
or  affections  of  the  Spanish  people  :  the  views 
of  the  one,  in  endeavouring  to  secure  the 
throne  to  her  daughter  by  an  outrage  upon  her 
late  husband's  memory,  are  too  unjust  and  too 
revolting  to  prosper;  whilst  the  object  of  the 
others,  in  seizing  upon  power  for  a  third  time, 
is  as  apparent  now  as  it  was  before.  Were 
the  liberals  really  friends  of  constitutional 
order — known  fur  their  adherence  to  settled 
systems  of  reiorm — disposed  to  admit  changes 
founded  upon  principles  of  tried  merit — taught 
by  experience  and  adversity  to  prefer  plans 
of  a  practical  charaeler  and  easy  results  to 
dangerous  theories  and  extravagant  notions — 
in  a  word,  were  they  prepared  to  sacrifice 
their  party  prejudices  to  the  general  wants 
and  wishes  of  the  country,  they  might  still 
have  repaired  their  former  errors  and  spared 
the  elfusiiin  of  blood. 

"  Si)  f':ir,  their  cry  for  freedom  has  onlvbeen 
another  name  for  social  disorganization. — 
tlieir  return  to  power  the  comtneneemcnt  of  an 
uwntit rolled  rareer  of  outrai^e  and  murder.  Their 
official  existence  seems  to  depend  on  the 
repetition  of  previous  follies  and  crimes. 
Place  and  pelf  in  their  opinion  cannot  be 
secured  unless  the  Revolution  is  completed  by 
the    utter    citermination    of  the  royalists:    they 


340 


ALISON'S   MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


equally  disregard  the  laws  and  the  public 
voice.  The  Spaniards  have  always  evinced  a 
scrupulous  respect  for  ancient  forms,  as  well 
as  an  aversion  to  changes  to  their  institutions  ; 
and  now  they  are  told  that  they  must  have 
nothing  that  does  not  bear  a  modern  stamp. 
They  have  been  distinguished  beyond  other 
nations  by  a  jealous  love  of  their  country  and 
a  horror  of  foreign  dictation ;  but  they  are 
now  informed  that  they  must  be  satisfied  with 
such  rulers,  and  such  a  form  of  government,  as 
the  liberals  of  London  and  Paris  may  be  graciously 
vleased  to  bcsloiv  on  them.  In  one  breath  they 
are  branded  as  ignorant  and  prejudiced  bigots, 
and  in  the  next  called  upon  to  admit  changes 
of  a  refined  kind  long  before  society  is  in  a 
state  to  receive  them." 

The  civil  war  soon  after  commenced  in 
Navarre,  and  we  again  pray  the  particular 
attention  of  our  readers  to  the  mingled  perfidy 
and  cruelty  by  which,  from  the  very  first,  it  was 
distinguished  by  the  queen's  forces :  a  cruelty 
so  atrocious,  and  uniforinly  adhered  to,  as  to 
have  rendered  altogether  unavoidable  the 
frightful  reprisals  which  have  ever  since  pre- 
vailed in  the  Peninsula.  Lorenzo  was  the 
Christino  general  in  Navarre — Santos  Ladron 
the  popular  leader.  The  former,  fearful  of  the 
issue  of  the  contest,  privately  conveyed  a 
message  to  Don  Santos,  signifying  his  Avish 
to  have  a  conference  to  prevent  the  efl^usion  of 
blood. 

"  This  message  was  cordially  received,  and 
in  an  unguarded  moment  Don  Santos  agreed 
to  meet  his  adversary,  judging  by  this  step  that 
he  was  promoting  the  interests  of  humanity 
and  the  advancement  of  the  cause  which  he 
had  so  fervently  embraced.  Without  a  written 
engagement  or  previous  formality,  a  private 
meeting  was  agreed  upon,  and  the  two  gene- 
rals, with  their  respective  staffs  and  a  few  at- 
tendants, proceeded  to  the  appointed  spot,  a 
short  distance  beyond  Los  Arcos. 

"  Santos  Ladron  endeavoured  to  persuade 
Lorenzo  that  he  was  wrong  in  supporting  the 
queen's  cause ;  and  in  the  most  feeling  man- 
ner pointed  out  the  calamities  in  which  the 
country  was  about  to  be  involved,  it  being 
evident  that  the  laws  and  the  great  majority 
of  the  people  were  in  favour  of  Charles  V.  He 
alluded   to  the   unfortunate   contest  of    1820, 
which,  he  said,  was  about  to  be  renewed.    He 
appealed  to  Lorenzo's  patriotism  and  religion, 
and,  as  one  older  in  rank  and  more  experi- 
enced, implored  him  to  spare  the  effusion  of 
blood.     Finding  that  he  could  make  no  im- 
pression   upon     the    queen's    representative, 
Santos  Ladron  reined  his  horse  and  was  about 
to  withdraw,  when  Lorenzo's  people  fired  upon 
him.     His  horse  fell,  and  as  he  was  extricat- 
ing himself  from  his  stirrup,  the  flaps  of  his 
frock-coat    flew    open,   and   underneath   dis- 
covered the  general's  sash.     The  sight  of  the 
insignia  of  his  rank  inflamed  the  rapacity  of 
the  Christinos,  and  they  rushed  upon  the  dis- 
mounted chieftain,  eager  to  gain  so  valuable  a 
Erize  and  the  corresponding  reward.     Santos 
ladron,  who   had  been  already  wounded  by 
the   treacherous    fire   of  the    Christinos,  was 
colveyed  to  Pamplona,  and,  Avithout  being  ad- 
mitted to  a  hearing,  was,  with  thirty-two  of 


his  companions,  subjected  to  the  mockery  o 
a  court-martial  and  condemned  to  death.  Ic 
vain  the  provincial  deputation  and  the  Bishop 
of  Pamplona  implored  the  viceroy  and  the 
military  governor  to  suspend  the  execution 
till  the  matter  could  be  referred  to  Madrid ; 
all  intercession  was  vain.  It  was  answered 
that  the  formalities  of  a  court-martial  had  been 
fully  observed,  and  it  was  now  impossible  to 
alter  the  sentence.  In  reality,  the  authorities 
were  eager  to  recommend  themselves  to  the 
Madrid  government  by  executing  with  pre- 
cipitate activity  the  orders  of  a  remorseless 
policy,  and  they  were  well  aware  that  nothing 
could  be  more  distasteful  to  their  employers  than 
any  hesitation  in  discharging  the  bloody  service  that 
was  required  at  their  hands.  On  the  15th  of 
October  the  ivounded  general,  ivith  Ids  thirty-two 
con\panions,  urns  led  into  the  ditch  of  the  fortress, 
and  there  privately  shot." 

The  efll"ect  of  this  atrocity  may  be  easily 
conceived. 

"  The  perfidious  massacre  of  thirty-three 
persons  at  once  proclaimed  to  Spain  and  Eu- 
rope the  faithless  and  remorseless  character 
of  the  government  that  sanctioned  and  re- 
warded the  horrid  deed ;  as  a  measure  of  inti- 
midation it  utterly  failed,  nay,  rather  fanned 
the  flame  which  it  was  intended  to  extinguish. 
The  very  night  after  the  execution  five  hun- 
dred persons,  mostly  youths  of  the  best  fami- 
lies in  Pamplona,  quitted  the  place,  and  joined 
the  Carlists  of  Roncesvalles.  The  next  day 
Colonel  Benito  Eraso,  who  had  raised  the  val- 
ley of  Roncesvalles,  issued  a  proclamation  to 
the  inhabitants  and  an  address  to  the  soldiers. 
In  the  former,  after  begging  those  whom  he 
addressed  not  to  be  discouraged  by  the  misfor- 
tune of  Santos  Ladron,  he*  added,  'No  ven- 
geance !  oblivion  of  the  past,  and  a  religious 
observance  of  the  decree  of  amnesty  I  Let 
order,  union,  and  valour  be  your  motto,  and 
triumph  is  certain.'  A  noble  contrast  to  the 
barbarous  atrocities  which  his  enemies  had 
not  only  the  heart  to  perpetrate,  but  the  shame- 
lessness  to  avow." 

Saarsfield,  another  of  the  queen's  generals, 
though  of  a  more  mild  and  pacific  character, 
was  nevertheless  constrained,  by  his  orders 
from  Madrid,  to  begin  the  war  with  the  same 
system  of  reckless  butchery. 

"  It  was  well  known,"  says  Walton,  "  that  he 
did  not  belong  to  the  revolutionary  school, 
and  the  very  names  of  many  of  those  who, 
fresh  from  the  exile  to  which  Ferdinand  had 
consigned  them,  were  now  emplo)^ed  to  second 
his  own  operations,  must  have  enabled  him,  i 
long  before  he  crossed  the  Ebro,  to  judge  off 
the  probable  course  of  impending  changes," 
and  have  filled  him  with  mingled  feelings  of 
discontent  and  apprehension.  He  was,  how- 
ever, carried  away  by  events ;  and  the  ease 
with  which  his  advantages  were  gained,  did 
not  restrain  his  troops  from  marking  their  pro- 
gress by  acts  of  violence,  and  the  wanton  effu- 
sion of  blood.  His  orders,  doubtless,  were 
severe,  and  too  peremptory  to  be  trifled  with; 
while  the  more  active  and  ambitious  of  his 
officers  must  have  been  allured  by  the  rewards 
bestowed  on  the  bloody  deed  of  Lorenzo,  to 
imitate  his  barbarous  example,  and  to  adapt 


CARLIST  STRUGGLE  IN  SPAIN. 


341 


their  mode  of  warfare  to  the  taste  prevailing 
in  the  capital.  Every  Carlisl  chieftain,  taken  in 
a)-i>is,  ivas  accordingly  shot  xvilhout  mercy ;  the 
same  severity  was  extended  to  the  less  respon- 
sible peasantry,  and  the  most  unsparing  efforts 
were  made  to  extinguish  the  hopes  of  Charles 
V.  in  the  blood  of  everj'^  class  of  his  adherents ; 
a  merciless,  and  at  the  same  time  impolitic 
rigour,  by  which  fuel  was  added  to  a  half- 
extinguished  flame,  and  the  discontent  of  a 
bold  and  warlike  population  converted  into 
the  most  bitter  and  desperate  hostility." 

These  inhuman  massacres,  however,  did  not 
intimidate  the  Carlists :  but  wherever  they 
rose  in  arms,  the  same  execrable  system  of 
murder  was  pursued  by  the  queen's  generals. 

"The -Carlists,"  says  our  author,  "one  and 
all,  felt  that  faith  had  not  been  kept  with  them ; 
that  the  proclamations  of  the  queen's  ofhcers 
were  only  intended  to  entrap  the  unwary,  and 
that  their  real  aim  was  extermination. 

"  The  cries  of  fresh  victims  constantly  re- 
sounded in  their  ears,  and  they  continued  to 
shudder  at  the  remembrance  of  the  butcheries 
which  they  had  already  witnessed.  Brigadier 
Tina,  who  had  been  captured  and  his  band 
dispersed,  was  on  the  2Gth  November  shot 
near  Alcaniz.  At  Calatayud  tiventy-one  Carlists 
had  previously  met  with  the  same  fate,  and 
among  them  two  ecclesiastics,  a  fact  sufncient 
to  show  the  brutalizing  effects  of  the  new  sys- 
tem. Morella  was  entered  on  the  13th  Decem- 
ber, after  a  close  investment  by  General  Bu- 
tron,  the  governor  of  Tortosa,  but  the  Carlist 
garrison  escaped,  and  were  afterwards  over- 
taken at  Calanda,  near  Alcaniz,  when  their 
commander.  Baron  Herves,  his  wife  and  three 
children,  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  queen's 
troops.  Agreeably  to  an  order  of  the  day, 
published  by  Viceroy  Espeleta,  the  comman- 
der of  the  royalist  volunteers  of  Torreblanca, 
D.  Cristoval  Fuste,  and  D.  Pedro  TiuTe,  were 
shot  at  Zaragoza,  in  the  morning  of  the  23d 
December;  and  on  the  27'th,  Baron  Herves, 
and  D.  Vicente  Gil,  commander  of  the  royalist 
volunteers,  shared  the  same  fate.  At  Vitoria, 
the  son  of  a  rich  merchant,  for  whose  ransom 
five  thousand  dollars  were  offered,  was  also 
shot  by  the  orders  of  Valdcs,  at  a  moment 
nhen  a  courier  from  Madrid  could  not  pass 
without  a  large  escort." 

And  now  the  queen's  government,  embol- 
Icned   by  the  success   with   which   they  had 
Hitherto    butchered   and   massacred    whoever 
appeared  in  arms  against  them,  resolved  on  a 
till  more  sweeping  and  unjustifiable  act  of 
icmocratic  despotism.    This  was  the  dcstruc- 
I  ton  of  the  lihcrtics  and  rights  of  the  whole  Bas<jne 
prcninrcs,  and   the   extinction   of  the    freedom 
which  had  prevailed  in  the  mcuintains  of  Na- 
varre and  Biscay  for  six  hundred  years.     It  is 
unnecessary  to  say  what  tliese  privileges  were. 
All  the  world  knows  that  these  provinces  were 
in  truth   a  free  constitutional    monarchy,  in- 
serted into  the  despotic  realm  of  Spain;  that 
'heir  popular  rights  were  more  extensive  than 
those  of  England  under  the  Reform  Bill ;  that 
they  exceeded  even  the  far-famed  democratic 
privileges  of  the  Swiss  Cantons.    For  that  verj' 
reason    they  were    oilions    to  the    democratic 
despots  at  Madrid,  who  could  tolerate  no  re- 


straint whatever  on  their  authority,  and  leas" 
of  all  from  freeborn  mountaineers,  who  haii 
inherited  their  privileges  from  their  fathers, 
and  not  derived  them  from  their  usurpation. 
Like  their  predecessors  in  the  French  Direc* 
tory  with  the  Swiss  Cantons,  they  had  accord- 
ingly from  the  very  first  devoted  these  liberties 
to  destruction,  and  they  seized  the  first  oppor- 
tunity of  success  to  carry  their  tyrannical 
determination  into  execution. 

"As  soon,"  says  Walton,  "as  the  queen's 
military  commanders  had  established  their 
authority,  they  declared  the  Basque  fueros  provi- 
sionally suspended.  For  some  time  past  the 
Madrid  government  had  wished  to  place  these 
provinces  under  the  Castilian  law,  by  carrying 
the  line  of  customs  to  their  extreme  frontiers, 
and  the  present  opportunity  was  thought  fa- 
vourable. On  the  3d  December,  Castanon 
issued  a  proclamation  from  his  head-quarters 
at  Tolosa,  of  which  the  following  are  the  prin- 
cipal clauses  : — 'If,  after  a  lapse  of  eight  days, 
arms  are  found  in  any  house,  the  master  shall 
be  subject  to  a  fine  and  other  penalties ;  and 
should  he  have  no  means  of  payment,  con- 
demned to  two  years'  hard  labour  at  the  hulks 
— any  individual  concealing  ammunition,  mo- 
ney, or  other  effects  belonging  to  an  insurgent, 
shall  be  shot — the  house  of  any  person  who  may 
have  fired  upon  the  queen's  troops  shall  be 
burnt — every  peasant  forming  one  of  an  as- 
semblage of  less  than  fifty  men,  and  taken  in 
arms  at  a  quarter  of  a  league  from  the  high- 
road, shall  be  considered  as  a  brigand  and  shot — 
any  one  intercepting  a  government  courier 
shall  be  shot — every  village  that  shall,  without 
opposition,  sufler  the  insurgents  to  obtain  re- 
cruits, shall  be  punished  with  a  heavy  contri- 
bution— all  the  property  of  absentees  shall  be 
confiscated — every  peasant  refusing  to  convey 
information  from  the  municipalities  to  head- 
quarters shall  be  put  in  irons,  and  condemned 
to  two  years'  imprisonment,  or  hard  labour,  in 
the  fortress  of  St.  Sebastian — all  women  who, 
by  word  or  deed,  favour  the  rebellion,  shall  be 
closely  confined — a  court-martial  shall  be 
formed  to  take  cognisance  of  all  causes 
brought  before  them,  and  every  movable 
column  shall  have  with  it  one  member  of  this 
court  for  the  purpose  of  carrj'ing  into  effect 
the  provisions  of  this  proclamation.' 

"The  brutal  edict  was  read  with  horror  and 
disgust.  Such  of  the  natives  as  had  embraced 
the  queen's  cause  now  bitterly  repented  of 
their  error  when  they  saw  their  privileges 
trampled  under  foot  by  a  military  despot,  and 
found  themselves  obliged  to  receive  into  their 
houses,  and  furnish  with  every  necessarj',  the 
soldiers  who  protected  him  in  his  ontrai^eous 
exercise  of  illegal  power.  The  mere  menlion 
of  their  fiicros  being  suspended,  produced  a 
magical  effect,  and  the  Basques  now  consider- 
ed their  cause  more  than  ever  sanctified 
Many  who  before  had  remained  neutral  Hew 
to  arms,  and  the  war-cry  resounded  along  the 
mountain  ranges.  Surrounded  by  rocks  antf 
precipices,  the  Basque  patriots  assembled  to 
consider  their  prosjiects,  and  devise  revenge 
for  their  wrongs.  The  hardy  peasantry  re* 
solved  to  .suffer  the  last  extremities  of  war 
rather  than  submit  to  the  yoke  with  whi&j 


343 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


they  irere  threatened.  They  required  no  oath 
of  secrecy,  no  pledges  for  each  other's  fidelity. 
They  called  to  mind  the  heroic  efforts  of  their 
ancestors  to  resist  oppression  ;  and  holding  up 
the  printed  paper  circulated  among  them,  in 
scorn  and  in  abhorrence,  they  swore  to  defend 
their  freedom,  and  mutually  bound  each  other, 
as  the  sword  was  already  unsheathed,  never  to 
return  it  to  the  scabbard  till  their  fueros  were 
acknowledged  and  secured." 

Human  cruelty,  it  might  have  been  thought, 
could  hardly  have  gone  beyond  the  atrocities 
already  committed  by  the  revolutionary  gene- 
rals ;  but  they  were  exceeded  by  that  perpe- 
trated in  the  endeavour  to  crush  this  gallant 
effort  of  the  Basque  peasants  to  rescue  from 
destruction  Biscayan  freedom. 

"  Zavala  (a  Biscay  chief)  having  seized 
five  noted  Christinos,  took  them  to  his  head- 
quarters at  Ganteguiz  de  Arteaga,  a  small 
town  on  the  east  of  the  river  Mundaca,  where 
he  treated  them  with  respect.  In  retaliation, 
the  enemy  sent  a  detachment  of  six  hundred 
men  from  Bilboa  to  Murguia,  to  seize  his 
family;  after  which  the  same  corps  advanced 
upon  his  position  ivitk  his  children  placed  in  their 
foremost  rank.  Zavala  was  struck  with  horror 
at  this  revolting  expedient,  and  hesitated  be- 
tween his  duty  as  a  soldier  and  paternal  ten- 
derness. If  an  engagement  ensued,  his  own 
children  would  inevitably  fall  before  their 
father's  musketry.  In  this  dreadful  dilemma, 
and  hoping  still  to  defeat  the  enemy  without 
submitting  to  the  cruel  necessity  of  destroying 
the  dearest  portion  of  himself,  Zavala  with- 
drew to  Guernica.  Here  he  was  attacked  the 
next  day  by  the  same  troops,  who  again  ad- 
vanced with  his  children  in  front  of  their  co- 
lumn. The  same  torture  awaited  the  distract- 
ed parent.  He  placed  his  troops  in  an  advan- 
tageous position,  and  the  fire  commenced 
under  the  tree  of  Guernica,  that  glorious  sign 
of  proud  recollections  to  the  sons  of  Biscay — 
the  tree  under  which  they  swear  fidelity  to 
their  liege  lord,  and  where  he  binds  himself 
in  turn  to  keep  their  privileges  inviolate. 
"Victory  crowned  the  efforts  of  the  Biscayan 
royalists,  and  scarcely  more  than  a  third  of 
the  queen's  troops  escaped.  The  devoted  vic- 
tims of  the  atrocious  assailants  were  saved, 
and  restored  to  the  arms  of  an  agonized 
father."  ^ 

The  extent  to  which  these  early  massacres 
by  the  revolutionists  was  carried,  was  very 
great. 

"  It  was  about  this  time  estimated,"  says  our 
author,  "  that  not  less  than  tivehe  hundred  persons 
had  been  put  to  the  sword  or  executed  in  the  Basque 
provinces  and  Navarre  alone,  besides  the  many 
victims  sacrificed  in  other  parts  of  the  king- 
dom. For  three  months  the  queen's  agents 
had  oeen  playing  a  deceitful  and  desperate 
game.  They  respected  no  laws,  and  even 
broke  the  promises  contairied  in  their  own 
proclamations.  Hence  numbers  who  had  laid 
down  their  arms,  and  returned  to  their  homes, 
again  banded  together,  filled  with  the  most 
exasperated  and  vindictive  feelings;  and  if  in 
this  state  of  mind  they  resorted  to  acts  of  re- 
taliation, those  whose  previous  cruelties  pro- 
voked Si;.-,  severities  are  justly  answerable 


for  the  excesses  of  the  Carlists  as  well  as  for 
their  own.  The  horrible  atrocities  of  the 
queen's  partisans  gave  the  contest  a  deadly 
and  ferocious  character ;  and,  as  if  the  formef 
severities  had  not  been  sufficient,  fuel  was 
added  to  the  flame  by  a  decree  issued  by  the 
queen-regent,  and  bearing  date  the  21st  of 
January,  in  which  it  was  ordered,  that  all  pri- 
vates, belonging  to  the  several  factions,  who 
might  not  have  been  shot,  should  be  employed 
in  the  condemned  regiments  of  Ceuta,  Cuba, 
Porto  Rico,  and  the  Phillippine  Islands,  at  the 
same  time  that  the  officers  were  to  be  punished 
with  the  utmost  severity  of  the  law." 

Nay,  so  resolute  were  the  revolutionists  on 
carrying  on  the  war  on  no  other  principle  than 
that  of  indiscriminate  massacre,  that  it  was 
repeatedly  announced  in  official  proclamations 
as  the  rule  of  war  by  the  queen's  generals. 

"On  the  5th  August,  1834,  Rodil  issued  a 
proclamation,"  in  which  he  said,  " '  that  af^er 
employing  all  possible  means  of  clemency,  he 
is  convinced  that  sev^ere  chastisement  alone 
can  put  an  end  to  the  rebel  faction ;  wherefore 
he  decrees,  1st,  that  every  one  found  in  the  ranks 
of  the  rebels  shall  be  shot  as  soon  as  taken ;  2d,  those 
who  supply  arms,  favour  their  attempts,  or 
obey  their  summons,  shall  be  eqxially  shot,'  &c. 
This  edict  is  dated  Pamplona,  and  the  strictest 
orders  were  circulated  to  carry  it  into  full 
efiect." 

All  attempts  on  the  part  of  the  Carlists  to 
establish  a  more  humane  system  of  warfare 
were  in  vain.  One  in  particular  deserves  to 
be  mentioned.  In  one  of  Zumalacarregui's 
victories,  a  Spanish  nobleman  of  high  rank 
was  made  prisoner. 

"  On  the  first  leisure  moment,  Zumalacar- 
regui  examined  his  prisoners,  and  more  espe- 
cially the  count.  The  Carlist  chieftain  was 
pleased  with  his  manly  behaviour;  and,  after 
several  inquiries  as  to  the  state  of  affairs  at 
Madrid,  promised  to  propose  an  exchange  of 
prisoners,  in  which  the  count's  rank  was  to  be 
waived.  In  the  mean  while  the  count  was 
invited  to  Zumalacarregui's  table,  and  treated 
with  every  consideration.  A  few  days  after- 
wards, whilst  at  dinner,  Rodil's  answer  to  the 
proposed  cartel  arrived,  in  which  he  stated 
that  the  prisoners  for  whom  it  was  wished  to 
make  an  exchange  had  been  already  shot.  '  Here, 
count,'  said  the  Carlist  leader, '  take  the  letter 
of  your  queen's  commander:  read  it  yourself, 
and  then  judge  the  situation  in  which  I  am 
placed.' 

"  The  unfortunate  count  turned  pale,  and 
with  a  start  pushed  his  plate  almost  to  the 
middle  of  the  table.  The  repast  was  at  once 
at  an  end.  After  a  pause,  during  which  a  dead 
silence  prevailed,  Zumalacarregui,  addressing 
the  weeping  count,  added,  '  I  wished  to  spare 
you,  and  such  also  I  know  wotild  be  my  sove- 
reign's wish  ;  but  with  such  enemies  forbear- 
ance is  impossible.  From  the  first  I  looked 
upon  you  as  a  deluded  youth,  of  an  ardent 
mind,  and  I  should  have  rejoiced  in  being  the 
instrument  of  royal  mercy;  but  Rodil's  out- 
rages are  beyond  endurance,  they  must  and 
shall  be  checked.  Were  I  considerate  towards 
you,  our  enemies,  as  they  have  done  before^ 
would  attribute  my  conduct  to  weakness.    Thii 


CARLIST  STRUGGLE  IN  SPAIN. 


343 


trlnmph  they  shall  not  obtain.  The  tciV/oics' 
iceeds  worn  in  these  provinces  will  tell  you  the  state 
of  the  war  better  than  all  you  heard  in  Madrid.'  " 
'  Not  content  with  the  wholesale  murders  thus 
carried  into  execution  on  women  and  children 
of  the  adverse  party,  the  democrats  in  the 
Spanish  great  towns  resolved  to  take  the  work 
of  the  butcher  in  their  own  hands,  and  enjoy 
in  their  own  persons  the  exquisite  pleasure  of 
putting  to  death  their  captive  enemies.  At 
Zaragoza,  thirteen  monks  were  murdered;  at 
Cordova,  several  convents  burnt:  at  Valencia 
the  mob  were  only  appeased  by  the  sacrifice 
of  six  Carlists,  who  were  massacred  in  cold 
blood.  At  Barcelona,  the  atrocities  were  still 
more  frightful. 

"  On  the  afternoon  of  the  25th  July,  1835,  a 
mob,  arrayed  in  various  bands,  each  headed 
by  a  leader  in  disguise,  paraded  the  streets 
with  cries  of  'Away  to  the  Convents!'  and 
'  Death  to  the  friars  !'  and  forthwith  proceeded 
from  words  to  deeds.  Six  convents  (namely, 
those  of  the  Augustins,  of  the  Trinitarians,  of 
the  two  orders  of  Carmelites,  of  the  Minims, 
and  of  the  Dominicans)  were  blazing  at  once, 
and  soon  were  reduced  to  heaps  of  smoking 
ruins;  'whWe  eighty  of  their  unfortunate  inmates 
perished,  some  burned  in  the  buildings,  others 
poniarded,  and  others  again  beaten  to  death 
with  clubs  and  stones.  Some  escaped  through 
the  exertions  of  the  artillery  corps,  and  a  few 
by  mingling  in  disguise  with  the  crowd.  Three 
hundred  friars  and  clergjnnen  took  refuge  in 
the  castle  of  Monjuich,  and  as  many  more  in 
the  citadel  and  fort  Atarzanzas.  The  military 
meanwhile  paraded  the  streets,  but  remained 
perfectly  passive,  hzLving  received  orders  not  to 
fire  on  the  populace.  Llauder,  the  captain- 
general,  fled  into  France,  and  left  the  city  vir- 
tually in  the  power  of  the  rabble." 

Subsequently  the  savage  temper  of  the  Bar- 
celona liberals  was  evinced  in  a  still  more 
memorable  manner: — 

"  On  the  4lh  of  January,  1836,  a  crowd 
assembled  in  the  main  square,  and,  with  loud 
imprecations  and  yells  of  revenge, -demanded 
the  lives  of  the  Carlisf  prisoners  confined  in 
the  citadel.  Thither  they  immediately  re- 
paired, and,  not  meeting  with  the  slightest  re- 
sistance from  the  garrison,  scaled  the  walls, 
lowered  the  draw-bridge,  and  entered  the 
fortress;  their  leaders  holding  in  their  hands 
lists'of  those  whom  thry  had  predetermined  to 
massacre.  When  the  place  was  completely 
in  their  possession,  the  leaders  of  the  mob 
began  to  read  over  their  lists  of  proscription, 
and,  with  as  much  deliberation  as  if  they  had 
been  butchers  selecting  sheep  for  the  knife, 
I  had  their  miserable  victims  dragged  forward, 
I  and  shot  one  afiiT  another,  in  thi-  order  of  their 
names.  The  brave  Colonel  O'Doiuiel  was  the 
first  that  perished.  His  body,  and  that  of 
another  prisoner,  were  dragged  through  the 
streets,  with  shouts  of  'Liberty!'  The  heads 
and  hamls  were  cut  off,  and  the  mutilated 
trunks,  after  having  been  exposed  to  every 
ndignity,  were  cast  upon  a  burning  pile.  The 
head  of  O'Donnel,  after  having  been  kicked 
about  the  streets  as  a  foot-ball  by  wretches 
who  mingled  mirth  with  nmrdrr,  was  at  last 
stuck  up  in  front  of  a  fountain  ;  and  pieces  of 


flesh  were  cut  from  his  mangled  and  palpitating 
body,  and  eagerly  devoured  by  the  vileit  and  7)iosl 
depraved  of  women.  From  the  citadel  the  mob 
proceeded  to  the  hospital,  where  three  of  the 
inmates  were  butchered;  and  from  the  hospital 
to  the  fort  of  Atanzares,  where  fifteen  Carlist 
peasants  shared  the  same  fate.  In  all,  eighty- 
eight  persons  perished. 

"  This  deliberate  massacre  of  defenceless 
prisoners,  and  the  worse  than  fiendish  excesses 
committed  on  their  remains,  satisfied  the 
rioters  for  the  first  day ;  but,  on  the  next,  they 
presumed  to  proclaim  that  fruitful  parent  of 
innumerable  murders — the  constitution  of 
1812.  This  was  too  much  to  be  borne.  Even 
then,  however,  two  hours  elapsed  before  a 
dissenting  voice  was  heard;  when  a  note 
arrived  from  Captain  Hyde  Parker,  of  the 
Rodney,  who  not  long  before,  in  obedience  to 
the  orders  of  a  peaceful  administration,  had 
landed  ffleen  thousand  muskets  in  the  city.  His 
ofier  to  support  the  authorities  against  the 
friends  of  the  obnoxious  constitution  was  not 
without  efl^ect.  The  leaders  of  the  political 
movement  were  allowed  to  embark  on  board 
the  Rodney,  and  the  tumult  subsided,  rather 
from  being  lulled  than  suppressed.  No  pun- 
ishment whatever  was  inflicted  on  the  murder- 
ers and  cannibals  of  the  first  day;  their  con- 
duct, perhaps,  was  not  considered  to  deserve 
any. 

"  It  was  expected  that  when  the  riots  of  Bar- 
celona were  known  at  Zaragoza,  the  rabble  of 
the  latter  city  would  have  broken  out  into 
similar  excesses ;  but  the  authorities  had  re- 
course to  the  same  disgraceful  expedient  to 
appease  them  v.-hich  had  proved  successful 
before.  They  ordered  four  officers,  a  priest, 
and  two  peasants,  reputed  Carlists,  to  be 
strangled,  and  thus  prevented  the  populace 
from  becoming  murderers,  by  assuming  that 
character  themselves." 

The  humane  philanthropists  of  the  capital 
were  not  behind  their  provincial  brethren  in 
similar  exploits. 

"The  first  victim  was  a  Franciscan  friar 
who  happened  to  be  on  the  street.  A  report 
was  then  spread  that  the  Jesuits  had  advised 
the  deed ;  aiul  the  senseless  mob,  frantic  for 
revenge,  rushed  to  the  college.  The  gate  hav- 
ing been  forced  open,  the  first  person  who 
entered  was  one  dressed  in  the  uniform  of  the 
urban-militia,  who  told  the  students  to  quit  the 
house,  as  it  was  not  in  search  of  them  that 
they  came. 

"  Instantly  the  college  was  filled  with  an 
armed  mob,  thirsting  for  blood,  and  the  mas- 
sacre began.  Professor  Bastan  was  bayoneted, 
and  Father  Ruedas  stabbed  to  death.  The 
professor  of  history  and  geograjiliy.  Father 
Saun,  was  next  murdered,  and  his  ln'ad  beat 
to  pieces  with  clubs  and  hammers.  The  pro- 
fessor of  rhetoric  was  dragged  from  his  hiding, 
place,  and  that  he  might  be  the  sooner  de- 
spatched, knives  were  added  to  the  miinlerou* 
weapons  which  had  been  before  empioyeo. 
Another  master,  endeavouring  to  escape,  was 
fired  upon  by  an  urbano  .•  and  as  the  shot 
missed,  he  was  bayoneted  in  the  back.  Three 
in  disguise  escaped  into  the  streets,  hoping  by 
this  means  to  save  their  lives;  but  they  wcra 


S44 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


murdered  by  the  mob,  to  whom  regular  com- 
munications were  made  of  what  was  passing 
inside  the  building.  On  every  side  were 
heard  the  groans  of  the  dying,  the  screams  of 
those  who  were  vainly  endeavouring  to  es- 
cape, the  discharge  of  muskets,  and  the  ex- 
ulting shouts  of  the  murderers.  The  students 
had  been  driver,  from  these  scenes  of  horror ; 
but  several  returned,  in  the  hope  of  befriending 
their  masters.  One  child  threw  his  slender 
form  over  the  prostrate  body  of  his  preceptor, 
and  shared  in  the  wounds  under  which  he 
bjeathed  his  last. 

"In  one  house  perished  fifteen  individuals, 
assassinated  in  the  most  barbarous  manner  by 
those  actually  employed  and  armed  to  keep 
the  public  peace,  some  in  regimentals  and 
others  in  disguise.  The  provincial  regiment 
of  Granada  then  formed  part  of  the  Madrid 
garrison ;  and  the  officers  and  men  belonging 
to  it,  who  were  not  passive  spectators,  appeared 
among  the  murderers.  The  death  of  their 
victims  was  not  sufficient  to  satiate  the  fury 
of  the  rioters  :  some  had  their  entrails  torn  out, 
others  were  dragged  through  the  streets  with 
ropes  round  their  necks,  and  acts  of  cannibal- 
ism were  perpetrated  so  abominable  and  dis- 
gusting that  it  is  impossible  to  enter  into  their 
loathsome  details.  The  Franciscan  convent 
and  other  places  were  the  scenes  of  similar 
atrocities.  These  unhappy  victims  of  ruthless 
liberalism  pei'verting  to  its  own  ends  the  blind- 
ness of  the  multitude,  had  taken  no  part  in 
politics  ;  their  only  crime  was  that  they  were 
clergymen  and  instructors  of  youth." 

Amidst  these  hideous  atrocities,  the  Madrid 
liberals,  and  the  Cadiz  and  Barcelona  cliques, 
have  steadily,  and  amidst  the  loud  applause  of 
their  hungry  dependents,  pursued  the  usual 
selfish  objects  of  democratic  ambition.  All 
useful  establishments,  all  which  relieved  or 
blessed  the  poor  were  rooted  out,  new  offices 
and  jurisdictions  were  created  in  every  di- 
rection, numberless  commissions  were  issued ; 
and  the  well-paid  liberals  began  to  roll  in  their 
carriages,  and  keep  their  boxes  at  the  opera. 
The  property  of  the  Church,  which  in  Spain  is 
literally  the  endowment  at  once  of  education 
and  the  poor,  was  the  first  to  be  rooted  out. 
Its  character  and  usefulness  is  thus  described 
by  our  author : — 

"The  convents  in  Spain  are  not  like  those 
which  we  had  among  us  in  Catholic  times ; 
and  their  suppression  will  necessarily  excite 
indignation,  besides  giving  rise  to  great  abuses. 
They  mostly  partook  of  the  character  of  the 
hcspice,  particularly  in  the  northern  provinces. 
To  the  peasants  they  often  served  as  banking 
establishments,  and  greatly  favoured  agricuU 
tural    improvements.      The    friars    acted    as 
schoolmasters,     advocates,    physicians,    and 
apothecaries.     Besides  feeding   and  clothing 
the  poor,  and  visiting  the  sick,  they  afforded 
spiritual  consolation.     They  were  considerate 
landlords  and  indulgent  masters.     They  were 
peace-makers   in  domestic    broils ;   and  if  a 
harvest  failed,  they  supplied  the  seed  that  was 
vO  be  confided  to  the  earth  the  next  year.    They 
also  provided  penodical  amusements  and  fes- 
tivities, which  the  peasant  will  see  abandoned 
•vith  regret.    Most  of  the  convents  had  funda- 


ciones,  or  endowments,  for  professors  who 
taught  rhetoric,  philosophy,  &c.,  besides  keep* 
ing  schools  open  for  the  poor.  They  also 
supplied  curates  when  wanted,  and  theii 
preachers  are  considered  the  best  in  Spain. 

"Without  entering  into  the  question  of  the 
legality  of  these  suppressions,  or  pointing  om 
the  folly  of  a  government  proceeding  to  such 
extremes  that  is  not  sure  of  its  own  existence 
for  half  a  year,  it  may  be  stated,  that  all  the 
expedients  resorted  to  in  our  Henry  VIII.'s  time 
to  bring  the  monastic  orders  into  disrepute, 
have  been  practised  by  the  Spanish  liberals, 
and  have  failed.  On  the  I9th  January,  1836, 
the  monks  in  Madrid  were  driven  out  of  their 
convents  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  with- 
out the  slightest  regard  to  age  or  infirmity. 
After  being  grossly  insulted  and  reviled, 
several  were  waylaid  in  the  streets  by  the  rayo, 
or  thunderbolt  party,  and  cudgelled  in  the  most 
unmerciful  manner.  The  measure  of  eject- 
ment was  simultaneously  carried  into  exe- 
cution wherever  the  government  could  enforce 
its  commands ;  the  great  object  in  view  being 
to  seize  on  money,  plate,  and  valuables. 

"  The  liberals  have  appointed  commissions  to 
receive  the  confiscated  properly,  and  tlie  same 
abuses  occur  as  in  1822.  One  instance  will 
suffice  in  the  way  of  illustration.  The  convent 
of  St.  John  of  God,  at  Cadiz,  well  known  to 
many  of  our  countrymen,  formerly  fed  and 
clotiied  a  large  number  of  poor;  and  its  mem- 
bers, being  mostly  medical  men,  attended  the 
sick  and  administered  medicine  gratis.  The 
relief  afforded  by  this  institution  was  incalcu- 
lable; and  j'et  its  funds,  economically  adminis- 
tered, and  added  only  by  voluntary  donations, 
were  sufficient  to  satisfy  every  claim.  The 
liberals  took  its  administration  upon  them- 
selves ;  and  the  persons  intrusted  with  it  soon 
grew  rich  and  had  their  boxes  at  the  theatre.  They 
had  profits  on  the  contracts  for  provisions, 
medicine,  and  other  supplies.  The  amount  of 
relief  afforded  was  also  diminished;  and  yet, 
at  the  end  of  the  first  year,  the  ordinaiy  funds 
were  exhausted,  and  the  new  administrators 
obliged  to  make  public  appeals  to  the  hu- 
mane." 

The  destitution  thus  inCicted  on  the  clergy, 
and  misery  on  the  poor,  has  been  unbounded. 

"The  suppression  lately  ordained  by  the 
Christino  government  may  be  called  a  general 
one,  and  the  number  of  establishments  to  which 
it  had  extended  at  the  end  of  last  September, 
was  estimated  at  1937,  leaving  23,699  ejected 
inmates,  whose  annual  maintenance,  if  paid  at 
the  promised  rate,  would  not  be  less  than 
400,000/." 

The  creation  of  new  jurisdictions,  and  the 
extirpation  of  all  the  ancient  landmarks,  was 
as  favourite  an  object  with  the  Spanish  as  it 
had  been  with  the  French,  or  now  is  with  the 
English  revolutionists. 

"  The  plan  for  the  territorial  divisions  was 
also  put  forward.  It  may  be  here  proper  to 
to  observe,  that  formerly  Spain  was  divided 
into  fourteen  sections,  unequal  in  extent  and 
population.  It  was  now  proposed  to  divide  the 
territory,  including  the  adjacent  islands,  into 
forty-nine  provinces,  or  districts,  taking  the 
names  of  their  respective  capitals,  except  Na- 


CARLIST  STRUGGLE  IN  SPAIN. 


315 


varre,  Biscay,  Guipuscoa,  and  Alava,  ivhich 
were  to  preserve  their  ancient  denominations. 
The  principality  of  Asturias  was  to  become 
the  province  of  Oviedo.  Andalusia  was  to  be 
parcelled  out  into  seven  provinces;  Aragon, 
into  three  ;  New  Castile,  into  five ;  Old  Castile, 
into  eight;  Catalonia,  into  four;  Estrcmadura, 
into  two;  Galicia,  into  four;  Leon,  into  three; 
Murcia,  into  two;  and  Valencia,  into  three. 
To  each  it  was  wished  to  give  as  near  as  pos- 
sible a  population  of  250,000  persons  ;  and  the 
census  taken  in  1833,  amounting  to  12,280,000 
souls,  was  taken  for  a  standard.  A  new 
magistrate,  called  sub-delegate,  was  to  be 
appointed  to  each  province,  and  act  under 
the  immediate  orders  of  the  minister  Del  Fo- 
mento." 

And  it  is  to  support  such  a  cause  that  the 
Quadruple  Alliance  was  formed,  and  Lord 
John  Hay,  and  the  gallant  marines  of  England 
sent  out,  and  500,000/.  worth  of  arms  and 
ammunition  furnished  to  the  revolutionary 
government !  Lord  Palmerston  says  all  this 
was  done,  because  it  is  for  the  interest  of  Enu,land 
to  promote  the  establishment*  of  liberal  insti- 
tutions in  all  the  adjoining  states.  Is  it,  then, 
for  the  "interest  of  England"  to  establish  uni- 
versal suffrage,  a  single  chamber,  and  a  power- 
less throne,  in  the  adjoining  countries,  in  order 
that  the  reflection  of  their  lustre  there  may 
tend  to  their  successful  introduction  into  this 
realm  ?  Is  it  for  the  interest,  any  more  than 
the  honour  of  England,  to  ally  itself  with  a  set 
of  desperadoes,  assassins,  and  murderers,  and 
to  promote,  by  all  the  means  in  its  power,  the 
extinction  of  liberty  in  those  seats  of  virtuous 
institutions — the  Basque  provinces  1  What 
has  been  the  return  which  the  liberals  of  Lis- 
bon have  made  for  the  aid  which  placed  their 
puppet  on  the  throne,  and  gave  them  the  com- 
mand of  the  whole  kingdom  1  To  issue  a 
decree  raising  threefold  the  duties  on  every 
species  of  British  manufacture.  A  similar 
result  may  with  certainty  be  anticipated,  after 
all  the  blood  and  treasure  we  have  wasted,  and 
more  than  all  the  character  we  have  lost,  from 
Evans's  co-operation,  if  he  shall  succeed  in 
beating  down  the  Carlist  cause  ;  because  the 
urban  democracy,  which  will  then  be  estab- 
lished in  uncontrolled  power,  will  be  neces- 
sarily actuated  by  the  commercial  passions 
and  jealousy  of  that  class  in  society. 

One  word  more  in  regard  to  the  Durango 
decree,  on  wliich  such  vehement  efforts  have 
been  made  to  rouse  the  sympathy  and  exxite 
the  indignation  of  the  British  people.  None 
can  deplore  that  decree  more  than  we  do ;  none 
can  more  earnestly  desire  its  repeal ;  and  if 
our  humble  efforts  can  be  of  any  avail,  we  im- 
plore the  counsellors  of  Don  Carlos,  for  the 
.sake  of  humanity,  to  stop  its  execution  ;  to  ob- 
tain its  repeal.  But  when  it  is  said  that  it  is 
such  a  stain  upon  the  cause  of  the  Spanish 
Conservatives,  as  renders  their  cause  unworthy 
of  the  support  of  any  good  man,  we  are  prompt- 
ed to  ask  what  cause  did  the  English  merce- 
naries go  out  to  support]  Was  it  the  cause 
of  civilizi'd,  humane,  legalized  warfare?  No! 
't  was  that  of  murder,  robbery,  and  plunder,  of 
massacred  babes  and  weltering  valleys,  of 
conflagration,  rapine,  and  extermination.  They 


voluntarily  joined  their  standards  to  those  of  a 
power  which  had  bc^itn  the  infamous  system 
of  giving  no  quarter,  and  despite  all  the  efforts 
of  the  Duke  of  Wellington's  mission,  had  re- 
sumed it,  and  was  prosecuting  it  with  relent- 
less rigour.  They  marched  along  with  those 
exterminating  bands,  into  valleys  where  they 
had  burned  every  house,  and  slaughtered  every 
second  inhabitant,  and  clothed  in  weeds  every 
mother  and  sister  that  survived.  They  march- 
ed along  with  these  execrable  bands,  without 
any  condition,  without  either  proclaim?  ing  for 
themselves,  or  exacting  from  their  allies  any 
other  and  more  humane  system  of  warfare. 
By  their  presence,  however  inefficient  they 
may  have  been  on  the  Biscayan  shore,  they 
have  prolonged  for  two  years,  beyond  the  pe- 
riod when  it  would  otherwise  have  terminated, 
the  heart-rending  civil  war  of  Spain.  If  the 
20,000  English  and  French  auxiliaries,  who 
retained  an  equal  force  of  Carlists  inactive  in 
their  front  had  been  removed,  can  there  be  a 
doubt  Don  Carlos  would  have  been  on  the 
throne,  and  peace  established  in  Spain  two 
years  ago  T  How  many  thousand  of  Spanish 
old  men  and  women  have  been  slaughtered, 
while  Evans  virtually  held  the  hands  of  their 
avenging  heroes  1  We  have  thus  voluntarily 
ranged  ourselves  beside  a  frightful  exterminat- 
ing power;  can  we  be  surprised  if  we  are  met 
by  the  severities  which  his  atrocities  have 
rendered  unavoidable  1  We  have  joined  hands 
with  the  murderer;  though  Ave  may  not  have 
ourselves  lifted  the  dagger,  we  have  held  the 
victim  while  our  confederates  plunged  it  in 
his  heart,  and  can  we  be  surprised  if  we  are 
deemed  fit  objects  of  the  terrible  law  of  retri- 
bution ■? 

Do  we  then  counsel  aid  to  Don  Carlos,  or 
any  assistance  to  the  cause  he  supports  1  Far 
from  it:  we  would  not  that  one  Englishman 
should  be  exposed  to  the  contagion  of  the  hide- 
ous atrocities  which  the  revolutionists  have 
committed,  and  to  which  the  Carlists,  in  self- 
defence,  have  been  driven  in  every  part  of 
Spain.  What  we  counsel  is,  what  we  have 
never  ceased  to  urge  ever  since  this  hideous 
strife  began  in  the  Peninsula:  Wilhdrnw  alto- 
gether from  it :  Bring  home  the  marines,  the 
auxiliaries,  the  steamboats  ;  send  no  more  arms 
or  ammunition  from  the  Tower  ;  declare  to  the 
Christinos,  that  till  they  return  to  the  usages 
of  civilized  war  we  will  not  send  them  another 
gun  under  the  quadruple  treaty.  It  is  a  woful 
reflection,  that  our  vast  inllucnce  willi  the  re- 
volutionary government,  after  the  quadruple 
alliance,  was  perfectly  adequate,  if  properly 
exerted,  to  have  entirely  stopt  this  exterminat- 
ing warfare.  But  what  must  be  our  reflection, 
when  wc  recollect  that  we  have  actually  sup 
ported  it !  And  if  hereafter  a  band  of  Ccs- 
sacks  or  Pandours  shall  land  on  the  coast  of 
Kent,  to  perpetuate  a  bloody  strife  in  the  realms 
of  England,  to  support  the  savage  excesses  of 
an  Irish  civil  war,  and  spread  inourning  weeds 
and  wo  through  every  cottage  in  England,  it 
is  no  more  than  we  have  done  to  the  Biscay 
mountaineers,  and  no  more  than  what,  under 
a  just  retribution,  we  may  expect  to  endure 
from  some  equally  unjust  and  uncalled-for  af 
gression. 


34« 


ALISOJN'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


WELLINGTON.* 


Mr  Lord  Provost,  and  gentlemen,  I  am 
not  sorry  this  meeting  is  not  unanimous — 
Iruth  is,  in  the  end,  always  best  elicited  by 
the  conflict  of  opposite  opinions,  and  those 
who  came  here  to  record  their  sentiments  of 
the  merits  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington  need 
never  fear  the  freest  discussion  or  the  most 
searching  inquiry.  (Applause.)  The  gen- 
tlemen who  are  of  an  opposite  way  of  think- 
ing were  entitled  to  express  their  opinions.  I 
have  done  my  utmost  to  obtain  for  them  a  fair 
hearing — they  have  received  it — their  motion 
has  been  put  and  seconded — it  has  been  carried 
against  them  by  a  large  majority — and  I  now 
expect  from  the  fair  dealing  of  the  opponents 
of  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  the  same  patient 
hearing  which  we  have  given  to  them.  (Loud 
cheers.)  Gentlemen,  I  agree  with  part  of 
what  has  been  said  by  the  mover  of  the  coun- 
ter resolution  proposed  at  this  meeting.  I  ad- 
mit that  war  is  a  calamity,  I  deplore  the  fright- 
ful miseries  which  in  every  age  have  attended 
its  footsteps,  and  I  ardently  wish  from  the  bot- 
tom of  my  soul  that  the  progress  of  religion 
and  knowledge  may  eventually  extinguish  its 
horrors,  that  social  conflicts  may  be  carried 
on  with  the  weapons  of  truth  and  argument, 
and  not  by  fields  of  slaughter,  and  that  the 
blood-stained  glor}^  of  the  conqueror  may  here- 
after be  a  tale  only  of  the  olden  time.  (Loud 
cheers  from  the  Chartists.)  But,  gentlemen, 
you  are  to  recollect  that  these  blessings  are 
only  the  hope  of  the  philanthropist — those 
times  have  not  yet  arrived — these  blessings  are 
only  yet  in  prospect,  even  to  the  most  enthu- 
siastic friends  of  human  improvement,  and  far 
less  had  these  principles  emerged  in  the  days 
of  Napoleon.  It  was  neither  by  the  school- 
master nor  the  press  ;  neither  by  education 
nor  knowledge,  that  the  legions  of  that  mighty 
conqueror  were  to  be  withstood.  (Loud  ap- 
plause.) A  tyranny,  compared  with  which  all 
that  is  now  experienced  or  shared  by  men  was 
as  dust  in  the  balance,  then  pressed  upon  the 
world,  crushing  nations  by  its  weight— enslav- 
ing mankind  by  its  chains.  Against  this  tre- 
mendous power,  reason,  religion,  compassion, 
and  humanit}%  were  alike  impotent,— the  cries 
of  humanity  were  answered  by  discharges  of 
artillery — the  groans  of  the  innocent  by  charges 
of  cuirassiers.  Are  we  to  blame  Wellington 
then  ■?  Is  it  a  stigma  on  his  name,  because 
thrown  into  an  age  of  Iron,  he  combated  op- 

*  Speech  delivered  at  Glascow,  February,  1840,  when 
proposing  the  erection  of  a  monument  to  the  Puke  of 
WelliiiL'ton  in  that  ehy,  in  a  public  meeting  called  for 
that  purpose.  The  cheers  and  interruptions  are  given 
a*  they  appeared  in  the  report  of  it  next  day,  as  the 
liieeting  was  very  stormy,  from  a  strong  body  of  Chart- 
ists whe  had  taken  possession  of  the  centre  of  the  room 
Hnd  endeavoured  to  drown  the  speaker's  voice,  which 
they  had  done  with  the  two  immediately  precedin" 
speakers  ;  and  a  great  part  of  the  speech  bore  refcr- 
<.^W.  to  or  was  occasioned  by  these  interruptions. 


pression  by  its  own  weapons — because,  tha 
destined  champion  of  freedom,  he  conquered 
it  by  the  forces  with  which  itself  was  assailed  1 
(Enthusiastic  cheering.)  Gentlemen,  I  thank 
you  for  the  patience  with  which  you  have 
heard  me — it  was  what  I  expected  from  the 
fair  dealings  of  Britons ;  and  in  what  I  have 
to  say  on  the  character  of  the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington, I  hope  I  shall  not  utter  a  sentiment 
which  will  not  find  a  responsive  echo  in  every 
British  heart.  (Loud  cheering.)  My  lord,  it 
is  difficult  to  say  any  thing  original  on  a  topic 
on  which  national  gratitude  has  long  since 
poured  forth  its  encomium,  and  genius  every 
M^here  exhausted  its  eloquence,  and  regarding 
which,  so  marvellous  in  the  glory  it  has  to  re- 
count, even  the  words  of  truth  may  seem  to  be 
gilded  by  the  colours  of  panegyric.  (Loud 
cheers.)  Gentlemen,  if  I  were  inclined  to  do 
so,  I  have  been  anticipated  both  in  prose  and 
verse,  and  I  gladly  avail  myself  of  the  words 
of  a  noble  lord,  whose  heart  I  know  is  with 
this  meeting,  and  which  proves  that  he  has  in- 
herited from  his  long  line  of  ancestors  not  only 
a  taste  for  the  splendour  but  the  real  spirit  of 
the  days  of  chivalry.*  (Loud  cheers.)  "A 
Cccsar  without  his  ambition — a  Pompey  with- 
out his  pride — a  Marlborough  without  his 
avarice — a  Frederick  without  his  infidelity,  he 
approaches  nearer  to  the  model  of  a  Christian 
hero  than  any  commander  who  has  yet  appear- 
ed among  men."  (Loud  cheers.)  Gentlemen, 
I  will  not  speak  of  his  exploits,  I  will  not 
speak  of  Asia  entranced  by  his  valour,  nor 
Europe  delivered  by  his  arm.  I  will  recount 
his  career  in  the  lines  of  the  poet,  to  which  I 
am  sure  all  present  will  listen  with  delight,  if 
not  from  their  concurrence  in  the  sentiments, 
at  least  from  their  admiration  of  the  language. 

"  Victor  on  Assaye's  eastern  plain, 
Victor  on  all  the  fields  of  Spain  ! 
Welcome  !  thy  work  of  glory  done, 
Welcome!  from  dangers  greatly  dared, 
From  nations  vanquished,  nations  spared, 
Unconquered  Wellington." 

(Loud  cheers.) 

But,  my  lord,  it  is  not  the  military  glories  of 
Wellington,  on  which  I  wish  to  dwell.  They 
have  become  as  household  words  amongst  us, 
and  will  thrill  the  British  heart  in  every  quar- 
ter of  the  globe  as  long  as  a  drop  of  British 
blood  remains  in  the  world.  It  is  the  moral 
character  of  the  conflict  which  I  chiefly  wish 
to  illustrate,  and  it  is  that  which  I  trust  will 
secure  the  unanimous  applause  of  even  this 
varied  assembl}%  (Loud  cheers.)  He  was 
assailed  by  numbers — he  met  them  by  skill; 
he  was  assailed  by  rapine — he  encountered  it 
by  discipline  ;  he  was  assailed  by  cruelty — he 
vanquished  it  by  humanity;  he  was  assailed 
by  the  powers  of  wickedness — he  conquered 

*  Lord  Eglinton. 


WELLINGTON. 


347 


diem  by  the  constancy  of  virtue.     (Immense 
applause,  mingled  with  cries  of  "  No,  no,"  from 
the  Chartists.)    Some  of  you,  I  perceive,  deny 
the  reality  of  these  moral  qualities ;  but  have 
you  foro:ot  the  contemporaneous  testimony  of 
those  who  had  received  his  protection,  and  ex- 
perienced his  hostility  1     Have  you  forgot  that 
that  hero  who  had  driven  Massena  at  the  head 
of  an  hundred  thousand  men  with  disgrace  out 
of  the  war-wasted  and  desolate  realm  of  Por- 
tugal, was  hailed  as  a  deliverer  by  millions 
whom  he  protected  and  saved,  when  he  led  his 
triumphant  armies  into  the  valleys  of  France  1 
(Enthusiastic  cheering.)     If  his  career  was 
attended  with  bloodshed,  it  was  only  because 
such  a  calamity  is  inseparable  from  the  path 
alike  of  the  patriot-hero,  as  of  the  ravaging 
conqueror ;  the  slaughter  of  the  unresisting 
never  stained  his  triumphs  ;  the  pillage  of  the 
innocent  never  sullied  his  career. — Prodigal  of 
his  own  labour,  careless  of  his  own  life,  he 
was  avaricious  only  of  the  blood  of  his  soldiers  ; 
he  won  the  wealth  of  empires  with  his  own 
good  sword,  but  he  retained  none  but  Avhat  he 
received  from  the  gratitude  of  the  king  he  had 
served  and  the  nation  he  had  saved.     (Loud 
cheers.)     My  lord,  the  glory  of  the  conqueror 
is  nothing  new;  other  ages  have  been  dazzled 
Trith  the  phantom  of  military  renown ;  other 
nations  have  bent  beneath  the  yoke  of  foreign 
oppression,  and  other  ages  have  seen  the  ener- 
gies of  mankind  wither  before  the  march  of 
victorious  power.    It  has  been  reserved  for  our 
age  alone  to  witness — it  has  been  the  high  pre- 
rogative of  Wellington  alone  to  exhibit — a  more 
animating  spectacle  ;  to  behold  power  applied 
only  to  the  purposes  of  beneficence ;   victory 
made  the  means  of  moral  renovation,  conquest 
become  the  instrument  of  national  resurrec- 
tion.    (Cheers.)     Before  the  march  of  his  vic- 
torious power  we  have  seen  the  energies  of  the 
world  revive;  we  have  heard  his  triumphant 
voice  awaken  a  fallen  race  to  noble  duties, 
and  recall  the  remembrance  of  their  pristine 
glory;  we  have  seen  his  banners  waving  over 
the  infant  armies  of  a  renovated  people,  and 
the   track  of  his  chariot-wheels  followed,  not 
by  the  sighs  of  a  captive,  but  the  blessings  of 
a    lilx^ratcd     world.       (Enthusiastic     cheers, 
mingled  with  cries  of  "  No,  no,"  from  the  Chart- 
ists.)    My  lord,  %ve  may  well  say  a  liberated 
world;  for  it  was  his  firmness  which  first  op- 
posed a   barrier  to   the   hitherto   irresistible 
waves  of  Gallic  ambition  ;  it  was  his  counsel 
which  traced  out  the  path  of  Eurnpraii  ddivrr- 
ance,  and  his  victories  which  rcanirnaied  ttn- 
all  but  extinguished  spirit  of  European  resist- 
ance.     (Cheers.)     My  lord,  it  was  from  the 
rocks  of  Fores  Vcdras  that  the  waves  of  French 
conquest  first  perman<iitly    ri-cdcd ;    it   was 
from    Wellington's  example  that   Russia  was 
taught  the  means  of  resisting  when  the  day  of  her 
trial  arose;  it  was  from  his  counsels  that  there 
was  traced  out  to  the  cabinet  of  St.  Petersburgh 
the  design  of  the  Moscow  campaign   (cheers)  ; 
and  it  was  the  contemporaneous  victories  of 
the  Unke  of   Wellington    that    sustained  the 
struggle  of  European  freedom  in   that  awful 
•onflict.  When  the  French  legions, in  apparently 
»nvincible  strength,  were  preparincj  for  the  fitjht 
ol  Borodino,  they  were  startled  by  the  salvos 


from  the  Russian  lines,  which  announced  th 
victory  of  Salamanca.  (Cheers.)  Aiid  Y»lier 
the  Russian  army  were  marching  in  mournful 
silence  round  their  burning  capital,  and  the 
midnight  sky  was  illuminated  by  the  flames  of 
Moscow,  a  breathless  messenger  brought  the 
news  of  the  fall  of  Madrid — (cheers) — and  the 
revived  multitude  beheld  in  the  triumph  of 
Wellington,  and  the  capture  of  the  Spanish 
capital,  an  omen  of  their  own  deliverance  and 
the  rescue  of  their  own  metropolis.  (Enthu- 
siastic cheers.)  Nor  were  the  services  of  the 
Duke  of  Wellington  of  less  vital  consequence 
in  later  times.  When  the  tide  of  victory  had 
ebbed  on  the  plains  of  Saxony,  and  European 
freedom  quivered  in  the  balance,  at  the  Con- 
gress of  Prague,  it  was  Wellington  that  threw 
his  sword  into  the  beam  by  the  victory  of  Vit- 
toria,  it  was  the  shout  of  the  world  at  the  de- 
livered Peninsula  which  terminated  the  indeci- 
sion of  the  cabinet  of  Vienna.  (Great  ap- 
plause.) Vain  would  have  been  all  the  sub- 
sequent triumphs  of  the  allies — vain  the 
thunder  of  Leipsic  and  the  capture  of  Paris, 
if  Wellington  had  not  opposed  an  irrepressible 
barrier  to  the  revived  power  of  France  on  the 
plains  of  Flanders.  For  what  said  Napoleon, 
when  calmly  revolving  his  eventful  career  in 
the  solitude  of  St.  Helena?  " If  Wellington 
and  the  English  army  had  been  defeated  at 
Waterloo,  what  would  have  availed  all  the 
myriads  of  Russians,  Austrians,  Germans,  and 
Spaniards,  who  were  crowding  to  the  Rhine, 
the  Alps,  and  the  Pyrenees?"  (Enthusiastic 
cheers.) 

My  lord,  I  have  spoken  now  only  to  the 
moral  effects  of  the  military  career  of  Welling 
ton.  I  will  not  speak  of  his  political  career. 
A  quarter  of  a  century  has  elapsed  since  his 
warlike  career  terminated,  and  we  now  only 
feel  its  benefits.  (Loud  groans  from  the  Chart- 
ists.) A  quarter  of  a  century  hence,  it  will  be 
time  enough  for  the  world  to  decide  upon  his 
civil  career.  (Cheers  intermixed  with  loud 
groans  from  the  Chartists.)  Gentlemen,  (turn- 
ing to  the  Chartists,)  I  well  know  what  those 
marks  of  disapprobation  mean — you  mean  we 
feel  the  effects  of  Wellington's  career  in  the 
weight  of  the  public  debt.  (Vcs.  yes,  and  loud 
cheers  from  the  Chartists.)  What!  did  the 
duke  create  the  national  debt  ?  Was  there 
none  of  it  in  existence  when  he  began  his 
career?  It  was  made  to  his  hand — it  was 
fixed  upon  us  by  Napoleon's  powers,  and  in 
what  slate  woul<l  you  now  have  been,  if,  when 
you  had  the  national  delit  on  your  backs,  you 
had  hail  the  chains  of  France  about  your  necks? 
(Rapturous  applause,  and  the  whole  meeting 
standing  up  vociferou'<ly  cheerint^,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  ("harlists.)  Gentlrinen,  I  have 
seen  what  a  commercial  city  suffVrs  froiu  the 
ainbitioM  of  Napoleon.  I  have  seen  a  city  once 
greater  and  richer  than  Glasgow,  when  it  had 
emerged  from  twenty  years  of  repuldican  con- 
quest. I  saw  Venice  in  ISl."),  and  I  saw  there 
a  hundred  thousand  artisans  bcgc^iitg  their 
bread  in  the  streets.  (Renewed  and  long-con- 
tinued cheering.)  Gentlemen,  there  is  not  a 
hammer  that  now  falls,  nor  a  wheel  revolves, 
nor  a  shuttle  that  is  put  in  motion,  in  Glas- 
gow, that  its  power  of  doing  -so  is  not   owia^ 


348 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


«o  the  Dulie  of  Wellington  ;  and  you  who  now 
strive  to  stifle  the  voice  of  national  gratitude, 
owe  to  him  the  bread  of  yourselves  and  your 
children.     (Enthusiastic  cheering.)    And  I  tell 
you,  whatever  you  may  now  think,  so  your 
own  children,   and  your   children's   children 
will  declare.     (Immense  applause.)     Gentle- 
men, I  have  now  done  with  any   topics   on 
which  division   of  opinion   can  arise.    I  am 
now  to  speak  on  a  subject,  on  which,  I  trust,  we 
are  all  agreed,  for  it  relates  to  the  embellish- 
ment of  Glasgow.     It  is  proposed  to  refer  at 
once  to  a  committee  full  power  to  carry  into 
effect  the  resolutions  of  this  meeting,  (cheers,) 
and  I  trust  that  before  a  year  has  elapsed,  we 
shall  see  a  nobie   monument,  testifying  our 
gratitude,  erected  in  the  heart  of  this  great 
^city.     We  have  seen  what  has   been  lost  in 
other  places,  by  not  at  once  coming  to  a  deter- 
mination, in  the   outset,  on  the    design.     We 
have   seen   the   subscription   for   Sir  Walter 
Scott's  monument  at  Edinburgh  still  unproduc- 
tive, though  seven  years  have  elapsed  since 
the  national  gratitude  had  decreed  a  monument. 
Gentlemen,   while  Edinburgh   deliberates,  let 
Glasgow  aet  (cheers) ;  and   let  ours    be    the 
first  monument  erected  to  the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington in  Scotland.     (Loud  cheers.)     Gentle- 
men, you  will  hear  the  list  of  the  subscriptions 
already  obtained  read  out,  and  a  noble  monu- 
ment it  already  is,  for  the  west  of  Scotland, 
embracing  as  it  does  splendid  donations  from 
die  highest  rank  and  greatest  in  fortune,  from 
the  first  peer  of  the  realm,  to  those  princely 
merchants  who  are  raising  up  a  fresh  aristo- 


cracy in  the  land.  (Cheers.)  But,  gentlemen- 
it  is  not  by  such  testimonies  alone  that  the 
public  gratitude  is  to  be  expressed ;  it  is  tha 
multitude  who  must  show  "the  electric  shock 
of  a  nation's  gratitude."  (Cheers.)  And  grate- 
ful to  the  Duke  of  Wellington  as  will  be  the 
magnificent  donations  of  the  leaders  of  the 
land,  he  will  be  still  more  grdlified  by  the 
guineas  of  the  citizens,  and  the  half  crowns  of 
the  artisans.  Gentlemen,  I  am  sure  that  the 
gratifying  result  will  be  witnessed  in  this  great 
city,  and  that  the  monument  which  will  be 
reared  amongst  us,  will  remain  through  many 
ages  a  durable  record  of  the  magnificence  and 
gratitude  of  the  west  of  Scotland.  (Loud  ap- 
plause.) And  there  is  a  peculiar  propriety  in 
erecting  in  our  city  a  statue  to  the  Duke  of 
Wellington.  Glasgow  already  has  a  statue 
to  her  brave  townsman.  Sir  John  Moore,  the 
hero  who  first  boldly  fronted  the  terrors  of  the 
Gallic  legions.  She  has  a  statue  to  Watts, 
that  matchless  sage,  whose  genius  has  added 
a  new  power  to  the  forces  of  nature,  and  who 
created  the  wealth  which  sustained  the  con- 
test with  Napoleon's  power.  And  now  you 
will  have  a  statue  to  Wellington,  who  brought 
the  conquest  to  a  triumphant  conclusion  ;  and 
has  bequeathed  to  his  country  peace  to  create, 
and  liberty  to  enjoy,  the  splendour  which  we  be- 
hold around  us.  (Loud  cheers.)  I  have  the  ho- 
nour to  move  "  that  a  committee  be  now  appoint- 
ed for  the  purpose  of  procuring  subscriptions, 
with  full  power  to  name  sub-committees,  and 
take  all  other  measures  necessary  for  carrying 
into  effect  these  resolutions  "     (Loud  cheers.) 


THE  APFGHANISTAUN  EXPEDITION.* 


"  Ix  the  light  of  precaution,"  says  Gibbon, 
"all  conquest  must  be  ineffectual  unless  it 
could  be  universal;  for,  if  successful,  it  only 
involves  the  belligerent  power  in  additional 
difficulties  and  a  wider  sphere  of  hostility."  All 
ages  have  demonstrated  the  truth  of  this  pro- 
found observation.  The  Romans  conquered 
the  neighbouring  states  of  Italy  and  Gaul,  only 
to  be  brought  into  collision  with  the  fiercer  and 
more  formidable  nations  of  Germany  and  Par- 
thia.  Alexander  overran  Media  and  Persia, 
only  to  see  his  armies  rolled  back  before  the 
arms  of  the  Scythians,  or  the  innumerable  le- 
gions of  India,  and  the  empire  of  Napoleon, 
victorious  over  the  states  of  Germany  and  Italy, 
recoiled  at  length  before  the  aroused  indigna- 
tion of  the  Northern  powers.  The  British  em- 
pire in  India,  the  most  extraordinary  work  of 
conquest  which  modern  times  have  exhibited, 
forms  no  exception  to  the  truth  of  this  general 
principle.  The  storming  of  Seringapatam,  and 
the  overthrow  of  the  house  of  Tippoo,  only  ex- 
posed us  to,  the  .  incursions  of  the  Mahratta 
horse.  The  subjugation  of  the  Mahrattas  in- 
volved us  in  a  desperate  and  doubtful  conflict 

♦  BlacKwood's  Alagazine,  February,  1840. 


with  the  power  of  Holkar.  His  subjugation 
brought  us  in  contact  with  the  independent 
and  brave  mountaineers  of  Nepaul ;  and  even 
their  conquest,  and  the  establishment  of  the 
British  frontier  on  the  summit  of  the  Hima 
layan  snows,  have  not  given  that  security  to 
our  Eastern  possessions  for  which  its  rulers 
have  so  long  and  strenuously  contended ;  and 
beyond  the  stream  of  the  Indus,  beyond  the 
mountains  of  Cashmere,  it  has  been  deemed 
necessary  to  establish  the  terror  of  the  British 
arms,  and  the  influence  of  the  British  name. 

That  such  an  incursion  into  Central  Asia 
has  vastly  extended  the  sphere  both  of  our  di- 
plomatic and  hostile  relations;  that  it  has 
brought  us  in  contact  with  the  fierce  and  bar- 
barous northern  tribes,  and  erected  our  out- 
posts almost  within  sight  of  the  Russian  vi- 
dettes,  is  no  impeachment  whatever  of  the  wis- 
dom and  expediency  of  the  measure,  if  it  has 
been  conducted  with  due  regard  to  prudence 
and  the  rules  of  art  in  its  execution.  It  is  the 
destiny  of  all  conquering  powers  to  be  exposed 
to  this  necessity  of  advancing  in  their  course 
Napoleon  constantly  said,  and  he  said  with  jus- 
tice, that  he  was  not  to  blame  for  the  conquests 
he  undertook ;  that  he  was  forced  on  by  invia- 


^ 


THE  AFFGHANISTAUIV  EXPEDITION. 


349 


cible  necessity ;  that  he  was  the  head  merely 
of  a  military  republic,  to  whom  exertion  was 
existence ;  and  that  the  first  pause  in  his  ad- 
vance was  the  commencement  of  his  fall.  No 
one  can  have  studied  the  eventful  history  of 
his  times,  without  being  satisfied  of  the  jus- 
tice of  these  observations.  The  British  empire 
in  the  east  is  not,  indeed,  like  his  in  Europe, 
one  based  on  injustice  and  supported  by  pil- 
lage. Protection  and  improvement,  not  spo- 
liation and  misery,  have  followed  in  the  rear 
of  the  English  flag;  and  the  sable  multitudes 
of  Hindostan  now  permanently  enjoy  that  pro- 
lection  and  security  which  heretofore  they  had 
only  tasted  under  the  transient  reigns  of  Baber 
and  Aurungzebe.  But  still,  notwithstanding 
all  its  experienced  benefits,  the  British  sway 
in  Hindostan  is  essentially  that  of  opinion  ;  it 
is  the  working  and  middle  classes  who  are 
benefitted  by  their  sway.  The  interest  and 
passions  of  too  many  of  the  rajahs  and  inferior 
nobility  are  injured  by  its  continuance,  to  ren- 
der it  a  matter  of  doubt  that  a  large  and  formi- 
dable body  of  malcontents  are  to  be  found 
■within  the  bosom  of  their  territories,  who 
would  take  advantage  of  the  first  external  dis- 
aster to  raise  again  the  long-forgotten  standard 
of  independence ;  and  that,  equally  with  the 
empire  of  Napoleon  in  Europe,  our  first  move- 
ment of  serious  retreat  would  be  the  com- 
mencement of  our  fall.  Nor  would  soldiers  be 
wanting  to  aid  the  dispossessed  nobles  in  the 
recovery  of  their  pernicious  authority.  Who- 
ever raises  the  standard  of  even  probable  war- 
fare is  sure  of  followers  in  India ;  the  war 
castes  throughout  Hindostan,  the  Rajpoots  of 
the  northern  provinces,  are  panting  for  the  sig- 
nal of  hostilities,  and  the  moment  the  standard 
of  native  independence  is  raised,  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  the  Mahratta  horse  would  cluster 
around  it,  ardent  to  carry  the  spear  and  the 
torch  into  peaceful  villages,  and  renew  the  glo- 
rious days  of  pillage  and  conflagration. 

But  it  is  not  only  within  our  natural  fron- 
tier of  the  Indus  and  the  Himalaya  that  the  ne- 
cessity of  continually  advancing,  if  we  would 
exist  in  safety,  is  felt  in  the  British  empire  in 
the  east.  The  same  necessity  is  imposed  upon 
it  by  its  external  relations  with  foreign  powers. 
It  is  too  powerful  to  be  disregarded  in  the 
balance  of  Asiatic  politics  ;  its  fame  has  ex- 
tended far  into  the  regions  of  China  and  Tar- 
tary;  its  name  must  be  respected  or  despised 
on  the  banks  of  the  Oxus  and  the  shores  of  the 
Araxcs.  The  vast  powers  which  lie  between 
the  British  and  Russian  frontiers  cannot  re- 
main neutral ;  they  must  be  influenced  by  the 
one  or  the  other  power.  "As  little,"  said  Alex- 
ander the  Great,  "  as  the  heavens  can  admit 
of  two  suns,  can  the  earth  admit  of  two  rulers 
of  the  East." 

Strongly  as  all  nations,  in  all  ages,  have 
been  impressed  with  military  success  as  the 
mainspringof  diplomatic  advances,  there  is  no 
part  of  the  world  in  which  it  is  so  essential  to 
political  influence  as  in  the  east.  Less  in- 
formed than  those  of  Europe  in  regard  to  the 
real  strength  of  their  opponents,  and  far  less 
prospeotive  in  their  principles  of  policy,  the 
nations  of  Asia  are  almost  entirely  governed 
oy  present  success,  in  their  diplomatic  con- 


duct. Remote  or  contingent  danger  produces 
little  impression  upon  them ;  present  peril  is 
only  looked  at.  They  never  negotiate  till  the 
dagger  is  at  their  throat;  but  when  it  is  there, 
they  speedily  acquiesce  in  whatever  is  exacted 
of  them.  Regarding  the  success  of  their  oppo- 
nents as  the  indication  of  the  will  of  destiny, 
they  bow,  not  only  with  submission,  but  with 
cheerfulness  to  it.  All  our  diplomatic  advances 
in  the  east,  accordingly,  have  followed  in  the 
train  of  military  success  ;  all  our  failures  have 
been  consequent  on  the  neglect  to  assert  with 
due  spirit  the  rights  and  dignity  of  the  British 
empire.  The  celebrated  Roman  maxim,  par' 
cere  sitbjcdis  ct  dcbellare  siiperbos,  is  not  there  a 
principle  of  policy ;  it  is  a  rule  of  necessity- 
It  is  the  condition  of  existence  to  every  power 
ful  state. 

The  court  of  Persia  is,  in  an  especial  man- 
ner, subject  to  the  influence  of  these  externa] 
considerations.  Weakened  by  long-continued 
and  apparently  interminable  domestic  feuds ; 
scarce  capable  of  mustering  round  the  stand- 
ards of  Cyrus  and  Darius  twenty  thousand 
soldiers ;  destitute  alike  of  wealth,  military  or- 
ganization, or  central  powers,  the  kings  of 
Tehran  are  yet  obliged  to  maintain  a  doubtful 
existence  in  the  midst  of  neighbouring  and 
powerful  states.  The  Ottoman  empire  has 
long  from  the  west  assailed  them,  and  trans- 
mitted, since  the  era  when  the  religion  of  Mo- 
hammed was  in  its  cradle,  the  indelible  hatred 
of  the  successors  of  Othmau  against  the  fol- 
lowers of  Ali.  In  later  times,  and  since  the 
Cross  has  become  triumphant  over  the  Cres- 
cent, the  Russian  empire  has  pressed  upon  them 
with  ceaseless  ambition  from  the  north.  More 
permanently  formidable  than  the  standards  of 
either  Timour  or  Genghis  Khan,  her  disciplined 
battalions  have  crossed  the  Caucasus,  spread 
over  the  descending  hills  of  Georgia,  and 
brought  the  armies  of  Christ  to  the  foot  of 
Mount  Ararat  and  the  shores  of  the  Araxes. 
Even  the  south  has  not  been  freed  from  omi 
nous  signs  and  heart-stirring  events  ;  the  fame 
of  the  British  arms,  the  justice  of  the  British 
rule,  have  spreid  far  into  the  regions  of  Cen- 
tral Asia;  the  storming  of  Seringapatam,  the 
fall  of  Scindiah,  the  conquest  of  Holkar,  have 
resounded  among  the  mountains  of  Aflghanis- 
taun,  and  awakened  in  the  breasts  of  the  Per- 
sians the  pleasing  hope,  that  from  those  dis- 
tant regions  the  arms  of  the  avenger  are  des- 
tined to  come;  and  that,  amidst  the  conten- 
tions of  England  and  Russia,  Persia  may  again 
emerge  to  her  ancient  supremacy  among  the 
nations  of  the  earth. 

The  existence  of  Persia  is  so  obviously 
threatened  by  the  aggressions  of  Russia,  the 
peril  in  that  quarter  is  so  instant  and  apparent, 
that  the  Persian  government  have  nev<r  failed 
to  lake  advantage  of  every  successive  impulse 
communicated  to  British  influence,  by  their 
victories  in  Hindostan,  to  cement  their  alliance 
and  draw  closer  their  relation  with  this  coun- 
try. The  storming  of  Seringapatam  was  ira 
mediately  followed  by  a  defensive  treaty  be- 
tween Persia  and  Great  Britain,  in  ISOO,  by 
which  it  was  stipulated,  that  the  English  mer- 
chant should  be  placed  on  the  footing  of  the 
most  favoured  nation,  and   that    no    hcistile 


350 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS   ESSAYS. 


European  force  should  be  permitted  to  pass 
Ihroiigh  the  Persian  territories  towards  Hin- 
dostan  Every  successive  addition  made  to 
our  Indian  empire;  every  triumph  of  our  In- 
dian arms,  drew  closer  the  relations  between 
Great  Britain  and  the  court  of  Tehran  ;  and  it 
was  not  till  the  wretched  days  of  economy  and 
retrenchment  began,  till  the  honour  of  Eng- 
land was  forgotten  in  the  subservience  to  popu- 
lar clamour,  and  her  ultimate  interests  over- 
looked in  the  thirst  for  immediate  popularity, 
that  any  decay  in  our  influence  with  the  court 
of  Persia  was  perceptible.  In  those  disas- 
trous days,  however,  when  the  strong  founda- 
tions of  the  British  empire  were  loosened,  in 
obedience  to  the  loud  democratic  clamour  for 
retrenchment,  the  advantages  we  had  gained 
in  Central  Asia  were  entirely  thrown  away. 
With  an  infatuation  which  now  appears  a!-, 
most  incredible,  but  which  was  then  lauded  by 
the  whole  Liberal  party  as  the  very  height  of 
economic  wisdom,  we  desti'oyed  our  navy  at 
Bombay,  thereby  surrendering  the  Red  Sea 
and  the  Persian  Gulf  to  any  hostile  power  that 
chose  to  occupy  them;  we  reduced  our  Indian 
army  from  two  hundred  and  eighty,  to  one 
hundred  and  sixty  thousand  men,  thereby  ex- 
posing ourselves  to  the  contempt  of  the  native 
powers,  by  whom  respect  is  never  paid  but  to 
strength,  and  weakening  the  attachment  of  the 
native  population,  who  found  themselves  in 
great  part  shut  out  from  the  dazzling  career  of 
British  conquest;  and  we  sulTered  Persia  to 
combat,  single-handed,  the  dreadful  power  of 
Russia  in  1827,  and  never  sent  either  a  guinea 
or  a  bayonet  to  save  the  barrier  of  Hindostan 
from  Muscovite  dismemberment.  These  dis- 
graceful deeds  took  place  during  the  halcyon 
days  of  Liberal  administration ;  when  the 
Tories  nominally  held  the  reins,  but  the  Whigs 
really  possessed  the  power  of  government; 
when  that  infallible  criterion  of  right  and 
wrong,  popular  opinion,  was  implicitly  obey- 
ed ;  when  the  democratic  cry  for  retrenchment 
pervaded,  penetrated,  and  paralyzed  every  de- 
partment of  the  state ;  and  when,  amidst  the 
rnutual  and  loud  compliments*  of  the  ministe- 
rial and  opposition  benches,  the  foundations 
of  the  British  empire  were  loosened,  and  the 
strength  of  the  British  arms  withered  in  the 
hands  of  conceding  administrations.  The 
consequences  might  easily  have  been  fore- 
seen ;  province  after  province  was  reft  by  the 
Muscovite  invaders  from  the  Persian  empire ; 
fortress  after  fortress  yielded  to  the  terrible 
powers  of  their  artillery;  the  torrent  of  the 
Araxes  was  bestrode  by  their  battalions ;  the 
bastions  of  Erivan  yielded  to  their  cannon; 
and  Persia  avoided  total  conquest  only  by 
yielding  up  its  whole  northern  barrier  and 
most  warlike  provinces  to  the  power  of  Rus- 
sia. It  is  immaterial  to  us  whether  these  con- 
sequences took  place  under  the  nominal  rule  of 
Lord  Liverpool,  Mr.  Canning,  or  the  Duke  of 
Wellington ;  suffice  it  to  say,  that  they  all  took 
place  during  the  government  of  the  masses ; 
and  that  the  principles  on  which  they  were 
founded  were  those  which  had  been  advocated 
for  half  a  century  by  the  whole  Whig  party, 
iiid  which  were  then,  as  they  still  are,  praised 


and  lauded  to  the  skies  by  the  whole  Libera. 
leaders  of  every  denomination. 

The  consequences  of  this  total  dereliction 
of  national  character  and  interests,  in  order  t<; 
gratify  the  shoi't-sighted  passions  of  an  illibe" 
ral  democracy,  rapidly  developed  themselves 
Russia,  encouraged  by  the  success  with  which 
she  had  broken  the  barrier  of  Hindostan  in 
Central  Asia,  continued  her  aggressions  on 
the  Ottoman  power  in  Europe.  The  Turkish 
fleet  was  destroyed  by  the  assistance  of  a  Bri- 
tish force  at  Navarino  ;  the  Russian  arms  were 
carried  across  the  Balkan  by  British  suffer 
ance  to  Adrianople ;  and  the  Ottoman  empire, 
trembling  for  its  existence,  was  glad  to  sub- 
scribe a  treaty  M'hich  virtually  surrendered  the 
Danube  and  its  whole  northern  defences  to  the 
Russian  power.  Not  content  with  this,  the 
rulers  of  England,  during  the  halcyon  daj'^s  of 
the  Reform  mania,  descended  to  still  lower  de- 
gradation and  unparalleled  acts  of  infatuation. 
When  ;he  Pasha  of  Egypt  revolted  against 
the  Ottoman  power,  which  seemed  thus  alike 
deserted  by  its  allies  and  crushed  by  its  ene- 
mies, and  the  disastrous  battle  of  Koniah 
threatened  to  bring  the  Egyptian  legions  to  the 
shores  of  Scutari,  we  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  the 
earnest  prayer  of  the  distressed  sultan  for  aid. 
Engrossed  in  striving  to  conquer  Antwerp  in 
northern,  and  Lisbon  in  southern  Europe,  for 
the  advantage  of  revolutionary  France,  we 
had  not  a  guinea  nor  a  gun  to  spare  to  pre- 
serve the  interests,  or  uphold  the  honour  of 
England  in  the  Dardanelles,  and  we  threw 
Turkey,  as  the  price  of  existence,  into  the 
arms  of  Russia.  The  rest  is  well  known.  The 
Muscovite  battalions  gave  the  requisite  aid; 
the  domes  of  Constantinople  reflected  the 
lights  of  their  bivouacs  on  the  mountain  of  the 
giant;  the  arms  of  Ibrahim  recoiled  before 
this  new  and  unexpected  antagonist,  and  the 
treaty  of  Unkiar  Skelessi  delivered  Turkey, 
bound  hand  and  foot,  into  the  hands  of  Russia, 
rendered  the  Euxine  a  Muscovite  lake,  and  for 
ever  shut  out  the  British  flag  from  the  naviga- 
tion of  its  waters,  or  the  defence  of  the  Turk- 
ish metropolis. 

The  natural  results  of  this  timorous  and  va- 
cillating policy,  coupled  with  the  well-known 
and  fearful  reduction  of  our  naval  and  military 
force  in  India,  were  not  slow  in  developing 
themselves.  It  soon  appeared  that  the  British 
name  had  ceased  to  be  regarded  with  any  re- 
spect in  the  east;  and  that  all  the  influence 
derived  from  our  victories  and  diplomacy  in 
Central  Asia  had  been  lost.  It  is  needless  to 
go  into  details,  the  results  of  which  are  well 
known  to  the  public,  though  the  diplomatic 
secrets  connected  with  them  have  not  yet  been 
revealed.  SuflSce  it  to  say,  that  Persia,  which 
for  a  quarter  of  a  century  had  been  the  firm 
ally,  and  in  fact  the  advanced  post  of  the  Bri- 
tish power  in  India,  deserted  by  us,  and  sub- 
dued by  Russia,  was  constrained  to  throw  her- 
self into  the  ai'ms  of  the  latter.  The  Persian 
army  was  speedily  organized  on  a  better  and 
more  effective  footing,  under  direction  of  Rus 
sian  officers ;  and  several  thousand  Russian 
troops,  disguised  under  the  name  of  deserters 
were  incorporated  with,  and  gave  consistency 


THE   AFFGHANISTAUN   EXPEDITION. 


361 


to,  Ihi  Persian  army.  The  British  officers, 
who  had  hitherto  had  the  direction  of  that 
force,  were  obliged  to  retire ;  insult,  the  inva- 
riable precursor  in  the  east  of  injury,  was 
heaped  upon  the  British  subjects;  redress  was 
demanded  in  vain  by  the  British  ambassador; 
and  Sir  John  M'Neill  himself  was  at  length 
obliged  to  leave  the  court  of  Tehran,  from  the 
numerous  crosses  and  vexations  to  which  he 
was  exposed.  Having  thus  got  quit  of  the 
shadow  even  of  British  influence  throughout 
the  whole  of  Persia,  the  Russians  were  not 
long  following  out  the  now  smoothed  high- 
way towards  Hindostan  :  the  siege  of  Herat, 
the  head  of  the  defile  which  leads  to  the  Indus, 
was  undertaken  by  the  Persian  troops,  under 
Russian  guidance;  and  Russian  emissaries 
and  diplomacy,  ever  preceding  their  arms,  had 
already  crossed  the  Himalaya  snows,  and  were 
stirring  up  the  seeds  of  subdued  but  unex- 
tinguished hostility  in  the  Birman  empire, 
among  the  Nepaulese  mountaineers,  and  the 
discontented  rajahs  of  Hindostan. 

There  is  but  one  road  by  which  any  hostile 
army  ever  has,  or  ever  can,  approach  India  from 
the  northward.  Alexander  the  Great,  Timour, 
Gengis  Khan,  Nadir-Shah,  have  all  penetrated 
Hindostan  by  the  same  route.  That  road  has,  for 
three  thousand  years,  been  the  beaten  and  well- 
known  track  by  which  the  mercantile  commu- 
nication has  been  kept  up  between  the  plains  of 
the  Ganges  and  the  steppes  of  Upper  Asia.  He- 
rat stands  at  the  head  of  this  defile.  Its  popula- 
tion, which  amcmnts  to  one  hundred  thousand 
souls,  and  wealth  which  renders  it  by  far  the 
most  important  city  in  the  heart  of  Asia,  have 
been  en  tirely  formed  by  the  caravan  trade,which, 
from  time  immemorial,  has  passed  through  its 
walls,  going  and  returning  from  Persia  to 
Hindostan.  When  Napoleon,  in  conjunction 
with  the  Emperor  Paul,  projected  the  invasion 
of  our  Indian  possessions  by  a  joint  army  of 
French  infantry  and  Russian  Cossacks,  the 
route  marked  out  was  Astrakan,  Astrabad,  He- 
rat, Candahar,  the  Bolan  pass,  and  the  Indus, 
to  Delhi.  There  never  can  be  any  other  road 
overland  to  India,  but  that  or  the  one  from  Ca- 
bool,  through  the  Kybor  pass  to  the  Indus, 
for,  to  the  eastward  of  it,  inaccessible  snowy 
ranges  of  mountains  preclude  the  possibility 
of  an  army  getting  through;  while  to  the  west, 
parched  and  impassable  deserts  afford  obsta- 
cles still  more  formidable,  which  the  returning 
soldiers  of  Alexander  overcame  only  with  the 
loss  of  half  tlH'ir  numbers.  It  is  quite  clear, 
therefore,  that  Herat  is  the  vital  point  of  com- 
munication between  Russia  and  Hindostan; 
and  that  whoever  is  in  possession  of  it,  either 
actually  or  by  the  intervention  of  a  subsidiary 
or  allied  dtvc.n,  need  never  disquiet  himself 
about  appr-'hr-nsions  that  an  enemy  will  pene- 
trate through  the  long  and  difficult  defiles 
which  lead  in  its  rear  to  Hindostan. 

Since  our  empire  in  India  had  waxed  so 
powerful  as  to  attract  the  envy  of  the  Asiatic 
tramontane  nations,  it  became,  therefore,  « 
tnatlir  of  jierassity  to  maintain  our  influence 
among  the  nations  who  held  the  keys  of  this 
pass.  AfTghanistaun  was  to  India  what  Pied- 
mont has  long  been  to  Italy;  even  a  second 
Hannibal  or  Napoleon  might  be  stopped  in  its 


long  mountain  passes  and  interminable  barren 
hills.  If,  indeed,  the  politics  of  India  could  T3« 
confined  only  to  its  native  powers,  it  might  be 
wise  to  consider  the  Indus  and  the  Himalaya 
as  our  frontier,  and  to  disregard  entirely  the 
distant  hostility  or  complicated  diplomacy  of 
the  northern  Asiatic  states.  But  as  long  as 
India,  like  Italy,  possesses  the  fatal  gift  of  beau- 
ty; as  long  as  its  harvests  are  coveted  by 
northern  sterility,  and  its  riches  by  barbarian 
poverty;  so  long  must  the  ruler  of  the  land 
preserve  with  jealous  care  the  entrance  into 
its  bosom,  and  sit  with  frowning  majesty  at 
the  entrance  of  the  pass  by  which  "  the  blue- 
eyed  myriads  of  the  Baltic  coast"  may  find  ? 
way  into  its  fabled  plains. 

There  was  a  time  when  British  influence 
might  with  ease,  and  at  little  cost,  have  been 
established  in  the  AfTghanistaun  passes.  Dost 
Mohammed  was  a  usurper,  and  his  legal  claims 
to  the  throne  could  not  bear  a  comparison  with 
those  of  Shah  Shoojah.  But  he  was  a  usurper 
who  had  conciliated  and  won  the  affections  of 
the  people,  and  his  vigour  and  success  had 
given  a  degree  of  prosperity  to  Affghanistaun 
M'hich  it  had  not  for  centuries  experienced. 
Karnram,  the  sultan  of  Herat,  was  connected 
with  him  by  blood  and  allied  by  inclination, 
and  both  were  animated  by  hereditary  and  in- 
veterate hatred  of  the  Persian  power.  They 
would  willingly,  therefore,  have  united  them- 
selves with  Great  Britain  to  secure  a  barrier 
against  northern  invasion ;  and  such  an  al- 
liance would  have  been  founded  on  the  only 
durable  bond  of  connection  among  nations — 
mutual  advantage,  and  the  sense  of  a  formi- 
dable impending  common  danger.  The  states 
of  Candahar  and  Cabool  were  in  the  front  of 
the  danger;  the  Russian  •  and  Persian  arms 
could  never  have  approached  the  Indus  until 
they  were  subdued ;  and  consequently  their 
adhesion  to  our  cause,  if  we  would  only  give 
them  efl^ectual  support,  might  be  relied  upon 
as  certain.  It  is  well  known  that  Dost  Mo- 
hammed might  have  been  firmly  attached  to 
the  British  alliance  within  these  fewyears  by  the 
expenditure  of  a  hundred  or  even  fifty  thousand 
pounds,  and  the  aid  of  a  few  British  officers  to 
organize  his  forces.  And  when  it  is  recol- 
lected that  the  Sultan  of  Herat,  alone  and  un- 
aided by  us,  held  out  against  the  whole  power 
of  Persia,  directed  by  Russian  oflrcers,  for  one 
year  and  nine  months,  it  is  evident  both  with 
what  a  strong  spirit  of  resistance  to  northero 
aggression  the  AfTghanistaun  stales  are  ani 
mated,  and  what  elements  of  resistance  they 
possess  among  themselves,  even  when  un- 
aided, against  northern  ambition. 

The  immense  advantage  of  gaining  the  sup- 
port of  the  tribes  inhabiting  the  valley  of 
AfTghan,  thus  holding  in  their  hands  the  ke3-s 
of  Hindostan,  was  forgone  by  the  British 
power  in  India,  partly  from  the  dilapidateu 
state  to  which  the  army  had  been  reduced  by 
the  miserable  retrenchment  forced  upon  the 
government  by  the  democratic  cry  for  econo- 
my at  home,  and  partly  from  the  dread  of  in- 
volvingourselves  in  hostility  with  Runjeet  Sing, 
the  formidable  chief  of  Lahore,  Avhosc  hostility 
to  the  Affghanistauns  was  hereditary  and  in- 
veterate.    There  can  be  little  doubt  that  the 


358 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


conclusion  of  a  treaty,  offensive  and  defensive, 
with  the  powers  of  Cabool,  would  have  ex- 
cited great  discontent,  if  not  provoked  open 
hostility,  at  the  court  of  Lahore.  In  relinquish- 
ing their  hold  of  the  Affghanistaun  states,  from 
the  dread  of  compromising  their  relations  with 
the  wily  potentate  of  the  Indus,  the  British 
government  in  India  were  only  acting  upon 
that  system  of  temporizing,  conceding,  and 
shunning  present  danger,  which  has  charac- 
terized all  their  public  acts  ever  since  the  in- 
fluence of  the  urban  masses  became  predomi- 
nant in  the  British  councils.  But  it  is  now 
apparent,  that  in  breaking  with  the  Affghans 
to  conciliate  the  rajah,  the  British  incurred  the 
greater  ultimate,  to  avoid  the  present  lesser 
danger.  Runjeet  Sing,  indeed,  was  a  formi- 
dable power,  with  seventy  thousand  men,  and 
one  hundred  and  fifty  pieces  of  cannon  under 
his  command.  But  his  situation,  between  the 
British  territory  on  the  one  side,  and  the  Aff- 
ghans on  the  other,  rendered  him  incapable  of 
making  any  effectual  resistance.  His  military 
force  was  by  no  means  equal  to  Avhathad  been 
wielded  by  Tippoo  or  the  Mahrattas,  and  his 
rear  was  exposed  to  the  incursions  of  his  he- 
reditary and  inveterate  enemies  in  the  Affghan- 
istaun mountains.  Still,  more  than  all,  his 
territories  were  pierced  by  the  great  and  navi- 
gable river  of  the  Indus — the  best  possible 
base  for  British  operations,  capable  of  con- 
veying both  the  muniments  of  war  and  the 
provisions  for  an  army  into  the  heart  of  his 
dominions.  In  these  circumstances,  it  is  evi- 
dent that  the  submission  of  Runjeet  Sing  must 
soon  have  become  a  matter  of  necessity ;  or, 
at  all  events,  even  if  we  had  been  compelled 
to  commence  hostilities  with  him,  it  would 
have  been  a  far  less  formidable  contest  than 
that  into  which  we  have  been  driven,  by  aban- 
doning the  Affghans  in  the  late  expedition  to 
Cabool.  The  one  would  have  been  what  the 
subjugation  and  conquest  of  Prussia  was  to 
Napoleon,  the  other  was  an  expedition  fraught 
with  all  the  cost  and  perils  of  the  advance  to 
Moscow. 

Notwithstanding  these  perils  and  this  cost, 
however,  we  have  no  doubt  that,  at  the  time  it 
was  undertaken,  the  expedition  to  Affghan- 
istaan  had  become  a  matter  of  necessity.  We 
had  been  reduced  to  such  a  pass  by  the  eco- 
nomy, concession,  and  pusillanimity  of  former 
governments,  that  we  had  no  alternative  but 
either  to  see  the  whole  of  Central  Asia  and 
Northern  Hindostan  arrayed  in  one  formidable 
league,  under  Russian  guidance,  against  us,  or 
to  make  a  desperate  and  hazardous  attempt  to 
rcgam  our  lost  character.  We  have  preferred 
the  latter  alternative;  and  the  expedition  of 
Lord  Auckland,  boldly  conceived  and  vigorous- 
ly executed,  has  hitherto,  at  least,  been  crowned 
with  the  most  signal  success.  That  it  was 
also  attended  with  great  and  imminent  hazard 
is  equally  certain ;  but  the  existence  of  that 
peril,  imposed  upon  us  by  the  short-sighted 
parsimonious  spirit  of  the  mercantile  demo- 
cratic communities  which  for  fifteen  years 
past  have  swayed  the  British  empire,  is  no 
.mpeachment  whatever,  either  of  the  wisdom 
or  necessity  of  the  adventurous  step  which 
■^aj  at  last  resolved  on.    It  only  shows  the 


straits  to  which  a  great  nation  must  speedily 
be  reduced  when  its  government,  in  an  evil 
hour,  yields  to  the  insidious  cry  for  democra- 
tic retrenchment. 

Already  the  beneficial  effects  of  this  bold 
policy  have  become  apparent.  The  crossing 
of  the  Indus  by  a  powerful  British  army;  the 
surmounting  of  the  hills  of  Cashmere;  the 
passage  of  the  Bolan  defile ;  the  storming  of 
Ghuznee;  the  fall  of  Candahar  and  Cabool, 
and  the  restoration  of  Shah  Shoojah  to  the 
throne  of  his  ancestors ;  have  resounded 
through  the  whole  of  Asia,  and  restored,  after 
its  eclipse  of  fifteen  years,  the  honour  of  the 
British  name.  The  doubtful  fidelity  of  the 
Rajah  of  Lahore  has  been  overawed  into  sub- 
mission ;  the  undisguised  hostility  of  the  court 
of  Persia  has  terminated,  and  friendly  rela- 
tions are  on  the  eve  of  being  re-established ; 
and  the  indecision  of  the  Sultan  of  Herat  and 
his  brave  followers  has  been  decided  by  the 
terror  of  the  British  arms,  and  the  arrival  of 
a  train  of  artillery  within  its  ruined  bastions. 
As  Britons,  we  rejoice  from  the  bottom  of  our 
hearts  at  these  glorious  successes ;  and  we 
care  not  who  were  the  ministry  at  the  head  of 
affairs  when  they  were  achieved.  They  were 
undertaken  in  a  truly  British  spirit — executed 
by  whom  they  may,  they  emanated  from  con- 
servative principles.  As  much  as  the  ruinous 
reductions  and  parsimonious  spirit  of  Lord 
William  Bentinck's  administration  bespoke 
the  poisonous  influence  of  democratic  re- 
trenchment in  the  great  council  of  the  empire^ 
so  much  does  the  expedition  to  Afighanistaun 
bespeak  the  felicitous  revival  of  the  true  English 
spirit  in  the  same  assembly.  At  both  periods 
it  is  easy  to  see,  that,  though  not  nominally 
possessed  of  the  reins  of  power,  her  majesty's 
opposition  really  ruled  the  state.  In  the  Aff- 
ghanistaun expedition  there  was  very  little  of 
the  economy  which  cut  in  twain  the  Indian 
army,  but  very  much  of  the  spirit  which  ani- 
mated the  British  troops  at  Assaye  and  Las- 
warree  ; — there  was  very  little  of  the  truckling 
Mdiich  brought  the  Russians  to  Constantinople, 
but  a  great  deal  of  the  energy  which  carried 
the  English  to  Paris. 

In  a  military  point  of  view,  the  expedition 
to  Affghanistaun  is  one  of  the  most  memorable 
events  of  modern  times.  For  the  first  time  since 
the  days  of  Alexander  the  Great,  a  civilized  army 
has  penetrated  the  mighty  barrier  of  deserts 
and  mountains  which  separates  Persia  from 
Hindostan  ;  and  the  prodigy  has  been  exhi 
bited  to  an  astonished  world,  of  a  remote  is- 
land in  the  European  seas  pushing  forward  its 
mighty  arms  into  the  heart  of  Asia,  and  CE.rry- 
ing  its  victorious  standards  into  the  strongholds 
of  Mohammedan  faith  and  the  cradle  of  the 
Mogul  empire.  Neither  the  intricate  streams 
of  the  Punjab,  nor  the  rapid  flow  of  the  Indus, 
nor  the  waterless  mountains  of  Affghanistaun, 
nor  the  far-famed  bastions  of  Ghuzrjee,  have 
been  able  to  arrest  our  course.  For  the  first 
time  in  the  history  of  the  world,  the  tide  of 
conquest  has  flowed  vp  from  Hindostan  into 
Central  Asia ;  the  European  race  has  asserted 
its  wonted  superiority  over  the  Asiatic ;  re- 
versing the  march  of  Timour  and  Alexander 
the  sable  battalions  of  the  Ganges  have  ap 


THE  AFFGHANISTAUN  EXPEDITION. 


353 


peared  as  conquerors  on  the  frontiers  of  Persia, 
and  on  the  confines  of  the  steppes  of  Samar- 
cand.  So  marvellous  and  unprecedented  an 
event  is  indeed  fitted  to  awaken  the  contempla- 
tion of  every  thoughtful  mind.  It  speaks  vo- 
lumes as  to  the  mighty  step  made  by  the  human 
race  in  the  last  five  hundred  years,  and  indi- 
cates the  vast  agency  and  unbounded  effects 
of  that  free  spirit,  of  which  Britain  is  the  cen- 
tre, which  has  ihus,  for  a  season  at  least,  in- 
verted the  heretofore  order  of  nature,  made 
the  natives  of  Hindostan  appear  as  victors  in 
the  countr}--  of  Gcngis  Khan,  and  brought  the 
standards  of  civilized  Europe,  though  in  the 
inverse  order,  into  the  footsteps  of  the  phalanx 
of  Alexander. 

Though  such,  however,  have  been  the  mar- 
vels of  the  British  expedition  to  Central  Asia, 
yet  it  is  not  to  be  disguised  that  it  was  attend- 
ed by  at  least  equal  perils ;  and  never,  per- 
haps, since  the  British  standard  appeared  on 
the  plains  of  Hindostan,  was  their  empire  in 
such  danger  as  during  the  dependence  of  this 
glorious  but  hazardous  expedition.  It  was, 
literally  sneaking,  to  our  Indian  empire  what 
the  expedition  to  Moscow  was  to  the  European 
dominion  of  Napoleon.  Hitherto,  indeed,  the 
result  has  been  diflferent,  and  we  devoutly  hope 
(hat,  in  that  respect,  the  dissimilarity  will  con- 
tinue. But  in  both  cases  the  danger  was  the 
same.  It  was  the  moving  forward  a  large 
torce  so  far  from  its  resources  and  the  base 
of  its  operations,  which  in  both  cases  consti- 
tuted the  danger.  If  any  serious  check  had 
been  sustained  by  our  troops  in  that  distant 
enterprise  ;  if  Runjeet  Sing  had  proved  openly 
treacherous,  and  assailed  our  rear  and  cut  off 
our  supplies  when  the  bulk  of  our  force  was 
far  advanced  in  the  Affghanistaun  defiles;  if 
the  Bolan  pass  had  been  defended  with  a  cou- 
rage equal  to  its  physical  strength ;  if  the 
powder-bags  which  blew  open  the  gates  of 
Ghuznee  had  missed  fire,  or  the  courage  of 
those  who  bore  them  had  quailed  under  the 
extraordinary  perils  of  their  mission  ;  the  fate 
of  the  expedition  wriuld  in  all  probability  have 
been  changed,  and  a  disaster  as  great  as  the 
cutting  off  of  Crassus  and  his  legions  in  Meso- 
potamia, would  have  resounded  like  a  clap  of 
thunder  through  the  whole  of  Asia.  Few  if 
any  of  the  brave  men  who  had  penetrated  into 
Affghanistaun  would  ever  have  returned;  (he 
Burmese,  the  Nepaulese  would  iminediatoly 
have  appeared  in  arms;  the  Mahralta  and 
I'lndaree  horse  would  have  re-assembled  round 
their  predatory  standards;  and,  Avhiie  the  Bri- 
tish empire  in  Hindostan  rocked  to  its  foun- 
ilation,  an  .'\ffghanislaun  army,  direcfi-d  by 
Russian  odicers,  and  swelled  by  the  predalnry 
tribes  of  Central  Asia,  would  have  poured 
down,  thirsting  for  plunder  and  panting  for 
blood,*  on  the  devoted  plains  of  Hindostan. 

Subsequent  events  have  already  reveali'<l, 
in  the  clearest  manner,  the  imminent  danger 
m  which  the  English  empire  in  the  East  was 
placed  at  the  period  of  the  Aflghanisiaun  ex- 
pedition.    So  low  had   the  reputation  of  the 


•  How  rninplcifly  liave  llie  siilisc.|iiiiii  di-iaslcrs  of 
Afryhanislaiin  anil  ilio  nias-iarri-  nf  tin-  Cnord  Caliiil  I'asM 
proved  the  tniili  oftlioso  prosfiilimciits  1 

23 


British  name  sunk  in  the  east,  that  even  the 
Chinese,  the  most  unwarlike  and  least  preci- 
pitate of  the  Asiatic  empires,  had  ventured  to 
offer  a  signal  injury  to  the  British  interests, 
and  insult  to  the  British  name;  and  so  mise- 
rably deficient  were  government  in  any  pre- 
vious preparation  for  the  danger,  that  it  was 
only  twelve  months  aflei  the  insult  was  of- 
fered, that  ships  of  war  could  be  fitted  out  in 
the  Biitish  harbours  to  attempt  to  seek  for  re- 
dress. It  is  now  ascertained  that  a  vast  con- 
spiracy had  been  long  on  foot  in  the  Indian 
peninsula  to  overturn  our  power ;  in  the 
strongholds  of  some  of  the  lesser  rajahs  in  the 
southern  part  of  the  peninsula,  enormous  mi- 
litary stores  have  been  found  accumulated; 
and  not  a  doubt  can  remain,  that,  if  any  seri*- 
ous  disaster  had  happened  to  our  army  in 
Central  Asia,  not  only  would  the  Burmese 
and  Xepaulese  have  instantlj'  commenced  hos- 
tilities, but  a  formidable  insurrection  would 
have  broken  out  among  the  semi-independent 
rajahs,  in  the  very  vitals  of  our  power.  And 
yet  it  was  Avhile  resting  on  the  smouldering 
fires  of  such  a  volcano,  that  Lord  William 
Bentinck  and  the  Liberal  Administration  of 
India  thought  fit  to  reduce  our  military  force 
to  one-half^  and  shake  the  fidelity  of  the  native 
troops  by  the  reduction  in  many  important 
particulars  of  their  pay  aiid  allowances. 

But  this  proved  hostility  of  so  large  a  por- 
tion of  the  native  powers,  suggests  matter  for 
further  and  most  serious  consideration.  It  is 
clear,  that  although  the  British  government 
has,  to  an  immense  degree,  benefited  India, 
yet  it  has  done  so  chiefly  by  the  preservation 
of  peace,  and  the  suppression  of  robbery, 
throughout  its  vast  dominions  ;  and  it  is  pain- 
fully evident,  that  hardly  any  steps  have  yet 
been  taken  to  reconcile  the  natives  to  our  do- 
minion, by  the  extended  market  which  we 
have  opened  to  their  industry.  The  startling 
fact  which  Mr.  Montgomery  Martin*  has 
clearly  established,  that  notwithstanding  all 
that  was  prophesied  of,  the  trade  to  India  has 
been,  including  exports  and  im))orts,  Irss  for 
the  last  hrriilij  i/rais  than  for  the  hfoilij  ijeors  ]>rc- 
rrdini:,  clearly  demonstrates  some  vital  defect 
in  our  colonial  policy.  Nor  is  it  dithcult  to 
see  where  that  error  is  to  be  found.  We  have 
loaded  the  produce  of  India — sugar,  indigo, 
&c. — with  duties  of  nearly  a  hundred  per  cent., 
while  we  have  deluged  them  with  our  own 
manufactures  at  an  import  duly  of  Iwn  or  three 
per  cent.  In  our  anxiety  to  find  a  vent  for  our 
own  manufactures  on  the  continent  of  Hin- 
dostan, we  seem  to  have  entirely  forgotten 
that  there  was  another  requisite  indispensably 
necessary  towards  the  success  of  our  projects 
even  for  our  own  interests, — to  give  ihem  the 
means  of  paying  for  them.  Our  conduct  to- 
wards our  colonies,  equally  with  that  to  foreign 
states,  has  exhibited  reciprocity  nil  on  one  side 
— with  this  material  difference,  that  we  have, 
in  our  blind  anxiety  to  conciliate  foreign 
states,  allowed  the  whole  benefits  of  the  rec^- 


•  Snc  Cnlnniat  Miirntine,  No.  1..  arlirlo — "Fornien 
Trailn  lo  liiilin," — a  lu.'WJy  rstalilislii.'il  iiiisri'llany,  full 
oT  valnaMc!  irirnrtiialinii,  and  wliirli,  if  nindiirtiMl  on 
rL'lil  |iriiiii|ik'!!,  will  prove  of  llii;  very  lii^licsl  iriiport- 
ai'ce. 


354 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


procity  treaties  to  rest  with  them ;  while,  in 
our  selfish  legislation  towards  our  colonial 
subjects,  we  have  taken  the  whole  to  our- 
selves. 

So  vast  is  the  importance  of  our  Indian  pos- 
sessions to  the  British  empire,  and  so  bound- 
less the  market  for  her  manufactures  which 
might  be  opened  if  a  truly  wise  and  liberal 
policy  were  pursued  towards  our  Indian  pos- 
s;55ions,  that  there  is  nothing  more  to  be  re- 
gretted than  that  there  has  not  hitherto  issued 
from  the  press  a  popular  and  readable  history 
of  our  Indian  possessions.  Auber  has,  indeed, 
with  great  industry,  narrated  the  leading  facts, 
and  supported  them  by  a  variety  of  interesting 
official  documents.  But  it  is  in  vain  to  con- 
ceal, that  his  book  possesses  no  attractions  to 
the  general  reader ;  and  accordingly,  although 
it  will  always  be  a  standard  book  of  reference 
to  persons  studying  Indian  affairs,  it  has  not 
and  will  not  produce  any  impression  upon 
public  thought.  It  was,  therefore,  with  pecu- 
liar pleasure  that  we  recently  opened  the 
Chapters  on  Indian  History,  just  published  by 
Mr.  Thornton,  already  so  favourably  known 
to  the  eastern  world  by  his  work  on  India,  and 
its  State  and  Prospects.  From  the  cursory  ex- 
amination we  have  been  able  to  give  to  this 
very  interesting  work,  we  have  only  reason  to 
regret  that  the  author  has  not  been  more  com- 
prehensive in  his  plan,  and  that,  instead  of 
chapters  on  British  India  since  the  adminis- 
tration of  Marquis  Wellesley,  in  one  volume, 
he  has  not  given  to  the  world  a  full  history 
of  the  period  in  three.  The  work  is  distin- 
guished by  judgment,  candour,  and  research, 
and  is,  beyond  all  doubt,  the  most  valuable 
that  has  yet  appeared  on  the  recent  history  of 
India.  We  would  beg  leave  only  to  suggest 
to  the  able  author,  that  his  next  edition  should 
extend  to  two  volumes,  and  should  embrace 
the  whole  events  of  the  period  of  which  he 
treats  ;  in  particular,  that  Lord  Hastings'  war 
in  1817  should  be  more  fully  enlarged  upon ; 
and  that  greater  exertions  should  be  made,  by 
the  introduction  of  picturesque  incidents  and 
vivid  descriptions,  to  interest  the  mass  of  the 
nation  in  a  subject  daily  rising  in  importance, 
and  on  which  they  must  soon  be  called  upon 
to  exercise  the  functions  of  direct  legislation. 

To  have  engaged  in  and  successfully  ac- 
complished such  an  undertaking  ;  to  have 
overcome  so  many  and  such  formidable  inter- 
vening obstacles,  and  planted  the  British  guns 
in  triumph  on  the  walls  of  Herat,  is  one  of  the 
most  glorious  exploits  which  have  ever  graced 
the  long  annals  of  British  military  prowess. 
That  our  soldiers  were  undaunted  in  battle 
and  irresistible  in  the  breach  has  been  often 
proved,  in  the  fields  alike  of  Asiatic  and  Euro- 
pean fame.  But  here  they  have  exhibited 
qualities  of  a  totally  different  kind,  and  in 
which  hitherto  they  were  not  supposed  to 
have  been  equal  to  the  troops  of  other  states. 
They  have  successfully  accomplished  marches, 
unparalleled  in  modern  times  for  their  length 
and  hardship  ;  surmounted  mountain  ranges, 
compared  to  which  the  passage  of  the  St. 
Bernard  by  Napoleon  must  sink  into  insig- 
nificance •  and  solved  the  great  problem,  so 
mucn  lebated,  and  hitherto  unascertained  in 


military  science,  as  to  the  practicability  of  aa 
European  force,  with  the  implements  and  in- 
cumbrances of  modern  warfare,  surmounting 
the  desert  and  mountain  tracts  which  separate 
Persia  from  Hindostan.  Involved  as  we  are 
in  the  pressing  interests  of  domestic  politics, 
and  in  the  never-ending  agitation  of  domestic 
concerns,  the  attention  of  the  British  public 
has  been  little  attracted  by  this  stupendous 
event ;  but  it  is  one  evidently  calculated  to  fix 
the  attention  of  the  great  military  nations  on 
the  continent,  and  which  will  stand  forth  in 
imperishable  lustre  in  the  annals  of  history. 

There  is  one  result  which  may  and  should 
folWw  from  our  undertakings  in  Affghanistaun,  ! 
which,  if  properly  improved,  may  render  it  the  \ 
means  of  strengthening,  in  the  most  essential 
manner,  our  possessions  in  the  east.  The  In- 
dus and  the  Himalaya  are  the  natural  frontier  i 
of  our  dominions ;  they  are  what  the  Danube 
and  the  Rhine  were  to  the  Romans,  and  the 
former  of  these  streams  to  Napoleon's  empire. 
The  Indus  is  navigable  for  twelve  hundred 
miles,  and  for  nine  hundred  by  steamers  of 
war  and  mercantile  vessels  of  heavy  burden. 
It  descends  nearly  in  a  straight  line  from  the 
impassable  barrier  of  the  Himalaya  to  the 
Indian  ocean ;  its  stream  is  so  rapid,  and  its 
surface  so  broad,  that  no  hostile  force  can  pos- 
sibly cross  it  in  the  face  of  a  powerful  defen- 
sive marine.  Never  was  an  empire  which  had 
such  a  frontier  for  its  protection  ;  never  was 
such  abase  afforded  for  militaiy  operations  as 
on  both  its  banks.  Provisions  for  any  num- 
ber of  soldiers  ;  warlike  stores  to  any  amount ; 
cannon  sufficient  for  a  hundred  thousand  men, 
can  with  ease  ascend  its  waves.  Vain  is  the 
rapidity  of  its  current ;  the  power  of  steam 
has  given  to  civilized  man  the  means  of  over- 
coming it ;  and  before  many  years  are  expired, 
British  vessels,  from  every  harbour  in  the 
United  Kingdom,  may  ascend  that  mighty 
stream,  and  open  fresh  and  hitherto  unheard- 
of  markets  for  British  industry  in  the  bound- 
less regions  of  Central  Asia.  Now,  then,  is 
the  time  to  secure  the  advantages,  and  gain 
the  mastery  of  this  mercantile  artery  and  fron- 
tier stream  ;  and,  by  means  of  fortified  stations 
on  its  banks,  and  a  powerful  fleet  of  armed 
steamers  in  its  bosom,  to  gain  that  impregna- 
ble barrier  to  our  Indian  possessions,  against 
which,  if  duly  supported  by  manly  vigour  at 
home,  and  wise  administration  in  our  Indian 
provinces,  all  the  efforts  of  Northern  ambition 
will  beat  in  vain. 

But  there  is  one  consideration  desei-ving  of 
especial  notice  which  necessarily  follows  from 
this  successful  irruption.  The  problem  of 
marching  overland  to  India  is  now  solved  ;  the 
Russian  guns  have  come  down  from  Peters- 
burg to  Herat,  and  the  British  have  come  up 
from  Delhi  to  Cabool.  English  cannon  are 
now  planted  in  the  embrasures,  against  which, 
twelve  months  ago,  the  Russian  shot  were  di- 
rected; and  if  twenty  thousand  British  could 
march  from  Delhi  to  Candahar  and  Cabool, 
forty  thousand  Russians  may  march  from  Jlstrakan 
to  the  Ganges  and  Calcutta.  Our  success  has 
opened  the  path  in  the  East  to  Russian  ambi- 
tion ; — the  stages  of  our  ascending  army  point 
out  the  stations  for  their  descending  host ;  and 


THE  AFFGHANISTAUN  EXPEDITION. 


355 


ihe  ease  with  which  our  triumph  has  been 
eflected,  will  dispel  any  doubts  which  they 
may  have  entertained  as  to  the  practicability 
of  ultimately  accomplishing  the  long-cherish- 
ed object  of  their  ambition,  and  conquering  in 
Calcutta  the  empire  of  the  east.  This  is  the 
inevitable  result  of  our  success  :  but  it  is  one 
which  should  excite  no  desponding  feeling  in 
anv  British  bosom ;  and  we  allude  to  it,  not 
with  the  selfish,  unpatriotic  design  of  chilling 
the  national  ardour  at  our  success,  but  in 
order,  if  possible,  to  arouse  the  British  people 
to  a  sense  of  the  new  and  more  extended  duties 
to  which  they  are  called,  and  the  wider  sphere 
of  danger  and  hostility  in  which  they  are  in- 
volved. 

It  is  no  longer  possible  to  disguise  that  the 
sphere  of  hostility  and  diplomatic  exertion  has 
been  immensely  extended  by  our  success  in 
AfTghanistaun.  Hitherto  the  politics  of  India 
have  formed,  as  it  were,  a  world  to  themselves  ; 
a  dark  range  of  intervening  mountains  or  arid 
deserts  were  supposed  to  separate  Hindostan 
from  Central  Asia;  and  however  much  we 
might  be  disquieted  at  home  by  the  progress 
of  Russian  or  French  ambition,  no  serious 
fears  were  entertained  that  either  would  be 
able  to  accomplish  the  Quixotic  exploit  of 
passing  the  western  range  of  the  Himalaya 
mountains.  Now,  however,  this  veil  has  been 
rent  asunder — this  mountain  screen  has  been 
penetrated.  The  Russian  power  in  Persia, 
and  the  British  in  India,  now  stand  face  to 
face :  the  advanced  posts  of  both  have  touched 
Herat ;  the  high-road  from  St.  Petersburg  to 
Calcutta  has  been  laid  open  by  British  hands. 
The  advanced  position  we  have  gained  must 
now  be  maintained ;  if  we  retire,  even  from 
tributary  or  allied  states,  the  charm  of  our  in- 
vincibility is  gone ;  the  day  when  the  god  Ter- 
minus recoils  before  a  foreign  enemy,  is  the 
commencement  of  decline.  We  do  not  bring 
forward  this  consideration  in  order  to  blame 
the  expedition;  but  in  order  to  show  into  what 
a  contest,  and  with  what  a  power,  it  has  neces- 
sarily brought  us.  Aflghanistaun  is  the  out- 
post of  Russia;  Dost  Mohammed,  now  exiled 
from  his  throne,  was  a  vassal  of  tlic  Czar;  and 
wc  must  now  contend  fnr  Ihe  empire  of  the 
east,  not  with  the  rajahs  of  India,  but  the 
Moscovitc  battalions. 

The  reality  of  these  anticipations  as  to  the 
increased  amount  of  the  danger  of  a  collision 
with  Itnssia,  which  lias  arisen  from  the  trreat 
approximation  of  our  outposts  to  iheirs.  which 
the  Alfghani^staun  expedition  has  occasioned, 
is  apparent.  Already  Russia  has  taken  the 
alarm,  and  the  expedition  against  Khiva  shows 
that  she  has  not  less  the  inclination,  than  she 
unqursiionably  has  the  power,  of  amply  pro- 
viding for  herself  against  what  she  derms  the 
impending  danger.  No  one  can  for  a  moment 
suppose  that  that  expedition  is  really  intended 
to  chastise  the  rebellious  Khan.  Thirty  thou- 
sand men,  and  a  larire  train  of  artillery,  are 
not  sent  against  an  obscure  chieftain  in  'i'ar- 
tary,  whom  a  few  regiments  of  Cossacks 
would  soon  reduce  to  obedience.  A  glance  at 
•he  map  will  at  once  show  what  was  the  real 

bject  in  view.  Khiva  is  situated  on  the  Oxus, 
and  Ihe  Oxus  flowa  to  the  north-west  from  Ihe 


mountains  which  take  their  rise  from  the  north' 
ern  boundary  of  Cabool.  Its  stream  is  navi* 
gable  to  the  foot  of  the  AfTghanistaun  moun- 
tains, and  from  the  point  where  water  commu- 
nication ceases,  it  is  a  passage  of  only  five  or 
six  days  to  the  valley  of  Cabool.  If,  therefore, 
the  Russians  once  establish  themselves  at 
Cabool,  they  will  have  no  difficulty  in  reach- 
ing the  possessions  of  Shah  Shoojah ;  and 
their  establishment  will  go  far  to  outweigh 
the  influence  established  by  the  British,  by  the 
AfTghanistaun  expedition,  among  the  Affghan- 
istaun  tribes.  Already,  if  recent  account's  can 
be  relied  on,  this  effect  has  become  apparent 
Dost  Mohammed,  expelled  from  his  kingdom, 
has  found  support  among  the  Tartar  tribes; 
backed  by  their  support,  he  has  ah-eady  re-ap- 
peared over  the  hills,  and  regained  part  of  hig 
dominions,  and  the  British  troops,  on  their  re- 
turn to  AfTghanistaun,  have  already  received 
orders  to  halt.  Let  us  hope  that  it  is  not  in 
our  case,  as  it  was  in  that  of  the  French  at 
Moscow,  that  when  they  thought  the  campaigp 
over  it  was  only  going  to  commence.* 

Regarding,  then,  our  success  in  AfTghanis 
taun  as  having  accelerated  by  several  years 
the  approach  of  this  great  contest,  it  becomes 
the  British  nation  well  to  consider  what  pre- 
parations they  have  made  at  home  to  maintain 
it.  Have  we  equipped  and  manned  a  fleet 
capable  of  withstanding  the  formidable  arma- 
ment which  Nicholas  has  always  ready  for  im 
mediate  operations  in  the  Baltic]  Have  wo 
fivc-and-twenty  ships  of  the  line  and  thirty 
frigates  ready  to  meet  the  tldrij/  ships  of  the 
line  and  eighteen  frigates  which  Nicholas  has 
always  equipped  for  sea  at  Cronstadt?  Have 
we  thirty  thousand  men  in  London  ready  to 
meet  the  thirty  thousand  veterans  whom  the 
Czar  has  constantly  prepared  to  step  on  board 
his  fleet  on  the  shores  of  the  Baltic  !  Alas ! 
we  have  none  of  these  things.  We  could  not, 
to  save  London  from  destruction  or  the  British 
empire  from  conquest,  fit  out  three  shi]is  of  the 
line  to  protect  the  mouth  of  the  Thames,  or 
assemble  ten  thousand  men  to  save  Woolwich 
or  Portsmouth  from  conflagration.  What  be- 
twfi'n  Radical  economy  in  our  army  estimates, 
Will::  parsimony  in  our  naval  preparations, 
and  (Jliartist  violence  in  our  manufacturing 
cities,  we  have  neither  a  naval  nor  a  military 
force  to  protect  ourselves  from  destruction. 
.Ml  that  Sir  Charles  .Adam,  one  of  the  lord.i 
of  llu;  admiralty,  could  say  on  this  subject  last 
session  of  parliaim-nt  was,  that  we  had  three 
fUipn  of  Ihe  line  <iiul  three  liuard-nhipii  to  protect  the 
shore*  of  Knuliitul.  Never  was  such  a  proof 
atTorded  that  we  had  sunk  down  from  the  days 
of  giants  into  those  of  pigmies,  than  the  use 
of  such  an  argument  by  a  lord  of  the  liritish 
admiralty.  Why,  thirly  years  age,  wo  sent 
thirty-nine  ships  of  the  line  to  attack  the 
enemy's  naval  station  at  Antwerp,  without 
raiding  the  blockade  of  one  of  his  harbours, 
from  (Jibrallar  to  the  North  Cajie.  Herein, 
then,  lii's  the  monstrous  ahsiirdily,  the  iinpa- 
rallel''d  danger  of  our  present  national  policy, 
that  we  arc  vigorous  even  to  temerity  in  the 

•  Hnw  family  was  tlii-i  sinister  prrscnlimont  rnaliaad 
In  ri)ii-'"nii<'iici'  of  iiiiTi-dilili:  iiua|(arily  oti  Ihr;  part  of 
xhr  l!riii~li  authorities  in  pussciisioii  of  Cabool. 


356 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS 


east,  and  parsimonious  even  to  pusillanimity 
in  the  west;  and  that  while  we  give  Russia  a 
fair  pretext  for  hostility,  and  perhaps  some 
ground  for  complaint  in  the  centre  of  Asia, 
we  make  no  preparation  whatever  to  resist  her 
hostility  on  the  shores  of  England. 

The  contrast  between  the  marvellous  vigour 
of  our  Indian  government  and  the  niggardly 
spirit  with  which  all  our  establishments  are 
starved  down  at  home,  would  be  inconceivable 
if  we  did  not  recollect  by  what  opposite  mo- 
tives our  government  is  regulated  in  Hindos- 
tan  and  in  the  British  islands.  Taxation  in 
India  falls  upon  the  inhabitants,  who  are  unre- 
presented ;  taxation  at  home  falls  upon  the  ten- 
pounders,  who  have  a  numerical  majority  in 
parliament.  We  never  doubted  the  inclination 
of  a  democracy  to  dip  their  hands  in  other 
people's  pockets ;  what  we  doubted  was  their  in- 
clination, save  in  the  last  extremity,  to  put 
them  in  their  own. 

Disregard  of  the  future,  devotion  to  present 
objects,  has,  in  all  ages,  been  the  characteris- 
tic of  the  masses  of  mankind.  We  need  not 
wonder  that  the  British  populace  are  distin- 
guished by  the  well-known  limited  vision  of 
their  class,  when  all  the  eloquence  of  Demos- 
thenes failed  in  inducing  the  most  enlightened 
republic  of  antiquity  to  take  any  measures  to 
ward  off  the  danger  arising  from  the  ambition 
of  Philip  of  Macedon;  and  all  the  wisdom  of 
Washington  was  unable  to  communicate  to 
the  greatest  republic  of  modern  times,  strength 
or  foresight  sufficient  to  prevent  its  capitol 
from  being  taken,  and  its  arsenals  pillaged  by 
a  British  division  not  three  thousand  strong. 
Unless,  however,  the  Conservative  press  can 
succeed  in  rousing  the  British  public  to  a  sense 
of  their  danger  on  this  subject,  and  the  Con- 
servative leaders  in  Parliament  take  up  the 
matter  earnestly  and  vigorously,  it  may  safely 
be  pronounced  that  the  days  of  the  British  em- 
pire are  numbered. 

No  empire  can  possibly  exist  for  any  length 
of  time  which  provokes  hostility  in  its  distant 
possessions,  while  it  neglects  preparation  in 
the  heart  of  its  power;  which  buckles  on  its 
gloves  and  puts  on  the  helmet,  but  leaves  the 
breastplate  and  the  cuirass  behind.  If  a  Rus- 
sian fleet  of  thirty  ships  of  the  line  appears 
off  the  Nore,  it  will  not  be  by  deriding  their 
prowess,  or  calling  them  a  "pasteboard  fleet," 
that  the  danger  will  be  averted  from  the  arse- 
nals and  the  treasures  of  England.  The  Rus- 
sian sailors  do  not  possess  any  thing  like  the 
nautical  skill  or  naval  habits  of  the  British ; 
but  they  are  admirably  trained  to  ball  practice, 
they  possess  the  native  courage  of  their  race, 
and  will  stand  to  their  guns  with  any  sailors  in 
Europe.  Remember  the  words  of  Nelson,  "  Lay 
yourself  alongside  of  a  Frenchman,  but  out- 
manoeuvre a  Russian." 

The  manifest  and  not  yet  terminated  dan- 
gers with  which  the  Afl^ghanistaun  expedition 
was  attended,  should  operate  as  a  warning,  and 
they  will  be  cheaply  purchased  if  they  prove  a 
timely  one,  to  the  British  people,  of  the  enor- 
mous dangers,  not  merely  to  the  national  ho- 
nour and  independence,  but  to  the  vital  pecu- 
niary interests  of  every  individual  in  the  state, 
of  continuing  any  longer  the  pernicious  sys- 


tem of  present  economy,  an:^  tcta.  disregard 
of  future  danger,  wh  ich  for  twenty  years  has 
characterized  every  department  of  our  gov- 
ernment. Why  is  it  that  England  has  now 
been  compelled  in  the  east,  for  the  first  time, 
to  incur  the  ennrmous  perils  of  the  Affghan- 
istaun  expedition — to  hazard,  as  it  were,  the 
very  existence  of  our  eastern  empire  upon  a 
single  throw ;  and  adventure  a  large  propor- 
tion of  the  British  army,  and  the  magic  charm 
of  British  invincibility,  upon  a  perilous  ad- 
vance, far  beyond  the  utmost  frontiers  of  Hin- 
doslan,  into  the  heart  of  Asia?  Simply  be- 
cause previous  preparation  had  been  abandon- 
ed, ultimate  danger  disregarded ;  because  re- 
trenchment was  the  order  of  the  day,  and  go- 
vernment yielded  to  the  ever  popular  cry  ol 
present  economy ;  because  the  noble  naval  and 
military  establishment  of  former  times  was 
reduced  one-half,  or  allowed  to  expire,  in  the 
childish  belief  that  it  never  again  would  be  re- 
quired. Rely  upon  it,  a  similar  conduct  will 
one  day  produce  a  similar  necessity  to  the 
British  empire.  It  will  be  found,  and  that  too 
ere  many  years  have  passed  over,  that  the 
Duke  of  Wellington  was  right  when  he  said, 
that  a  great  empire  cannot  with  safety  wage  a 
little  war;  and  that  nothing  but  present  dan- 
ger and  future  disaster  can  result  from  a  s}'s- 
tem  which  blindly  shuts  its  eyes  to  the  future, 
and  never  looks  beyond  the  conciliating  the 
masses  by  a  show  of  economy  at  the  moment. 
An  Affghanistaun  expedition — a  Moscow  cam- 
paign— will  be  necessary  to  ward  off"  impend- 
ing danger,  or  restore  the  sunk  credit  of  the 
British  name  :  happy  if  the  contest  can  thus  be 
averted  from  our  own  shores,  and  by  incur- 
ring distant  dangers  we  can  escape  domestic 
subjugation. 

But  let  not  foreign  nations  imagine,  from  all 
that  has  been  said  or  may  be  said  by  the  Con- 
servatives on  this  vital  subject,  that  Great  Bri- 
tain has  now  lost  her  means  of  defence,  or 
that,  if  a  serious  insult  or  injury  is  offered  to 
her,  she  may  not  soon  be  brought  into  a  condi- 
tion to  take  a  fearful  vengeance  upon  her  ene- 
mies. The  same  page  of  history  which  tells 
us  that  while  democratic  states  never  can  be 
brought  to  foresee  remote  dangers,  or  incur 
present  burdens  to  guard  against  it;  yet  when 
the  danger  is  present,  and  strikes  the  senses  of 
the  multitude,  they  are  capable  of  the  most 
stupendous  exertions.  That  England,  in  the 
event  of  a  war  breaking  out  in  her  present 
supine,  unprepared  slate,  would  sustain  in  the 
outset  very  great  disasters,  is  clear ;  but  it  is 
not  by  any  ordinary  calamities  that  a  power  of 
such  slow  growth  and  present  magnitude  as 
England  is  to  be  subdued.  She  now  possesses 
2,800,000  tonnage,  numbers  an  hundred  and 
sixty  thousand  seamen  in  her  commercial  na- 
vy, and  a  fleet  of  seven  hundred  steam-boats, 
more  than  all  Europe  possesses,  daily  prowl 
along  her  shores.  Here  are  all  the  elements 
of  a  powerful  marine ;  at  no  period  could 
Great  Britain  command  such  a  foundation  for 
naval  strength  within  her  bosom.  What  is 
wanting,  is  not  the  elements  of  an  irresistible 
naval  force,  but  the  sagacity  in  the  people  to 
foresee  the  approaching  necessity  for  iis  es- 
tablishment, and  the  virtue  in  the  government 


THE  FUTURE. 


357 


to  propose  the  burdens  indispensable  for  its  re- 
storation. In  the  experienced  difficulty  of 
either  communicating  this  foresight  to  the  one, 
or  imparting  this  virtue  to  the  other,  may  be 
traced  the  well-known  and  often-predicted  ef- 
fects of  democratic  ascendency.  But  that 
same  ascendenc)',  if  the  spirit  of  the  people  is 
roused  by  experienced  disgrace,  or  their  inte- 
rests affected  by  present  calamity,  would  infal- 
libly make  the  most  incredible  exertions  ;  and 
A  navy,  greater  than  any  which  ever  yet  issued 
from  the  British  harbours,  might  sally  forth 
from  our  sea-girt  isle,  to  carry,  like  the  French 


Revolutionary  armies,  devastation  and  ruin 
into  all  the  naval  establishments  of  Europe. 
No  such  career  of  naval  conquest,  however,  is 
either  needed  for  the  glory,  or  suited  for  the  in- 
terests of  England ;  and  it  is  as  much  from  a 
desire  to  avert  that  ultimate  forcible  and  most 
painful  conversion  of  all  the  national  energies 
to  warlike  objects,  as  to  prevent  the  immediate 
calamities  which  it  would  occasion,  that  ws 
earnestly  press  upon  the  country  the  immediate 
adoption,  at  any  cost,  of  that  great  increase  to 
our  naval  and  military  establishments  which 
can  alone  avert  one  or  both  of  these  calamities 


THE  FUTURE.* 


That  human  affairs  are  now  undergoing  a 
great  and  durable  alteration ;  that  we  are  in  a 
transition  state  of  society,  when  new  settlements 
are  taking  place,  and  the  old  levels  are  heaved 
up,  or  displaced  by  expansive  force  irom  be- 
neath, is  universally  admitted ;  but  the  world 
is  as  yet  in  the  dark  as  to  the  ultimate  results, 
whether  for  good  or  evil,  of  these  vast  and  or- 
ganic changes.  While  the  popular  advocates 
look  upon  them  as  the  commencement  of  a  new 
era  in  social  existence — as  the  opening  of  a 
period  of  knowledge,  freedom,  and  general 
happiness,  in  which  the  human  race,  freed 
from  the  fetters  of  feudal  tyranny,  is  to  arrive 
at  an  unprecedented  state  of  social  felicity — 
the  Conservative  party  everywhere  regard 
them  as  fraught  with  the  worst  possible  effects 
to  all  classes  in  society,  and  to  none  more  im- 
mediately than  those  by  whom  they  are  so 
blindly  urged  forward — as  conducing  to  the 
destruction  of  all  the  bulwarks  both  of  property 
and  freedom.  While  these  opposite  and  irre- 
concilable opinions  are  honestly  and  firmly 
maintained  by  millions  on  either  side  of  this 
great  controversy,  and  victory  inclines  some- 
times to  one  side  and  sometimes  to  another  in 
the  course  of  the  contests,  civil  and  military, 
which  it  engenders,  "Time  rolls  on  his  cease- 
less course;"  the  actors  and  the  spectators  in 
llie  world's  debate  arc  alike  hurried  tu  the  grave, 
and  new  generations  succeed,  who  are  borne 
along  by  the  same  mighty  stream,  and  inherit 
from  their  parents  the  passions  and  prejudices 
inseparable  from  a  question  in  which  such 
hounillcss  expoctatioiis  have  lieen  excited  on 
the  one  side,  and  such  vital  interests  are  at 
stake  on  the  other. 

The  symptoms  of  this  transition  state  dis- 
tinctly appear,  not  merely  in  the  increase  of 
political  power  on  the  part  of  the  lower  classes 
in  almost  every  stale  of  western  Europe,  but 
'he  general  formation  of  warm  hopes  and  an- 
"icipations  on  their  parts  inconsistent  with 
{heir  present  condition,  and  the  universal  adap- 
.ation  of  science,  literature,  arts,  and  manufac- 
tures  to  iheir   wants.      Supposing   the    most 

•Tncqueville,  Dcmorracy  in  America,  2  vols.  Paris, 
W95,t  London,  1835.    niackwood's  Magazine,  Jan.  1836. 


decided  re-action  to  take  place  in  public  feel- 
ing in  the  British  dominions,  and  the  most 
Conservative  administration  to  be  placed  at 
the  helm,  still  the  state  is  essentially  revolu 
lionized.  The  great  organic  change  has  been 
made,  and  cannot  be  undone.  Government  is 
no  longer,  and  never  again  will  be,  as  long  as 
a  mixed  constitution  lasts,  a  free  agent.  It  is 
impelled  b}'  the  inclinations  of  the  majority  of 
nine  hundred  thousand  electors,  in  whom  su- 
preme power  is  substantially  vested.  At  one 
time  it  may  be  too  revolutionary,  at  another 
too  monarchical,  but  in  either  it  can  only  be 
the  reflecting  mirror  of  public  opinion,  and 
must  receive,  not  communicate,  the  impulse 
of  general  thought.  France  is  irrecoverably 
and  thoroughly  revolutionized.  All  the  checks, 
either  on  arbitrary  or  popular  power,  have  been 
completely  destroyed  by  the  insane  ambition  of 
its  populace;  and  its  capital  has  been  trans- 
formed into  a  vast  arena,  where  two  savage 
wild  beasts,  equally  fatal  to  mankind — despo- 
tic power  and  democratic  ambition — fiercely 
contend  for  the  mastery,  but  where  the  fair 
form  of  freedom  is  never  again  destined  to  ap- 
pear. Spain  and  Portugal  are  torn  by  the 
same  furious  passions — a  Vendean  struggle  is 
maintained  with  heroic  constancy  in  the  north 
— a  Jacobin  revolution  is  rapidly  spreading  in 
the  south;  and  amidst  a  deadly  civil  war,  and 
the  confiscation  of  church  and  funded  property, 
the  democratic  and  despotic  principles  are 
rapidly  coming  into  collision,  and  threaten 
speedily  there,  as  elsewhere,  to  extinguish  all 
the  securities  of  real  freedom  in  the  shock. 

It  is  not  merely,  however,  in  the  po.itical 
world  that  the  symptoms  of  a  vast  organic 
change  in  western  Europe  are  to  be  dis- 
cerned. Manners  and  habits  evince  as  clearly 
!  the  prodigious,  and,  as  we  fear,  degradimr  tran- 
sition, which  is  going  on  amongst  us.  We  are 
not  blindly  attached  to  the  customs  of  former 
times,  and  willingly  admit,  that,  in  some  re- 
spects, a  change  for  the  better  has  taken  place, 
but  in  others  how  wofully  for  the  worse  ;  and 
how  iirodigious,  at  al'  events,  is  the  alteration, 
whether  for  better  oi  worse,  which  is  in  prt- 
gress !     With  the  feeling  of  chivalry  still  giv 


358 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


ing  dignity  to  the  higher  ranks,  and  a  sense  of 
loyalty  yet  elevating  the  lower ;  with  religion 
paramount  in  all  the  influential  classes,  and 
subordination  as  yet  unshaken  among  the  in- 
dustrious poor,  a  state  of  manners  ensued,  a 
degree  of  felicity  was  attained,  a  height  of  na- 
tional glory  was  reached,  to  which  the  future 
generations  of  Europe  will  look  back  with  the 
more  regret,  that,  once  lost,  it  is  altogether  ir- 
revocable. We  do  not  despair  of  the  fortunes 
of  our  country,  still  less  of  the  human  race ; 
but  we  have  no  hope  that  those  bright  and 
glorious  days  can  ever  return.  Vigour,  in- 
deed, is  not  awanting;  activity,  restless,  in- 
satiable activity,  is  in  profusion  ;  talent  is  as 
yet  undecayed ;  but  where  are  the  elevated 
feelings,  the  high  resolves,  the  enduring  con- 
stancy, the  religious  inspiration,  the  moral 
resolution,  the  disinterested  loyalty,  the  un- 
shaken patriotism,  which  gave  dignity  and 
grandeur  to  the  past  age  1  These  qualities, 
doubtless,  are  still  found  in  many  individuals  ; 
but  we  speak  of  the  general  tendency  of  things, 
not  the  character  of  particular  men.  Even 
where  they  do  occur,  are  they  not  chiefly  to  be 
discerned  in  those  of  a  certain  standing  in  life; 
and  are  they  not  remarked  by  the  rising  ge- 
neration as  remnants  of  the  former  age,  who 
are  fast  disappearing,  and  will  soon  be  totally 
extinct  1 

Look  at  education, — above  all,  the  education 
of  the  middle  and  working  classes, — and  say 
whether  a  vast  and  degrading  change  is  not 
there  rapidly  taking  place  ]  It  is  there  more 
.han  anywhere  else  that  "  coming  events  cast 
iheir  shadows  before."  Elevating  or  ennobling 
knowledge;  moral  and  religious  instruction; 
purifying  and  entrancing  compositions  are 
discarded;  the  arts,  the  mechanical  or  manu- 
facturing arts,  alone  are  looked  to.  Nothing 
is  thought  of  but  what  can  immediately  be 
turned  into  money.  The  church,  and  all  the 
institutions  connected  with  it,  are  considered 
as  not  destined  to  any  lengthened  endurance, 
and,  therefore,  classical  learning  is  scouted 
and  abandoned.  The  philosopher's  stone  is 
alone  sought  after  by  the  alchymists  of  mo- 
dern days ;  nothing  is  studied  but  what  will 
render  the  human  mind  prolific  of  dollars. 
To  purify  the  heart,  and  humanize  the  aflec- 
tions;  to  elevate  the  understanding -and  dig- 
nify the  manners;  to  provide  not  the  means 
of  elevation  in  life,  but  the  power  of  bearing 
3levation  with  propriety;  to  confer  not  the 
power  of  subduing  others,  but  the  means  of 
conquering  one's  self;  to  impress  love  to  God 
and  good-will  towards  men,  are  deemed  the 
useless  and  antiquated  pursuits  of  the  monks 
of  former  days.  Practical  chemistry  and  sul- 
phuric acid;  decrepitating  salts  and  hydraulic 
engines;  algebraic  equations  and  commercial 
academies  ;  mercantile  navigation  and  double 
and  single  book-keeping,  have  fairly,  in  the 
seminaries  of  the  middle  ranks,  driven  Cicero 
and  Virgil  oiT  the  field.  The  vast  extension 
of  education,  the  prodigious  present  activity 
and  energy  of  the  human  mind,  the  incessant 
efforts  of  the  middle  ranks  to  elevate  and  im- 
prove their  worldly  situation,  afl'ord,  we  fear, 
no  reasonable  grounds  for  hoping  that  this  de- 
jp-ading  change  can  be  arrested ;  on  the  con- 


trary, they  are  the  very  circumstances  which 
afford  a  moral  certainty  that  it  will  continue 
and  increase.  That  the  energy,  expectations, 
and  discontent  now  generally  prevalent  among 
the  labouring  classes,  and  appearing  in  the 
feverish  desire  for  social  amelioration  and  the 
ready  reception  of  an}'-  projects,  how  vain  so- 
ever, which  promise  to  promote  it,  will  lead  to 
great  and  important  changes  in  the  condition 
both  of  government,  society,  and  manners,  is 
too  obvious  to  require  illustration.  The  in- 
tense and  feverish  attention  to  worldly  objects 
which  these  changes  at  once  imply  and  pro- 
duce ;  the  undue  extension  of  artificial  wants 
among  the  labouring  poor  which  they  ge- 
nerate; the  severe  competition  to  which  all 
classes  are  in  consequence  exposed;  the 
minute  subdivision  of  labour  which  such  a 
high  and  increasing  state  of  manufacturing 
skill  occasions  ;  the  experienced  impossibility 
of  rising  in  any  department  Avithout  a  thorough 
and  exclusive  attention  to  its  details,  are  the 
veiy  circumstances  of  all  others  the  most  fatal 
to  the  improvement  of  the  understanding,  or 
the  regulation  of  the  heart.  Amidst  the  shock 
of  so  many  contending  interests,  the  calm  pur- 
suits of  science,  which  lead  not  to  wealth,  will 
be  abandoned ;  the  institutions  which  as  yet 
maintain  it  will  be  sacrificed  to  the  increasing 
clamour  of  democratic  jealousy;  literature  will 
become  a  mere  stimulant  to  the  passions,  or 
amusement  of  an  hour;  religion,  separated 
from  its  property,  will  become  a  trade  in  which 
the  prejudices  and  passions  of  the  congrega- 
tions of  each  minister  will  be  inflamed  instead 
of  being  subdued;  every  generous  or  enno- 
bling study  will  be  discarded  for  the  mere  pur- 
suits of  sordid  wealth,  or  animal  enjoyment ; 
excitement  in  all  its  forms  will  become  the 
universal  object ;  and  in  the  highest  state  of 
manufacturing  skill,  and  in  the  latest  stages 
of  social  regeneration,  our  descendants  may 
sink  irrecoverably  into  the  degeneracy  of  Ko- 
man  or  Italian  manners. 

The  extension  and  improvement  of  the  me- 
chanical arts — the  multiplication  of  rail-roads, 
canals,  and  harbours — extraordinary^  rapidity 
of  internal  communication — increasing  crav- 
ing for  newspapers,  and  excitement  in  all  its 
forms — the  general  spread  of  comfort,  and 
universal  passion  of  luxury,  afford  no  antidote 
whatever  against  the  native  corruption  of  the 
human  heart.  We  may  go  to  Paris  from  Lon- 
don in  three  hours,  and  to  Constantinople  in 
twelve ;  we  may  communicate  with  India,  by 
the  telegraph,  in  a  forenoon,  and  make  an  au- 
tumnal excursion  to  the  Pyramids  or  Persepo- 
lis  in  a  fortnight,  by  steam-boats,  and  yet, 
amidst  all  our  improvements,  be  the  most  de- 
graded and  corrupt  of  the  human  race.  Inter- 
nal communication  was  brought  to  perfection 
in  the  Roman  empire,  but  did  that  revive  the 
spirit  of  the  legions,  or  avert  the  arms  of  the 
barbarians  1  Did  it  restore  the  age  of  Virgil 
and  Cicero  ?  Because  all  the  citizens  gazed 
daily  on  the  most  sumptuous  edifices,  and  lived 
amidst  a  forest  of  the  noblest  statues,  did  that 
hinder  the  rapid  corruption  of  manners,  the 
irretrievable  degeneracy  of  character,  the  total 
extinction  of  genius  1  Did  their  proud  and 
ignorant  contempt  of  the   barbarous  nations 


THE  FUTURE. 


359 


save  either  the  Greeks  or  the  Romans  from 
subjugation  by  a  ruder  and  more  savage,  but  a 
fresher  and  a  nobler  racel  Were  they  not 
prating  about  the  lights  of  the  age,  and  the  un- 
paralleled state  of  social  refinement,  when  the 
swords  of  Alaric  and  Attila  were  already 
drawn?  In  the  midst  of  all  our  excursions, 
have  we  yet  penetrated  that  deepest  of  all  mys- 
teries, the  human  heart!  With  all  our  im- 
provements, have  we  eradicated  one  evil  pas- 
sion or  extinguished  one  guilty  propensity  in 
that  dark  fountain  of  evil !  Alas  !  facts,  clear 
undeniable  facts,  prove  the  reverse — with  the 
spread  of  knowledge,  and  the  growth  of  every 
species  of  social  improvement,  general  depra- 
vity has  gone  on  increasing  with  an  accele- 
rated pace,  both  in  France  and  England,  and 
every  increase  of  knowledge  seems  but  an  ad- 
dition to  the  length  of  the  lever  by  which  vice 
dissolves  the  fabric  of  society.* 

It  is  not  simple  knowledge,  it  is  knowledge 
detached  from  religion,  that  produces  this  fatal 
result,  and  unhappily  that  is  precisely  the  spe- 
cies of  knowledge  which  is  the  present  object 
of  fervent  popular  desire.  The  reason  of  its 
corrupting  tendency  on  morals  is  evident — 
when  so  detached,  it  multiplies  the  desires  and 
passions  of  the  heart,  without  any  increase  to 
its  regulating  principles;  it  augments  the  at- 
tacking without  strengthening  the  resisting 
powers,  and  thence  the  disorder  and  license  it 
spreads  through  society.  The  invariable  cha- 
racteristic of  a  declining  and  corrupt  state  of 
society,  is  a  progressive  increase  in  the  force 
of  passion,  and  a  progressive  decline  in  the 
influence  of  duty,  and  this  tendency,  so  con- 
spicuous in  France,  so  evidently  beginning 
amongst  ourselves,  is  increased  by  nothing  so 
much  as  that  spread  of  education  without  reli- 
gion, which  is  the  manifest  tendency  of  the 
present  times. 

What  renders  it  painfully  clear  that  this 
corruption  has  not  only  begun,  but  has  far  ad- 
vanced amidst  a  large  proportion  of  our  peo- 
ple, is  the  evident  decline  in  the  effect  of  moral 
character  upon  political  influence.  It  used  to 
be  the  boast,  and  the  deserved  boast,  of  Eng- 
land, that  talents  the  most  commanding,  de- 
scent the  most  noble,  achievements  the  most 
illustrious,  could  not  secure  power  without  the 
aid  of  private  virtue.  These  times  arc  gone 
past.  Depravity  of  character,  sordidness  of 
disposition,  recklessness  of  conduct,  are  now 
no  security  whatever  against  political  dema- 
gogues, wielding  the  very  greatest  political 
influence,  nay,  to  their  being  held  up  as  the 
object  of  public  admiration,  and  possibly 
forced  upon  the  government  of  the  country. 
What  has  the  boasted  spread  of  education 
done  to  cxcluch;  such  characters  from  political 
weight]  Nothing — it  is,  on  the  contrary,  the 
very  thing  which  gives  them  their  ascendency. 
The  time  has  evidently  arrived  when  the  com- 
missitin  of  political  crimes,  the  stain  of  guilt, 
the  opprohriiim  of  disgrace,  is  no  objection 
whatever  with  a  large  and  influential  party  to 


♦  The  curious  tables  of  M.  Gvierrin  prove  thnt  in  every 
department  of  France,  xvilliniit  exci'iiliim,  eciirral  drpra- 
vlly  is  just  in  proportion  to  llii'  extension  of  knowleiiiie. 
"  At  one  llirow."  says  llie  (■anilid  Mr.  liiilwer,  "lie  lias 
howled  down  all  our  preconceived  ideas  <in  tliis  vital 
•uliject."— .See  Bulweii's  France,  vol.  i,  Appendix. 


political  leaders,  provided  they  possess  the  qua 
lilies  likely  to  insure  success  in  their  designs. 
"  It  is  the  fatal  effect,"  says  Madame  de  Stael, 
"of  revolutions  to  obliterate  altogether  our 
ideas  of  right  and  wrong,  and  instead  of  the 
eternal  distinctions  of  morality  and  religion, 
apply  no  other  test,  in  general  estimation,  to 
political  actions  but  success."  This  affords  a 
melancholy  presage  of  what  may  be  expected 
when  the  same  vicious  and  degrading  princi- 
ples are  still  more  generally  embraced  and  ap- 
plied to  the  ordinary  transactions,  characters, 
and  business,  of  life. 

"  If  absolute  power,"  says  M.  de  Tocqueville, 
"were  re-established  amongst  the  democratic 
nations  of  Europe,  I  am  persuaded  that  it 
would  assume  a  new  form,  and  appear  under 
features  unknown  to  our  forefathers.  There 
was  a  time  in  Europe,  when  the  laws  and  the 
consent  of  the  people  had  invested  princes 
with  almost  unlimited  authority;  but  they 
scarcely  ever  availed  themselves  of  it.  I  do 
not  speak  of  the  prerogatives  of  the  nobility, 
of  the  authority  of  supreme  courts  of  justice, 
of  corporations  and  their  chartered  rights,  or 
of  provincial  privileges,  which  served  to  break 
the  blows  of  the  sovereign  authority,  and  to 
maintain  a  spirit  of  resistance  in  the  nation- 
Independently  of  these  political  institutions — 
which,  however  opposed  they  might  be  to  per- 
sonal liberty,  served  to  keep  alive  the  love  of 
freedom  in  the  mind  of  the  public,  and  which 
may  be  esteemed  to  have  been  useful  in  this 
respect — the  manners  and  opinions  of  the  na- 
tion confined  the  royal  authority  within  bar- 
riers which  were  not  less  powerful,  although 
they  were  less  conspicuous.  Religion,  the  af- 
fections of  the  people,  the  benevolence  of  the 
prince,  the  sense  of  honour,  family  pride,  pro- 
vincial prejudices,  custom,  and  public  opinion, 
limited  the  power  of  kings,  and  restrained  their 
authority  within  an  invisible  circle.  The  con- 
stitution of  nations  was  despotic  at  that  time, 
but  their  manners  were  free.  Princes  had  the 
right,  but  they  had  neither  the  means  nor  the 
desire,  of  doing  whatever  they  pleased. 

"  But  Avhat  now  remains  of  those  barriers 
which  formerly  arrested  the  aggressions  of 
tyranny!  Since  religion  has  lost  its  empire 
over  the  souls  of  men,  the  most  prominent 
boundary  which  divided  good  from  evil  is 
overthrown ;  the  very  elements  of  the  moral 
world  arc  indeterminate;  the  princes  and  the 
peojilc  of  the  earth  are  guided  by  chance;  and 
none  can  define  the  natural  limits  of  despotism 
and  the  bounds  of  license.  Long  revolutions 
have  for  ever  destroyod  the  respect  which  sur- 
rounded the  rulers  of  the  state  ;  and  since  thejr 
have  been  relieved  from  the  burden  of  public 
esteem,  princes  may  henceforward  surrender 
themselves  without  fear  to  the  seductions  of 
arbitrary  power. 

"  When  kings  find  that  the  hearts  of  their 
subjects  are  turned  towards  them,  ihey  are 
clement,  because  they  are  conscious  of  their 
strength;  and  they  arc  chary  of  the  aficctions 
of  their  people,  because  the  afleclion  of  their 
people  is  the  bulwaiic  of  the  throne.  A  mutual 
interchange  of  good-will  then  takes  place  be 
tween  the  prince  and  the  people,  whifli  re- 
sembles the  gracious  intercourse  of  domestic 


360 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


society.  The  subjects  may  murmur  at  the 
sovereign's  decree,  but  they  are  grieved  to  dis- 
please him ;  and  the  sovereign  chastises  his  sub- 
jects with  the  light  hand  of  parental  afiection. 

"  But  when  once  the  spell  of  royalty  is  broken 
in  the  tumult  of  revolution;  when  successive 
monarchs  have  crossed  the  throne,  so  as  alter- 
nately to  display  to  the  people  the  weakness  of 
their  right  and  the  harshness  of  their  power, 
the  sovereign  is  no  longer  regarded  by  any  as 
the  father  of  the  state,  and  he  is  feared  by  all 
as  its  master.  If  he  be  weak,  he  is  depised ; 
if  he  be  strong,  he  is  detested.  He  is  himself 
full  of  animosity  and  alarm ;  he  finds  that  he 
is  as  a  stranger  in  his  own  country,  and  he 
treats  his  subjects  like  conquered  enemies. 

"When  the  provinces  and  the  towns  formed 
so  many  different  nations  in  the  midst  of  their 
common  country,  each  of  them  had  a  will  of 
his  own,  which  was  opposed  to  the  general 
spirit  of  subjection;  but  now  that  all  the  parts 
of  the  same  empire,  after  having  lost  their  im- 
munities, their  customs,  their  prejudices,  their 
traditions,  and  their  names,  are  subjected  and 
accixstomed  to  the  same  laws,  it  is  not  more 
difficult  to  oppress  them  collectivelj',  than  it 
was  formerly  to  oppress  them  singly. 

"  Whilst  the  nobles  enjoyed  their  power,  and 
indeed  long  after  that  power  was  lost,  the 
honour  of  aristocracy  conferred  an  extraordi- 
nary degree  of  force  upon  their  personal  oppo- 
sition. They  afforded  instances  of  men  who, 
notwithstanding  their  weakness,  still  enter- 
tained a  high  opinion  of  their  personal  value, 
and  dared  to  cope  single-handed  with  the  efforts 
of  the  public  authority.  But  at  the  present 
day,  when  all  ranks  are  more  and  more  con- 
founded, when  the  individual  disappears  in 
the  throng,  and  is  easily  lost  in  the  midst  of  a 
common  obscurity,  when  the  honour  of  mo- 
narchy has  almost  lost  its  empire  without 
being  succeeded  by  public  virtue,  and  when 
nothing  can  enable  man  to  rise  above  himself, 
who  shall  say  at  what  point  the  exigencies  of 
power  and  the  servility  of  weakness  will  stop? 

"As  long  as  family  feeling  was  kept  alive, 
the  antagonist  of  oppression  was  never  alone ; 
he   looked  about  him,  and  found  his   clients, 
his  hereditary  friends  and  his  kinsfolk.    If  this 
support  was  wanting,  he  was  sustained  by  his 
ancestors  and  animated  by  his  posterity.     But 
when  patrimonial  estates  are  divided,  and  when 
a  few  years  suffice  to  confound  the  distinctions 
of  a  race,  where  can  family  feeling  be  found  l 
What  force  can  there  be  in  the  customs  of  a 
country  which  has  changed,  and  is  still  perpetu- 
ally changing  its  aspect ;  in  which  every  act  of 
tyranny  has  a  precedent,  and  every  crime  an  ex- 
ample ;  in  which  there  is  nothing  so  old  that  its 
antiquity  can  save  it  from  destruction,  and  no- 
thing sc  -anparallcled  that  its  novelty  can  pre- 
vent it  irom   being  done?     What  resistance 
can  be  offered  by  manners  of  so  pliant  a  make, 
that  they  have  already  often    yielded]     What 
strength  can  even    public   opinion   have    re- 
tained, when  no  twenty  persons  are  connected 
by  a  common  tie ;  when  not  a  man,  nor  a  fa- 
mily, nor  chartered  corporation,  nor  class,  nor 
free  institution,  has  the  power  of  representing 
».T  exerting  that  opinion  ;  and  when  every  citi- 
zen—being   equally  weak,  equally  poor,  and 


equally  dependent — has  only  his  personal  ira 
potence  to  oppose  to  the  organized  force  of  the 
government? 

"  The  annals  of  France  furni.'-^h  nothing 
analogous  to  the  condiiion  in  which  that  coun- 
try might  then  be  thrown.  But  it  may  be  more 
aptly  assimilated  to  the  times  of  old,  and  to 
those  hideous  eras  of  Roman  oppression,  when 
the  manners  of  the  people  were  corrupted^ 
their  traditions  obliterated,  their  habits  de- 
stroyed, their  opinions  shaken,  and  freedom  ex- 
pelled from  the  laws,  could  find  no  refuge  in 
the  land;  when  nothing  protected  the  citizens, 
and  the  citizens  no  longer  protected  themselves ; 
when  human  nature  was  the  sport  of  man,  and 
princes  wearied  out  the  clemency  of  Heaven 
before  they  exhausted  the  patience  of  their 
subjects.  Those  who  hope  to  revive  the  mo- 
narchy of  Henry  IV.  or  of  Louis  XIV.,  appear 
to  me  to  be  afflicted  with  mental  blindness ; 
and  when  I  consider  the  present  condition  of 
several  European  nations — a  condiiion  to 
which  all  the  others  tend — I  am  led  to  believe 
that  they  will  soon  be  left  with  no  other  alter- 
native than  democratic  liberty,  or  the  tyranny 
of  the  Crcsars." — TocqueviUc,  ii.  247. 

We  shall  not  stop  to  show  how  precisely 
those  views  of  Tocqueville  coincide  with  what 
we  have  invariably  advanced  in  this  miscel- 
lany, or  to  express  the  gratification  we  experi- 
ence at  finding  these  principles  nowembi-aced 
by  the  ablest  of  the  French  Democratic  party, 
after  the  most  enlightened  view  of  American 
institutions.  AVe  hasten,  therefore,  to  show 
that  these  results  of  the  French  Revolution, 
melancholy  and  depressing  as  they  are,  are 
nothing  more  than  the  accomplishment  of 
what,  forty-five  years  ago,  Mr.  Burke  prophe- 
sied of  its  ultimate  effects. 

"The  policy  of  such  barbarous  victors," 
says 'Mr.  Burke,  "who  contemn  a  subdued 
people,  and  insult  their  inhabitants,  ever  has 
been  to  destroy  all  vestiges  of  the  ancient 
country  in  religion,  policy,  laws,  and  manners, 
to  confound  all  territorial  limits,  produce  a 
general  poverty,  crush  their  ifbbles,  princes, 
and  pontiffs,  to  lay  low  every  thing  which 
lifted  its  head  above  the  level,  or  which  could 
serve  to  combine  or  rally,  in  their  distresses, 
the  disbanded  people  under  the  standard  of  old 
opinion.  They  have  made  France  free  in  the 
manner  in  which  their  ancient  friends  to  the 
rights  of  mankind  freed  Greece,  Macedon, 
Gaul,  and  other  nations.  If  their  present  pro- 
ject of  a  Republic  should  fail,  all  securities  to 
a  moderate  freedom  fail  along  with  it;  they 
have  levelled  and  crushed  together  all  the  or- 
ders which  they  found  under  the  monarchy; 
all  the  indirect  restraints  which  mitigate  des- 
potism are  removed,  insomuch  that  if  mo- 
narchy should  ever  again  obtain  an  entire  as- 
cendency in  France,  under  this  or  any  other 
dynasty,  it  will  probably  be,  if  not  voluntarily 
tempered  at  setting  out  by  the  wise  and  virtu- 
ous counsels  of  the  prince,  the  most  completely 
arbitrary  power  that  ever  appeared  on  earth." 
—Burke,  v.  328—333. 

Similar  results  must  ultimately  attend  the 
triumph  of  the  democratic  principle  in  Great 
Britain  and  Ireland.  The  progress  may,  and 
we  trust  will,  be  different ;  less  bloodshed  aud 


THE   FUTURE. 


nei 


snflfering  will  attend  its  course ;  more  vigor- 
ous ancfmanly  resistance  will  evidently  be  op- 
posed to  the  evil ;  the  growth  of  corruption  will, 
we  trust,  be  infinitely  more  slow,  and  the  de- 
cline of  the  empire  more  dignified  and  becom- 
ing. But  the  final  result,  if  the  democratic 
prtnciple  maintains  its  present  ascendency, 
will  be  the  same. 

If  we  examine  the  history  of  the  world  with 
attention,  we  shall  find,  that  amidst  great  occa- 
sional variations  produced  by  secondary  and 
inferior  causes,  two  great  powers  have  been 
at  work  from  the  earliest  times;  and,  like  the 
antagonist  expansive  and  compressing  force 
in  physical  nature,  have,  by  their  mutual  and 
counteracting  influence,  produced  the  greatest 
revolutions  and  settlements  in  human  affairs. 
These  opposing  forces  are  xotitherk  coxauEST 
and  CIVILIZED  demochacy.  Their  agency  ap- 
pears clear  and  forcible  at  the  present  times, 
and  the  spheres  of  their  action  are  different ; 
but  mighty  ultimate  results  are  to  attend  their 
irresistible  operation  in  the  theatres  destined 
by  nature  for  their  respective  operation. 

We,  who  have,  for  eighteen  years,  so  inva- 
riably and  resolutely  opposed  the  advances  of 
democracy,  and  that  equally  when  it  raised  its 
voice  aloft  on  the  seat  of  government,  as  when 
it  lurked  under  the  specious  guise  of  free  trade 
or  liberality,  will   not  be   accused   of  being 
blinded  in  favour  of  its   effects.     We  claim, 
therefore,  full  credit  for   sincerity,  and    deem 
some  weight  due  to  our  opinion,  when  we  as- 
sert that  it  is  the  grCat  moving  pmocr  in  human 
affairs, — the  source  of  the  greatest  efforts  of 
human  genius, — and,  when  duly  restrained  from 
running  into  excess,  the  grand  instrument  of 
human  advancement.    It  is  not  from  ignorance 
of,  or  insensibility  to,  its  prodigious  efl:ects, 
that  we  have  proved  ourselves  so  resolute  in 
resisting  its  undue  expansion  :  it  is,  on  the  con- 
trarj',  from  a  full  appreciation  of  them,  from  a 
thorough  knowledge  of  the  vast  results,  whether 
for  g«od  or  evil,  which  it  invariably  produces. 
It  is  the  nature  of  the  democratic  passion  to 
produce  an  inextinguishable  degree  of  vigour 
and  activity  among  the  middling  classes  of 
society — to    develope    an     unknown    energy 
among  their  wide-spread  ranks— to  fill  tlieir 
bosoms  with  insatiable   and   often   visionary 
projects  of  advancement  and  amelioration,  and 
inspire   them  with  an   ardent  desire  to  raise 
themselves  individually  and  collectively  in  the 
world.    Thence  the  astonishing  results— sf.rnc- 
times  for  good,  sometimes  for  evil— which  it 
produces.    Its  grand  characteristic  is  cnntiy, 
and  energy  not  rousing  the  exertions  merely 
of  a  porlkm  of  society,  hut  awalvening  the  dor- 
mant strength  of  millions;  not  )>rodiicing  mere- 
ly the  chivalrous  valour  of  the  high-bred  cava- 
lier, but  drawing  forth  "the  might  that  slum- 
bers   in    a    peasant's    arm."      The    greatest 
achievements  of  genius,  the  noblest  efforts  of 
heroism,  that  have  illustrat.-d  the   history  of 
the  species,  have  arisen  from  the  eff'ortsof  this 
principle.     Thence  the  fight  of  Marathon  and 
the  glories  of  Salamis— the  genius  of  Greece 
and  the  comiuesls  of  Rome— the  heroism  of 
8empach  and   the  devotion  of  Haarlem— the 
paintings  of  Raphael  and  the  poetry  of  Tasso 
—the  energy  which  covered  with  a  velvet  car- 


pet the  slopes  of  the  Alps,  and  the  industry 
T»hich  bridled  the  stormy  seas  of  the  German 
ocean— the  burning  passions  which  carried 
the  French  legions  to  Cadiz  and  the  Kremlin, 
and  the  sustained  fortitude  which  gave  to  Bri- 
tain the  dominion  of  the  Avaves.  Thence,  too, 
in  its  wider  and  unrestrained  excesses,  the 
greatest  crimes  which  have  disfigured  the  dark 
annals  of  human  wickedness— the  massacres 
of  Athens  and  the  banishments  of  Florence — 
the  carnage  cf  Marius  and  the  proscriptions 
of  the  Triumvirate— the  murders  of  Cromwell 
and  the  bloodshed  of  Robespierre. 

As  the  democratic  passion  is  thus  a  princi- 
ple of  such  vital  and  searching  energj%so  it  is 
from  it,  when  acting  under  due  regulation  and 
control,  that  the  greatest  and  most  durable  ad- 
vances in  social  existence  have  sprung.    Why 
are  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean  the  scene 
to  which  the  pilgrim  from  every  quarter  of 
the  globe  journeys  to  visit  at  once  the  cradles 
of  cfvilization,  the  birthplace  of  arts,  of  arms, 
of  philosophy,  of  poetry,  and  the  scenes  of 
their  highest  and  most  glorious  achievements'? 
Because    freedom   spread   along   its   smiling 
shores;    because    the   ruins   of   Athens   and 
Sparta,  of  Rome  and  Carthage,  of  Tyre  and 
Syracuse,  lie  on  its  margin  ;  because  civiliza- 
tion, advancing  with   the   white   sails  which 
glittered  on   its  blue  expanse,  pierced,  as  if 
impelled  by  central   heat,  through  the   dark 
and  barbarous  regions  of  the  Celtic  race  who 
peopled   its   shores.     What   gave   Rome   the 
empire  of  the  world,  and  brought  the  vener- 
able   ensigns   bearing   the   words,  "Senatus 
populusque  Romanus,"  to  the  wall  of  Antoni- 
nus and  the  foot  of  the  Atlas,  the  waters  of 
the  Euphrates  and  the  Atlantic  Ocean  1  Demo- 
cratic vigour.     Democratic  vigour,  be  it  ob- 
served, duly  coerced  by  Patrician  poiver :  the  in- 
satiable ambition  of  successive  consuls,  guided 
by  the  wisdom  of  the  senate ;  the  unconquer-' 
able  and  inexhaustible  bands  which,  for  cen- 
turies, issued  from  the  Roman  Forum.     What 
has   spread  the  British   dominions    over   the 
habitable  globe,  and  converted  the  ocean  into 
a  peaceful  lake  for  its  internal  carriage,  and 
made  the  winds  the  instruments  of  its  blessings 
to  mankind  ;  and  spread  its  race  in  vast  and 
inextinguishable  multitudes  through  the  new 
world?  Democratic  ambition;  democratic  am- 
bition, restrained  and  regulated  at  home  by  an 
ade(|uate  weight  of  aristocratic   power;  a  go- 
vernimnt  which,  guided  by  the  stability  of  the 
patrician,  but  invigorated  by  the  activity  of 
tlie  plebeian   race,  steadily  advanced  in  con- 
quest, renown,  and  moral  ascendency,  till  its 
fleets  overspread  the  sea.  and  it  has  become  a 
matter  of  cerlainly,  that  half  the  globe  must 
be  peopled  by  its  descendants. 

The  continued  operation  of  this  undying 
vigour  and  energy  is  still  more  clearly  evinced 
in^the  Anglo-American  race,  which  originally 
sprung  from  the  stern  Puritans  of  Charles  I.'s 
aire,  which  have  developed  all  the  peculiarities 
of  the  democratic  character  in  unrestrained 
profusion  amidst  the  boundless  wastes  which 
lie  open  to  their  enterprise.  M.  Tocqueville 
has  described,  with  equal  justice  and  eloquence 
the  extra<niiinary  activity  of  these  principles 
I  in  the  United  States. 


ALISON'S  MISCELI  \NEOU£i  ESSAYS. 


"The  inhabitants  of  the  United  States  are 
never  fettered  by  the  axioms  of  their  profes- 
sion ;  they  escape  from  all  the  prejudices  of 
their  present  station;  they  are  not  more  at- 
tached to  one  line  of  operation  than  to  another ; 
they  are  not  more  prone  to  employ  an   old 
method  than  a  new  one ;  they  have  no  rooted 
habits,  and  they  easily  shake  off  the  influence 
vrhich  the  habits  of  other  nations  might  ex- 
ercise upon  their  minds,  from  a  conviction 
that  their  country  is  unlike  any  other,  and  that 
its    situation   is  without   a   precedent  in    the 
world.  America  is  a  land  of  wonders,  in  which 
every  thing  is  in  constant  motion,  and  every 
movement  seems  an  improvement.     The  idea 
of  novelty  is  there  indissolubly  connected  with 
the  idea  of  amelioration.  No  natural  boundary 
seems  to  be  set  to  the  efforts  of  man ;  and  what 
is  not  yet  done  is  only  what  he  has  not  yet 
attempted  to  do. 

"  This  perpetual  change  which  goes  on  in 
the  United  States,  these  frequent  vicissitudes 
of  fortune,  accompanied  by  such  unforeseen 
fluctuations  in  private  and  in  public  wealth, 
serve  to  keep  the  minds  of  the  citizens  in  a 
perpetual  state  of  feverish  agitation,  which 
admirably  invigorates  their  exertions,  and 
keeps  them  in  a  state  of  excitement  above  the 
ordinary  level  of  mankind.  The  whole  life  of 
an  American  is  passed  like  a  game  of  chance, 
a  revolutionary  crisis,  or  a  battle.  As  the  same 
causes  are  continually  in  operation  through- 
out the  country,  they  ultimately  impart  an 
irresistible  impulse  to  the  national  character. 
The  American,  taken  as  a  chance  specimen 
of  his  countrymen,  must  then  be  a  man  of 
singular  warmth  in  his  desires,  enterprising, 
fond  of  adventure,  and  above  all  of  innovation. 
The  same  bent  is  manifest  in  all  that  he  does ; 
he  introduces  it  into  his  political  laws,  his  re- 
ligious doctrines,  his  theories  of  social  eco- 
nomy, and  his  domestic  occupations;  he  bears 
it  with  him  in  the  depth  of  the  back-woods,  as 
well  as  in  the  business  of  the  city.  It  is  this 
same  passion,  applied  to  maritime  commerce, 
which  makes  him  the  cheapest  and  the  quick- 
est trader  in  the  world. 

"It  is  not  impossible  to  conceive  the  sur- 
passing liberty  which  the  Americans  enjoy; 
some  idea  may  likewise  be  formed  of  the  ex- 
treme equality  which  subsists  amongst  them, 
but  the  political  activity  which  pervades  the 
United  States  must  be  seen  in  order'  to  be 
understood.  No  sooner  do  you  set  foot  upon 
the  American  soil  than  you  are  stunned  by  a 
kind  of  tumult;  a  confused  clamour  is  heard 
on  every  side ;  and  a  thousand  simultaneous 
voices  demand  the  immediate  satisfaction  of 
their  social  wants.  Every  thing  is  in  motion 
around  ybu :  here,  the  people  of  one  quarter 
of  a  town  are  met  to  decide  upon  the  building 
c€  a  church;  there,  the  election  of  a  repre"^ 
sentative  is  going  on;  a  little  further,  the 
delegates  of  district  are  posting  to  the  town  in 
order  to  consult  upon  some  local  improve- 
ments ;  or  in  another  place  the  labourers  of  a 
village  quit  their  ploughs  to  deliberate  upon 
the  project  of  a  road  or  a  public  school.  Meet- 
ings are  called  for  the  sole  purpose  of  declar- 
ing their  disapprobation  of  the  line  of  conduct 
pursued  by  the  government;  whilst,  in  other 


assemblies,  the  citizens  salute  the  authcritiea 
of  the  day  as  the  fathers  of  their  country 
Societies  are  formed  which  regard  drunken- 
ness as  the  principal  cause  of  the  evils  under 
which  the  state  labours,  and  which  solemnly 
bind  themselves  to  give  a  constant  example  of 
temperance. 

"The  great  political  agitation  of  the  Ameri- 
can legislative  bodies,  which  is  the  only  kind 
of  excitement  that  attracts  the  attention  of  fo- 
reign countries,  is  a  mere  episode  or  a  sort  of 
continuation  of  that  universal  movement  which 
originates  in  the  lowest  classes  of  the  people, 
and  extends  successively  to  all  the  ranks  of 
society.  It  is  impossible  to  spend  more  efforts 
in  the  pursuit  of  enjoyment." 

The  great  system  of  nature  thus  expands  to 
our  view.  The  democratic  principle  is  the 
great  moving  power  which  expels  from  the 
old  established  centres  of  civilization  the  race 
of  men  to  distant  and  unpeopled  regions  ;  which 
in  the  ancient  world  spread  it  with  the  Athe- 
nian  galleys  along  the  shores  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean, and  with  the  Roman  legions  penetrated 
the  dark  and  savage  forests  of  central  Europe; 
which  laid  the  foundation,  in  the  kingdom's 
forined  out  of  its  provinces,  of  the  supremacy 
of  modern  Europe,  and  is  now  with  the  British 
navy  extending  as  far  as  the  waters  of  the 
ocean  roll ;  peopling  at  once  the  new  continent 
of  Australasia,  and  supplanting  the  sable  mil- 
lions of  Africa;  piercing  the  primeval  forests 
of  Canada,  and  advancing  with  unceasing 
velocity  towards  the  rocky  mountains  of 
America.  Nor  is  it  only  by  the  subjects  of 
Britain  that  this  impelling  force  is  felt.  It 
exists  in  equal  force  among  their  descendants ; 
and  from  the  seats  where  the  Puritan  con- 
temporaries of  Cromwell  first  sought  an  asy- 
lum from  English  oppression,  an  incessant 
craving,  an  unseen  power,  is  for  ever  impel- 
ling multitudes  to  the  yet  untrodden  forests  of 
the  west. 

"It  cannot  be  denied  that  the  British  race 
has  acquired  an  amazing  preponderance  over 
all  the  other  European  races  in  the  New 
World;  and  that  it  is  very  superior  to  them  in 
civilization,  in  industry,  and  in  power.  As 
long  as  it  is  only  surrounded  by  desert  or 
thinly-peopled  countries,  as  long  as  it  en- 
counters no  dense  population  upon  its  route, 
through  which  it  cannot  work  its  v/ay,  it  will 
assuredly  continue  to  spread.  The  lines 
marked  out  by  treaties  will  not  stop  it ;  but  it 
will  everywhere  transgress  these  imaginary 
barriers. 

"  The  geographical  position  of  the  British 
race  in  the  New  World  is  peculiarly  favoura- 
ble to  its  rapid  increase.  Above  its  northern 
frontiers  the  icy  regions  of  the  Pole  extend ; 
and  a  few  degrees  below  its  southern  confines 
lies  the  burning  climate  of  the  Equator.  The 
Anglo-Americans  are  therefore  placed  in  the 
most  temperate  and  habitable  zone  of  the 
continent." 

"  The  distance  from  Lake  Superior  to  the 
Gulf  of  Mexico  extends  from  the  47lh  to  the 
30th  degree  of  latitude,  a  distance  of  more  than 
twelve  hundred  miles,  as  the  bird  flies.  The 
frontier  of  the  United  States  winds  along  the 
whole  of  this  immense  line ;  sometimes  falling 


THE  FUTURE. 


36-3 


within  its  limits,  but  more  frequently  extendmg 
far  bevond  it  into  the  waste.  It  has  been  cal- 
culated that  the  whiles  advance  every  year  a 
mean  distance  of  seventeen  miles  along  the 
whole  of  this  vast  boundary.  Obstacles,  such 
as  an  unproductive  district,  a  lake,  or  an  In- 
dian nation  unexpectedly  encountered,  are 
sometimes  met  with.  The  advancing  column 
then  halts  for  a  while;  its  two  extremities  fall 
back  upon  themselves,  and  as  soon  as  they 
are  re-united  they  proceed  onwards.  This 
gradual  and  continuous  progress  of  the  Eu- 
ropean race  towards  the  Kocky  Mountains  has 
the  solemnity  of  a  providential  event;  it  is 
like  a  deluge  of  men  rising  unabatedly,  and 
daily  driven  onwards  by  the  hand  of  God. 

"Within  this  first  line  of  conquering  settlers, 
towns  are  built,  and  vast  states  founded.  In 
1790  there  were  only  a  few  thousand  pioneers 
sprinkled  along  the  valleys  of  the  Mississippi ; 
and  at  the  present  day  these  valleys  contain 
as  manv  inhabitants  as  were  to  be  found  in 
the  whole  Union  in  1790.-  Their  population 
amounts  to  nearly  four  millions.  The  city  of 
Washington  was  founded  in  1800,  in  the  very 
centre  of  the  Union;  but  such  are  the  changes 
n-hich  have  taken  place,  that  it  now  stands  at 
one  of  the  extremities;  and  the  delegates  of  the 
most  remote  Western  States  are  already  obliged 
to  perform  a  journey  as  long  as  that  from 
Vienna  to  Paris. 

"It  must  not,  then,  be  imagined  that  the  im- 
pulse of  the  British  race  in  the  New  World 
can  be  arrested.    The  dismemberment  of  the 
Union,  and  the  hostilities  which  might  ensue, 
the  abolition  of  republican  institutions,  and  the 
tj'rannical  government  whith  might  succeed 
it,  may  retard  this  impulse,  \\\i  they  cannot 
prevent  it  from  ultimately  fulf.lling  the  desti- 
nies to  which  that  race  is  reserved.     No  power 
upon  earth  can  close  upon  the  emigrants  that 
fertile  wilderness,  which  offers  resources  to  all 
industry  and  a  refuge  from  all  want.     Future 
events,  of  what<^ver  nature  they  may  be,  will 
not  deprive  the  Americans  of  their  climate  or 
of  their  inlanii  seas,  of  iheir  great  rivers  or  of 
their  exuberant  soil.     Nor  will  bad  laws,  revo- 
lutions, and  anarchy,  be  able  to  obliterate  that 
love  of  prosperity  and  that  spirit  of  enterprise 
which  seem  to  be' the  distinctive  charactcrislies 
of  their  race,  or  to  extinguish  that  knowledge 
which  guides  them  on  their  way. 

"Thus,  in  the  midst  of  the  uncertain  future. 
one  event  at  least  is  sure.     At  a  period  which 
may  b;  said  to  be  near,  (for  we  are  speaking 
of  the   ifr.  of  a  nation.)  the  Aiigl<>-.\m'Ticans 
will  alone  cover  the  immense  spare  rontained 
bctwcn  llie  polar  regions  and  tlw  tropics,  ex- 
tendmg from  the  coast  of  the  Atlantic  to  the 
shores  of  the  Pacific  Ocean  ;  the  territory  which 
will  pnilialily  be  ormpied  by  the  Anir!o-.\ineri- 
cans  at  some  future  nine,  may  be  roinpuled  to 
equal  three  quarters  of  F.uropc  in  rxteut.   The 
climate  of  the  Union  is  upon  the  whole  prefer- 
able to  that  of  Europe,  and  its  natural  advan- 1 
•.ages  are  not  less  great;  ifis  therefore  evident . 
that  its  population  will  at  some  future  time  be  | 
proportionate  to  our  own.     Europe,  divided  as  ; 
U  is  between  so  many  different  nations,  and  | 
torn  as  it  has  been  by  incessant  wars  and  the 
barbarous  manners   of  the  Middle  Ages,  has  | 
lioiwiihstanding  attained  a  population  of  410 


inhabitants  to  the  square  league.  What  caus« 
can  prevent  the  United  States  from  having  as 
numerous  a  population  in  timel" 

"The  time  will  therefove  come  when  one 
hundred  and  fifty  millions  of  men  will  be  liv 
ing  in  North  America,  equal  in  condition,  the 
progeny  of  one  race,  owing  their  origin  to  the 
same  cause,  and  preserving  the  same  civiliza- 
tion, the  same  language,  the  same  religion,  the 
same  habits,  the  same  manners,  and  imbued 
with  the  same  opinions,  propagated  under  the 
same  forms.  The  rest  is  uncertain,  but  this  is 
certain ;  and  it  is  a  fact  new  to  the  world,  a 
fact  fraught  with  such  portentous  consequences 
as  to  baffle  the  efibrts  even  of  the  imagina- 
tion." 

It  is  not  without  reason,  therefore,  that  we 
set  out  in  this  speculation,  with  the  observa- 
tion, that  great  and  durable  effects  on  human 
afiairs  are  destined  by  Providence  for  the  Br" 
tish  race.    And  it  is  too  obvious  to  admit  of 
dispute,  that  the  democratic  principle  amongst 
us  is  the  great  moving  power  which  thus  im- 
pels  multitudes   of  civilized  beings  into  the 
wilderness  of  nature.     Nothing  but  that  prin- 
ciple could  effect  such  a  change.     Civilized 
man  rarely  emigrates;  under  a  despotic  go- 
vernment never.     What  colonies  has   China 
sent  forth  to  people  the  wastes  of  Asia?     Are 
the  Hindoos  to  be  found  spread  over  the  vas* 
archipelago  of  the  Indian  Ocean  ?     Kepublican 
Rome  colonized  the  world;  Republican  Greece 
spread  the  light  of  civilization  along  the  shores 
of  the  Mediterranean ;  but  Imperial  Rome  could 
never  maintain  the  numbers  of  its  own  pro- 
vinces, and  the  Grecian  empire  slumbered  on 
with  a  declining  population  for  eleven  hundred 
3'ears.     Is  Italy,  with  its  old  civilized  millions, 
or  France,  with  its  ardent  and  redundant  pea 
santiy,  the  storehouse  of  nations  from  whenci 
the  European  race  is  to  be  diffused  over  the 
world  ■?     The  colonies  of  Spain,  torn  by  inter- 
nal factions,  and  a  prey  to  furious  passions, 
arc  in  the  most  miserable  slate,  and  constantly 
declining  in   numbers!*      The    tendency  of 
nations  in  a  high  state  of  civilization  ever  is  to 
remain  at  home;    to  become  wedded   to   the 
luxuries  and  enjoyments,  the  habits  and  refine- 
ments of  an   ariiiicial  stale  of  existence,  and 
regard  all  other  people  as  rude  and  barbarous, 
unfit  for  the  society,  unequal  to  the  reception 
of  civilized  existence,  to  slumber  on  for  ages 
with  a  population,  pour,  leduiidant.  and  declin 
ing.     .Siicli  has  fur  ages  hi-en  the  condition  of 
the  Chinese  and  the  Hindoos,  the  Turks  and 
the  Persians,  ihc  Si)aniards  and  the  Italians; 
and   hence  no  great  .settlements  tif  mankind 
have  proceeded  from  their  loins. 

What,  then,  is  the  centrifugal  force  which 
counteracts  this  inert  tendency,  and  impels 
man  frtim  the  heart  of  wealth,  frtun  the  bosom 
of  refinement,  from  the  luxuries  of  civilization, 
to  the  forests  and  the  wilderness!  What  scndi 
him  forth  into  the  desert,  impelled  by  the 
eneriry  of  the  savage  character,  but  yet  with 
all  the  powers  and  acquisitions  of  civilization 
at  his  command;  with  the  axe  in  his  hand, 
but  the  Bible  in  his  pocket,  and  the  lifle  by 
his  side?  It  is  democracy  which  effects  this 
prodigy;   it  is  that  insatiable   passion  which 


♦  Tocquevillc.  il.  439. 


364 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


overcomes  alike  die  habits  and  affections  of 
societ3%  and  sends  forth  the  civilized  pilgrim 
far  from  his  kindred,  far  from  his  home,  far 
from  the  bones  of  his  fathers,  to  seek  amidst 
Transatlantic  wilds  that  freedom  and  inde- 
pendence which  his  native  country  can  no 
longer  afford.  It  is  in  the  restless  activity 
which  it  engenders,  the  feverish  desire  of  ele- 
vation which  it  awakens  in  all  classes,  the 
longing  after  a  state  of  existence  unattainable 
in  long  established  states  which  it  produces, 
that  the  centrifugal  force  of  civilized  man  is  to 
be  found.  Above  an  hundred  thousand  emi- 
grants from  Great  Britain,  in  the  year  1833, 
settled  in  the  British  colonies;  nearly  two 
hundred  thousand  annually  pass  over  to  the 
whole  of  North  America  from  the  British  isles ; 
and  amidst  the  strife  of  parties,  the  collision 
of  interest,  the  ardent  hopes  and  chimerical 
anticipations  incident  to  these  days  of  transi- 
tion, the  English  race  is  profusely  and  indeli- 
bly transplanted  into  the  boundless  wastes 
prepared  for  its  reception  in  the  New  World. 
As  the  democratic  passion,  however,  is  thus 
evidently  the  great  moving  power  which  is 
transferring  the  civilized  European  race  to  the 
remote  corners  of  the  earth,  and  the  British 
navy,  the  vast  vehicle  raised  up  to  supreme 
dominion,  for  its  conveyance ;  so  it  is  of  the 
utmost  importance  to  observe,  that  if  undue 
power  is  given  to  this  impelling  force,  the  ma- 
chine which  is  performing  these  prodigies  may 
be  destroyed,  and  the  central  force,  instead  of 
operating  with  a  steady  and  salutary  pressure 
upon  mankind,  suddenly  burst  its  barriers,  and 
for  ever  cease  to  affect  their  fortunes.  A 
spring  acts  upon  a  machine  only  as  long  as  it 
is  loaded  or  restrained;  remove  the  pressure, 
and  its  strength  ceases  to  exist.  This  powerful 
andastonishingagency  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race 
upon  the  fortunes  of  mankind,  would  be  totally 
destroyed  by  the  triumph  of  democracy  in  the 
British  islands.  Multitudes,  indeed,  during  the 
convulsions  consequent  on  so  calamitous  an 
event,  would  fly  for  refuge  to  the  American 
shores,  but  in  the  grinding  and  irreversible 
despotism  which  would  necessarily  and  speed- 
ily follow  its  occurrence,  the  vital  energy  would 
become  extinct,  which  is  now  impelling  the 
British  race  into  every  corner  of  the  habitable 
earth.  The  stillness  of  despotism  would  suc- 
ceed the  agitation  of  passion  ;  the  inertness  of 
aged  civilization  at  once  fall  upon  the  bounded 
state.  From  the  moment  that  British  freedom 
is  extinguished  by  the  overthrow  of  aristoc ratio 
influence,  and  the  erection  of  the  Commons 
into  despotic  power,  the  sacred  fire  which  now 
animates  the  vast  fabric  of  its  dominion  will 
become  extinct,  and  England  will  cease  to 
direct  the  destinies  of  half  the  globe.  The 
Conservative  party  in  this  country,  therefore, 
are  not  merely  charged  with  the  preservation 
of  its  own  freedom — they  are  intrusted  with 
the  destinies  of  mankind,  and  on  the  success 
of  their  exertions  it  depends  whether  the  demo- 
cratic spirit  in  these  islands  is  to  be  pre- 
served, as  heretofore,  in  that  subdued  form 
which  has  directed  its  energy  to  the  civiliza- 
tion of  mankind,  or  to  burst  forth  in  those 
wild  excesses  which  turn  only  to  its  own  ruin, 
and  the  desolation  of  the  world. 


While  the  naval  strength  and  colonial  domi- 
nions of  England  have  steadily  and  unceas- 
ingly advanced  in  Western  Europe,  and  its 
influence  is  in  consequence  spread  over  all  the 
maritime  regions  of  the  globe,  another,  and  an 
equally  irresistible  power,  has  risen  up  in  the 
eastern  hemisphere.  If  all  the  contests  of 
centuries  have  turned  to  the  advantage  of  the 
English  navy,  all  the  continental  strifes  have 
as  unceasingly  augmented  the  strength  of  Rus- 
sia. From  the  time  of  the  Czar  Peter,  when 
it  first  emerged  from  obscurity  to  take  a  leading 
part  in  continental  affairs,  to  the  present  mo- 
ment, its  progress  has  been  unbroken.  Alone, 
of  all  other  states,  during  that  long  period  it 
has  experienced  no  reverses,  but  constantly 
advanced  in  power,  territory,  and  resources; 
for  even  the  peace  of  Tilsit,  which  followed 
the  disasters  of  Austerlitz  and  Friedland,  was 
attended  with  an  accession  of  territory.  Dur- 
ing that  period  it  has  successively  swallowed 
up  Courland  and  Livonia,  Poland,  Finland,  the 
Crimea,  the. Ukraine,  Wallachia,  and  Molda- 
via. Its  southern  frontier  is  now  washed  by 
the  Danube ;  its  eastern  is  within  fifty  leagues 
of  Berlin  and  Vienna;  its  advanced  ports  in 
the  Baltic  are  almost  within  sight  of  Stock- 
holm ;  its  south-eastern  boundary,  stretching 
far  over  the  Caucasus,  sweeps  down  to  Erivan 
and  the  foot  of  Mount  Arrarat — Persia  and 
Turkey  are  irrevocably  subjected  to  its  influ- 
ence ;  a  solemn  treaty  has  given  it  the  com- 
mand of  the  Dardanelles  ;  a  subsidiary  Mus- 
covite force  has  visited  Scutari,  and  rescued 
the  Osmanlis  from  destruction;  and  the  Sultan 
Mahmoud  retains  Constantinople  only  as  the 
viceroy  of  the  northern  autocrat. 

The  politicians  of  the  day  assert  that  Russia 
will  fall  to  pieces,  and  its  power  cease  to  be 
formidable  to  Western  Europe  or  Central  Asia- 
They  never  were  more  completely  mistaken. 
Did  Macedonia  fall  to  pieces  before  it  had  sub- 
dued the  Grecian  commonwealths ;  or  Persia 
before  it  had  conquered  the  Assyrian  mon- 
archy ;  or  the  Goths  and  Vandals  before  they 
had  subverted  the  Roman  empire!  It  is  the 
general  pressure  of  the  north  upon  the  south, 
not  the  force  of  any  single  state,  which  is  the 
weight  that  is  to  be  apprehended  ;  that  pres- 
sure will  not  be  lessened,  but  on  the  contrary 
greatly  increased,  if  the  vast  Scythian  tribes 
should  separate  into  different  empires.  Though 
one  Moscovite  throne  w^ere  to  be  established  at 
St.  Petersburg,  a  second  at  Moscow,  and  a 
third  at  Constantinople,  the  general  pressure 
of  the  Russian  race,  upon  the  southern  states 
of  Europe  and  Asia,  would  not  be  one  whit 
diminished.  Still  the  delight  of  a  warmer  cli- 
mate, the  riches  of  long  established  civiliza- 
tion, the  fruits  and  wines  of  the  south,  the 
women  of  Italy  or  Circassia,  would  attract  the 
brood  of  winter  to  the  regions  of  the  sun.  The 
various  tribes  of  ths  German  race,  the  Gothic 
and  Vandal  swarms,  the  Huns  and  the  Ostro- 
goths, were  engaged  in  fierce  and  constant 
hostility  with  each  t)ther ;  and  it  was  generally 
defeat  and  pressure  from  behind  which  im- 
pelled them  upon  their  southern  neighbours  ; 
but  that  did  not  prevent  them  from  bursting 
the  barriers  of  the  Danube  and  the  Rhine,  and 
overwhelming  the  civilization,  and  wealth,  and 


THE  FUTURE. 


3Go 


discipline  of  the  Romaa  empire.  Such  inter- 
nal divisions  only  magnify  the  strength  of  the 
northern  race  by  training  them  to  the  use  of 
arms,  and  augmenting  their  military  skill  by 
constant  exercise  against  each  other;  just  as 
the  long  continued  internal  wars  of  the  Euro- 
pean nations  have  established  an  irresistible 
superiority  of  their  forces  over  those  of  the 
other  quarters  of  the  globe.  In  the  end,  the 
weight  of  the  north  thus  matured,  drawn  forth 
and  disciplined,  will  ever  be  turned  to  the 
fields  of  southern  conquest. 

The  moving  power  with  these  vast  bodies 
of  men  is  the  lust  of  conquest,  and  a  passion 
for  southern  enjoyment.  Democracy  is  un- 
heeded or  unknown  amongst  them;  if  im- 
ported from  foreign  lands  it  languishes  and 
expires  amidst  the  rigours  of  the  climate.  The 
energy  and  aspirations  of  men  are  concen- 
trated on  conquest;  a  passion  more  natural, 
more  durable,  more  universal  than  the  demo- 
cratic vigour  of  advanced  civilization.  It 
speaks  a  language  intelligible  to  the  rudest  of 
men;  and  rouses  the  passions  of  universal 
vehemence.  Great  changes  may  take  place 
in  human  affairs  ;  but  the  time  will  never 
come  when  northern  valour  will  not  press  on 
southern  wealth;  or  refined  corruption  not 
require  the  renovating  influence  of  indigent 
regeneration. 

This  then  is  the  other  great  moving  power 
which  in  these  days  of  transition  is  changing 
the  destinies  of  mankind.  Rapid  as  is  the 
growth  of  the  British  race  in  America,  it  is 
not  more  rapid  than  that  of  the  Russian  in 
Europe  and  Asia.  Fifty  millions  of  men  now 
furnish  recruits  to  the  Moscovite  standards ; 
but  thoir  race  doubles  in  every  half  century ; 
and  before  the  year  1900,  one  hundred  millions 
of  men  will  be  ready  to  pour  from  the  frozen 
plains  of  Scythia  on  the  plains  of  Central  Asia 
and  southern  Europe.  Occasional  events  may 
check  or  for  a  while  turn  aside  the  wave ;  but 
its  ultimate  progress  in  these  directions  is  cer- 
tain and  irresistible.  Before  two  centuries  are 
over,  Mohammedanism  will  be  banished  from 
Turkey,  Asia  Minor,  and  Persia,  and  a  hundred 
millions  of  Christians  will  be  settled  in  the 
regions  now  desolated  by  the  standards  of  the 
Prophet.  Their  advance  is  as  swift,  as  un- 
ceasing as  that  of  the  British  race  to  the  rocky 
belt  of  western  America. 

"There  are,  at  the  present^time,  two  great 
nations  in  the  world,  which  seem  to  tend  to- 
wards the  same  end,  although  they  started 
from  different  points:  I  allude  to  the  Russians 
and  the  Americans.  Both  of  them  have  grown 
up  unnoticed:  and  whilst  the  attention  of 
mankind  was  directed  elsewhere,  they  have 
suddenly  assumed  a  most  prominent  place 
amongst  the  nations ;  and  the  world  learned 
their  existence  and  their  greatness  at  almost 
the  same  time. 

"All  other  nations  seem  to  have  nearly 
reached  their  natural  limits,  and  only  to  be 
charged  with  the  maintenance  of  their  power; 
but  these  are  still  in  tiie  act  of  growth,  ail  the 
others  are  stopped,  or  continue  to  advance 
with  extreme  dilhculty;  these  are  proceeding 
with  ease  and  with  celerity  along  a  path  to 
which   the   human   eye  can  assign  no  term. 


The  American  struggles  against  the  natura. 
obstacles  which  oppose  him ;  the  adversariei 
of  the  Russian  are  men :  the  former  combat* 
the  wilderness  and  savage  life  ;  the  latter,  civi 
lization  with  all  its  weapons  and  its  arts ;  the 
conquests  of  the  one  are  therefore  gained  by 
the  plough-share;  those  of  the  other  by  the 
sword.  The  Anglo-American  relies  upon  per- 
sonal interest  to  accomplish  his  ends,  and 
gives  free  scope  to  the  unguided  exertions  and 
common  sense  of  the  citizens;  the  Russian 
centres  all  the  authority  of  society  in  a  single 
arm ;  the  principal  instrument  of  the  former 
is  freedom;  of  the  latter,  servitude.  Their 
starting-point  is  different,  and  their  courses 
are  not  the  same ;  yet  each  of  them  seems  tc 
be  marked  out  by  the  will  of  Heaven  to  sway 
the  destinies  of  half  the  globe." 

There  is  something  solemn  and  evidently 
providential  in  this  ceaseless  advance  of  the 
lords  of  the  earth  and  the  sea,  into  the  deserted 
regions  of  the  earth.  The  hand  of  Almighty 
power  is  distinctly  visible,  not  only  in  the  un- 
broken advance  of  both  on  their  respective 
elements,  but  in  the  evident  adaptation  of  the 
passions,  habits,  and  government  of  each  to 
the  ends  for  which  they  were  severally  des- 
tined in  the  designs  of  nature.  Would  Rus- 
sian conquest  have  ever  peopled  the  dark  and 
untrodden  forests  of  North  America,  or  the 
deserted  Savannahs  of  Australasia  1  Would 
the  passions  and  the  desires  of  the  north  bav« 
ever  led  them  into  the  abode  of  the  beaver  anC 
the  buffalo  1  Never ;  for  aught  that  their  pas 
sions  could  have  done  these  regions  must  have 
remained  in  primeval  solitude  and  silence  to 
the  end  of  time.  Could  English  democracy 
ever  have  penetrated  the  half-peopled,  half- 
desert  regions  of  Asia,  and  Christian  civiliza 
tion,  spreading  in  peaceful  activity,  have  sup 
planted  the  Crescent  in  the  original  scats  of  the 
human  racel  Never;  the  isolated  colonist^ 
with  his  axe  and  his  Bible,  would  have  been 
swept  away  by  the  Mameluke  or  the  Spahi, 
and  civilization,  in  its  peaceful  guise,  would 
have  perished  under  the  squadrons  of  the 
Crescent.  For  aught  that  democracy  could 
have  done  for  Central  Asia  it  must  have  re- 
mained the  abode  of  anarchy  and  misrule  to 
the  end  of  human  existence.  But  peaceful 
Christianity,  urged  on  by  democratic  passions^ 
pierced  the  primeval  solitude  of  the  Americari 
forests;  and  warlike  Christianity,  stimulated 
by  norlhern  conquest,  was  fitted  to  subdue 
Central  Asia  and  Eastern  Europe.  The  Bible 
and  the  printing  press  converted  the  wilder- 
ness of  North  America  into  the  abode  of 
Christian  millions;  the  Moscovite  battalions 
marching  under  tiie  standard  of  the  Cross^ 
subjugated  the  already  peopled  regions  of  the 
Mussulman  faitli.  Not  without  reason  then 
did  tlie  British  navy  and  the  Russian  army 
emerge  triumphant  from  the  desperate  strife 
of  the  French  Rrvohition  ;  for  on  the  victory  ol 
each  depended  the  destinies  of  half  the  globe. 

Democratic  institutions  will  nut  and  cannot 
exist  permanently  in  North  America.  The 
fri'^'htfnl  anarchy  which  has  prevailed  in  the 
suuihcrn  stales,  since  the  great  interests  de- 
pendent on  slave  emancipation  were  brought 
into   jeopardy — the   irresistible   sway   of  tbfl 


aee 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


majority,  and  the  rapid  tendency  of  that  ma- 
jority to  deeds  of  atrocity  and  blood — the  in- 
creasing jealousy,  on  mercantile  grounds,  of 
the  northern  and  southern  states,  all  demon- 
strate that  the  Union  cannot  permanently  hold 
together,  and  that  the  innumerable  millions  of 
the  Anglo-American  race  must  be  divided  into 
separate  states,  like   the  descendants  of  the 
Gothic   conquerors  of  Europe.     Out  of   this 
second  great  settlement  of  mankind  will  arise 
separate  kingdoms,  and  interests,  and  passions, 
as  out  of  the  first.    But  democratic  habits  and 
desires  will  still  prevail,  and  long  after  neces- 
sity and  the  passions  of  an  advanced  stage  of 
civilization  have  established  firm  and  aristo- 
cratic governments,  founded  on  the  sway  of 
property  in  the  old  states,  republican  ambition 
and  jealousy  will  not  cease  to  impel  millions 
to  the  great  wave  that  approaches  the  Rocky 
Mountains.    Democratic  ideas  will  not  be  mo- 
derated in  the  New  World,  till  they  have  per- 
formed their  destined   end,  and   brought    the 
Christian  race  to  the  shores  of  the  Pacific. 

Arbitrary  institutions  will  not  for  ever  pre- 
vail in  the  Russian  empire.  As  successive 
provinces  and  kingdoms  are  added  to  their  vast 
dominions — as  their  sway  extends  over  the 
regions  of  the  south,  the  abode  of  wealth  and 
long-established  civilization,  the  passion  for 
conquest  will  expire.  Satiety  will  extinguish 
this  as  it  does  all  other  desires.  With  the  ac- 
quisition of  wealth,  and  the  settlement  in  fixed 
aboiles,  the  desire  of  protection  from  arbitrary 
power  will  spring  up,  and  the  passion  of  free- 
dom will  arise  as  it  did  in  Greece,  Italy,  and 
modern  Europe.  Free  institutions  will  ulti- 
mately appear  in  the  realms  conquered  by  Mos- 
covite,  as  they  did  in  those  won  by  Gothic  va- 
lour. But  the  passions  and  desires  of  an 
earlier  stage  of  existence  will  long  agitate  the 
millions  of  the  Russo-Asiatic  race ;  and  after 
democratic  desires  have  arisen,  and  free  in- 
stitutions exist  in  its  oldest  provinces,  the 
wave  of  northern  conquest  will  still  be  pressed 
on  by  semi-barbarous  hordes  from  its  remoter 
dominions.  Freedom  will  gradually  arise  out 
of  security  and  repose ;  but  the  fever  of  con- 
quest will  not  be  finally  extinguished  till  it  has 
performed  its  destined  mission,  and  the  stand- 
ards of  the  Cross  are  brought  down  to  the  In- 
dian Ocean. 

The  French  Revolution  was  the  greatest  and 
the  most  stupendous  event  of  modern  times ; 
it  is  from  the  throes  consequent  on  its  explo- 
sion that  all  the  subsequent  changes  in  human 
affairs  have  arisen.  It  sprung  up  in  the  spirit 
of  infidelity ;  it  was  early  steeped  in  crime  ;  it 
reached  the  unparalleled  height  of  general 
atheism,  and  shook  all  the  thrones  of  the  world 
by  the  fiery  passions  which  it  awakened.  What 
was  ihe  final  result  of  this  second  revolt  of 
Lucifer,  the  Prince  of  the  Morning  1  Was  it 
that  a  great  and  durable  impression  on  human 
affairs  was  made  by  the  infidel  race  1  Was 
8t.  Michael  at  last  chained  by  thef  demon  ? 
No  !  it  was  overruled  by  Almighty  Power ;  on 
either  side  it  found  the  brazen  walls  which  it 
could  not  pkss ;  it  sunk  in  the  conflict,  and 
ceased  to  have  any  farther  direct  influence  on 
human  affairs.  In  defiance  of  all  its  efforts 
the  British  navy  and  the  Russian  army  rose 
Invincible  above  its  arms;  the  champions  of 


Christianity  in  the  east  and  the  leaders  of  re 
ligious  freedom  in  the  west,  came  forth,  lik 
giants  refreshed  with  wine,  from  the  termina- 
tion of  the  fight.  The  infidel  race  which 
aimed  at  the  dominion  of  the  world,  served 
only  by  their  efforts  to  increase  the  strength 
of  its  destined  rulers ;  and  from  amidst  the 
ruins  of  its  power  emerged  the  ark,  which  was 
to  carry  the  tidings  of  salvation  to  the  west- 
ern, and  the  invincible  host  Avhich  was  to 
spread  the  glad  tidings  of  the  gospel  through 
the  eastern  world. 

Great,  however,  as  were  the  pbwers  thus  let 
into  human  affairs,  their  operation  must  have 
been  comparatively  slow,  and  their  influence 
inconsiderable,  but  for  another  circumstance 
which  at  the  same  time  came  into  action.  But 
a  survey  of  human  affairs  leads  to  the  conclu- 
sion, that  when  important  changes  in  the  social 
world  are  about  to  take  place,  a  lever  is  not 
long  of  being  supplied  to  week  out  the  prodig} 
With  the  great  religious  change  of  the  sixteenth 
century  arose  the  art  of  printing;  with  the 
vast  revolutions  of  the  nineteenth,  an  agent  of 
equal  efficacy  was  provided.  At  the  time,  when 
the  fleets  of  England  were  riding  omnipotent 
on  the  ocean,  at  the  very  moment  when  th» 
gigantic  hosts  of  infidel  and  revolutionarj 
power  were  scattered  by  the  icy  breath  of 
winter,  steam  navigation  Avas  brought  into 
action,  and  an  agent  appeared  upon  the  theatre 
of  the  universe,  destined  to  break  through  the 
most  formidable  barriers  of  nature.  In  Janu- 
ary, 1812,  not  one  steam  vessel  existed  in  the 
world;  now,  on  the  Mississippi  alone,  there 
are  a  hundred  and  sixty.  Vain  hereafter  are 
the  waterless  deserts  of  Persia,  or  the  snowy 
ridges  of  the  Himalaya — vain  the  impenetra- 
ble forests  of  America,  or  the  deadly  jungles 
of  Asia.  Even  the  death  bestrodden  gales  of 
the  Niger  must  yield  to  the  force  of  scientific 
enterprise,  and  the  fountains  of  the  Nile 
themselves  emerge  from  the  awful  obscurity 
of  six  thousand  years.  The  great  rivers  of 
the  world  are  now  the  highways  of  civilization 
and  religion.  The  Russian  battalions  will 
securely  commit  themselves  to  the  waves  of 
the  Euphrates,  and  waft  again  to  the  plains  of 
Shinar  the  blessings  of  regular  government 
and  a  beneficent  faith;  remounting  the  St. 
Lawrence  and  the  Missouri,  the  British  emi- 
grants will  carry  into  the  solitudes  of  the  far 
west  the  Bib^e,  and  the  wonders  of  English 
genius.  Spectators  of,  or  actors  in,  so  mar- 
vellous a  progress,  let  us  act  as  becomes  men 
called  to  such  mighty  destinies  in  human 
affairs  ;  let  us  never  forget  that  it  is  to  regulated 
freedom  alone  that  these  wonders  are  to  be  as- 
cribed ;  and  contemplate  in  the  degraded  and 
impotent  condition  of  France,  when  placed 
beside  these  giants  of  the  earth,  the  natural 
and  deserved  result  of  the  revolutionary  pas- 
sions and  unbridled  ambition  which  extin- 
guished prospects  once  as  fair,  and  destroyed 
energies  once  as  powerful,  as  that  which  now 
directs  the  destinies  of  half  the  globe.'' 


*  Some  of  the  preceding  paragraphs  have  been  trans- 
ferred into  the  last  chapter  of  the  History  of  Europq 
during  the  French  Revolution  :  but  they  are  retained 
here,  where  they  originally  appeared,  as  esnentially  con- 
nected with  the  subject  treated  of  and  speculation* 
hazarded  in  this  volume. 


GUIZOT. 


SS7 


GUIZOT.* 


Machiatel  was  the  first  historian  who  seems 
»o  have  formed  a  conception  of  the  philosophy 
of  history.  Before  his  time,  the  narrative  of 
auman  events  was  little  more  than  a  series  of 
biographies,  imperfectly  connected  together  by 
a  few  slight  sketches  of  the  empires  on  which 
the  actions  of  their  heroes  were  exerted.  In 
this  style  of  historj',  the  ancient  writers  were. 
and  to  the  end  of  time  probably  will  continue 
to  be,  altogether,  inimitable.  Their  skill  in 
narrating  a  stor}'-,  in  developing  the  events  of 
a  life,  in  tracing  the  fortunes  of  a  city  or  a 
state,  as  they  were  raised  by  a  succession  of 
illustrious  patriots,  or  sunk  by  a  series  of  op- 
pressive tyrants,  has  never  been  approached  in 
modern  times.  The  histories  of  Xenophon  and 
Thucydides,  of  Livy  and  Sal  lust,  of  Ccesar  and 
Tacitus,  are  all  more  or  less  formed  on  this 
model ;  and  ihc  more  extended  view  of  history, 
as  embracing  an  account  of  the  countries  the 
transactions  of  which  were  narrated,  originally 
formed,  and  to  a  great  part  executed  by  the 
father  of  historj',  Herodotus,  appears  to  have 
been,  in  an  unaccountable  manner,  lost  by  his 
successors. 

In  these  immortal  works,  however,  human 
transactions  are  uniformly  regarded  as  they 
have  been  affected  by,  or  called  forth  the 
agency  of,  individual  men.  We  are  never 
presented  with  the  view  of  society  in  a  mass  ; 
as  influenced  by  a  series  of  causes  and  effects 
independent  of  the  agency  of  individual  man — 
or,  to  speak  more  correctly,  in  the  development 
of  which  the  agency  is  an  unconscious,  and 
often  almost  a  passive,  instrument.  Constantly 
regarding  history  as  an  extensive  species  of 
biography,  they  not  only  did  not  withdraw  the 
eye  to  the  distance  necessary  to  obtain  such  a 
general  view  of  the  progress  of  things,  but  they 
did  the  reverse.  Their  great  object  was  to 
bring  the  eye  so  close  as  to  see  the  whole  vir- 
tues or  vices  of  the  principal  figures  which 
they  exhibited  on  their  moving  panorama ;  and 
in  80  doing,  they  rendered  it  incapable  of  per- 
ceiving, at  the  same  time,  the  movement  of  thi" 
whole  social  body  of  which  they  fi'rmed  a  pari. 
Even  Livy,  in  his  pictured  narrative  of  Kumnn 
victorif's,  is  essentially  biographical.  His 
inimitable  work  owes  its  enduring  celebrity  to 
the  charming  episodes  of  individuals,  or  cra- 
phir  pictures  of  particular  events,  with  which 
it  abounds;  scarce  any  general  views  cui  ihi- 
progress  of  society,  or  the  causes  to  which  its 
astonishing  progress  in  the  Roman  stale  was 
•winir.  arc  to  be  found.  In  thf  introduction  to 
the  life  of  Catiline,  Sallust  has  given,  with 
annqnalled  powf^r,  a  sketch  nf  thr-  causes  whicti 
eorruptfd  tlie  republic;  and  if  his  work  had 
been  pursued  in  the  same  style,  it  would  indeed 
have  been  a  philosophical  history.  But  Uf^ither 
the  Catiline  nor  the  Jugurthine  war  arc  histo- 
ries;  they  arc  chapters  of  history,  containing: 
:  wo  interesting  biographies.    Scattered  through 

•  DIackwood's  Magazine,  Dec.  1844. 


the  writings  of  Tacitus  are  to  be  found  nume- 
rous caustic  and  profound  observations  on 
human  nature,  and  the  increasing  vices  and 
selfishness  of  a  corrupted  age ;  but  like  the 
maxims  of  Kochefoucault,  it  is  to  individual, 
not  general,  humanity  that  they  refer;  and 
they  strike  us  as  so  admirably  just,  because 
they  do  not  describe  general  causes  operating 
upon  society  as  a  body — which  often  make 
little  impression,  save  on  a  few  reflecting 
minds — but  strike  direct  to  the  human  heart, 
in  a  way  which  comes  home  to  the  breast  of 
every  individual  who  reads  them. 

Never  was  a  juster  observation  than  that  the 
human  mind  is  never  quiescent;  it  may  not 
give  the  external  symptoms  of  action,  but  it 
does  not  cease  to  have  the  internal  movement : 
it  sleeps,  but  even  then  it  dreams.  Writers 
innumerable  have  declaimed  on  the  night  of 
the  Middle  Ages — on  the  deluge  of  barbarism 
which,  under  the  Goths,  flooded  the  world — on 
the  torpor  of  the  human  intellect,  under  the 
combined  pressure  of  savage  violence  and 
priestly  superstition ;  yet  this  was  precisely 
the  period  wlien  the  minds  of  men,  deprived  of 
external  vent,  turned  inwards  on  themselves; 
and  that  the  learned  and  thoughtful,  shut  out 
from  any  active  part  in  society  by  the  general 
prevalence  of  military  violence,  sought,  in  the 
solitude  of  the  cloister,  employment  in  reflect- 
ing on  the  mind  itself,  and  the  general  causes 
which,  under  its  guidance,  operated  upon  so- 
ciety. The  influence  of  this  great  change  in 
the  direction  of  thought,  at  once  appeared 
when  knowledge,  liberated  from  the  monasteiy 
and  the  university,  again  took  its  place  among 
the  affairs  of  men.  Machiavel  in  Italy,  and 
Bacon  in  England,  for  the  first  time  in  the  an- 
nals of  knowledge,  reasoned  upon  human 
affairs  as  a  scioirc.  They  spoke  of  the  minds 
of  men  as  permanently  governed  by  certain 
causes,  and  of  known  jirinciplcs  always  lead- 
ing to  the  same  results  ;  they  treated  of  politics 
as  a  science  in  which  certain  known  laws  ex- 
isted, and  could  be  discovered,  as  in  mechanics 
an<l  hytlrauiics.  This  was  a  great  step  in  ad- 
vance, and  demonstrated  that  the  superior  age 
of  the  world,  and  the  wider  sphere  to  which 
political  observation  had  now  been  applied, 
had  permitted  the  accumulation  of  such  an  in- 
cn'ase<l  store  of  facts,  as  permitted  (Ifdurtions, 
rimnth'd  on  experience,  to  be  lurnied  in  regal d 
to  the  all'airs  of  nations.  Still  more,  it  showed 
that  the  allention  of  writers  had  been  drawn  to 
the  general  causes  of  human  progress;  that 
they  reasoiif'd  nn  the  actions  of  mm  as  a  sub- 
ject of  abstract  thought;  n'^jarded  eflects  fiir- 
inerly  produced  as  likrli/  to  rriKr  from  a  similar 
combination  of  circumstances;  and  formed 
conclusions  for  the  regulation  of  future  con- 
duct, from  the  results  of  past  experience. 
This  tendency  is,  in  an  especial  manne.-,  con 
s])icuous  in  the  Dimorsi  of  .Machiavel,  whens 
certain  general  propositions  are  stated,  de« 
duccd,  indeed,  from  ihe  events  of  Roman  story 


SG8 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


but  announced  as  lasting  truths,  applicable  to 
every  future  generation  and  circumstances  of 
men.  In  depth  of  view  and  justness  of  obser- 
vation, these  views  of  the  Florentine  statesman 
nov^er  were  surpassed.  Bacon's  essays  relate, 
for  the  most  part,  to  subjects  of  morals,  or  do- 
mestic and  private  life  ;  but  not  unfrequently 
he  touches  on  the  general  concerns  of  nations, 
and  with  the  same  profound  observation  of  the 
past,  and  philosophic  anticipation  of  the  future. 
A''oltaire  professed  to  elevate  history  in  France 
from  the _/>_;'»«£  and  trifling  details  of  genealogy, 
courts,  M'ars,  and  negotiations,  in  which  it 
had,  hitherto,  in  his  country,  been  involved,  to 
the  more  general  contemplation  of  arts  and 
philosophy,  and  the  progress  of  human  aftairs  ; 
and,  in  some  respects,  he  certainly  eflected  a 
great  reformation  on  the  ponderous  annalists 
who  had  preceded  him.  But  the  foundation 
of  his  history  was  still  biography ;  he  regarded 
human  events  only  as  they  were  grouped  round 
two  or  three  great  men,  or  as  they  were  influ- 
enced by  the  speculations  of  men  of  letters  and 
science.  The  history  of  France  he  stigmatized 
as  savage  and  worthless  till  the  reign  of  Louis 
XIV.;  the  Russians  he  looked  upon  as  no  bet- 
ter than  barbarians  till  the  time  of  Peter  the 
Great.  He  thought  the  philosophers  alone  all 
in  all;  till  they  arose,  and  a  sovereign  ap- 
peared who  collected  them  round  his  throne, 
and  shed  on  them  the  rays  of  royal  favour, 
human  events  were  not  worth  narrating;  they 
were  merely  the  contests  of  one  set  of  savages 
plundering  another.  Religion,  in  his  eyes,  was 
a  mere  priestly  delusion,  to  enslave  and  be- 
aighten  mankind;  from  its  oppression  the 
greatest  miseries  of  modern  times  had  flowed ; 
the  first  step  in  the  emancipation  of  the  human 
mind  was  to  chase  for  ever  from  the  earth 
chose  sacerdotal  tyrants.  The  most  free- 
thinking  historian  will  now  admit,  that  these 
views  are  essentially  erroneous  ;  he  will  allow 
that,  viewing  Christianity  merely  as  a  human 
institution,  its  effect  in  restraining  the  violence 
of  feudal  anarchy  was  incalculable ;  long  ante- 
rior to  the  date  of  the  philosophers,  he  will  look 
for  the  broad  foundation  on  which  national 
character  and  institutions,  for  good  or  for  evil, 
have  been  formed.  Voltaire  was  of  great  ser- 
vice to  history,  by  turning  it  from  courts  and 
camps  to  the  progress  of  literature,  science, 
and  the  arts— to  the  delineation  of  manners. 
And  the  preparation  of  anecdotes  descriptive 
of  character;  but  notwithstanding  all  his  talent, 
he  never  got  a  glimpse  of  the  general  causes 
which  influence  society.  He  gave  us  the  his- 
tory of  philosophy,  but  not  the  philosophy  of 
history. 

The  ardent  genius  and  pictorial  eye  of  Gib- 
bon rendered  him  an  incomparable  delineator 
of  events ;  and  his  powerful  mind  made  him 
ieize  the  general  and  characteristic  features  of 
society  and  manners,  as  they  appear  in  dif- 
ferent parts  of  the  world,  as  well  as  the  traits 
of  individual  greatness.  His  descriptions  of 
the  Roman  Empire,  in  the  zenith  of  its  power, 
as  it  existed  in  the  time  of  Augustus — of  its  de- 
cline and  long-protracted  old  age,  under  Con- 
stantine  and  his  successors  on  the  Byzantine 
throne — of  the  manners  of  the  pastoral  nations, 
who,  under  different  names,  and  for  a  succes- 


sion of  ages,  pressed  upon  and  at  last  o\  er 
turned  the  empire — of  the  Saracens,  w.io 
issuing  from  the  sands  of  Arabia,  with  the 
Koran  in  one  hand  and  the  cimeter  in  the 
other,  urged  on  their  resistless  course,  till  they 
were  arrested  by  the  Atlantic  on  the  one  side 
and  the  Indian  ocean  on  the  other — of  the  stern 
crusaders,  who,  nursed  amid  the  cloistered 
shades  and  castellated  realms  of  Europe,  strug- 
gled M'ith  that  devastating  horde  "  Avhen  'twas 
strongest,  and  ruled  it  when  'twas.wildest" — 
of  the  long  agony,  silent  decay,  and  ultimate 
resurrection  of  the  Eternal  Cit)' — are  so  man)^ 
immortal  pictures,  which,  to  the  end  of  the 
world,  will  fascinate  every  ardent  and  imagin- 
ative mind.  But,  notwithstanding  this  incom- 
parable talent  for  general  and  characteristic 
description,  he  had  not  the  mind  necessary  for 
a  philosophical  analysis  of  the  series  of  causes 
which  influence  human  events.  He  viewed 
religion  -with  a  jaundiced  and  prejudiced  eye — 
the  fatal  bequest  of  his  age  and  French  educa- 
tion, unworthy  alike  of  his  native  candour  and 
inherent  strength  of  understan  iing.  He  had 
profound  philosophic  ideas,  ard  occasionally 
let  them  out  with  admirable  effect ;  but  the  turn 
of  his  mind  was  essentially  descriptive,  and 
his  powers  were  such  in  that  brilliant  depart- 
ment, that  they  wiled  him  from  the  less  inviting 
contemplation  of  general  causes.  We  turn 
over  his  fascinating  pages  without  weaiying; 
but  without  ever  discovering  the  general  pro- 
gress or  apparent  tendency  of  human  affairs. 
We  look  in  vain  for  the  profound  reflections 
of  Machiavel  on  the  permanent  results  of  cer- 
tain political  combinations  or  experiments. 
He  has  led  us  through  a  "mighty  maze,"  but 
he  has  made  no  attempt  to  show  it  "not  without 
a  plan." 

Hume  is  commonly  called  a  philosophical 
historian,  and  so  he  is ;  but  he  has  even  less 
than  Gibbon  the  power  of  unfolding  the  gene- 
ral causes  which  influence  the  progress  of 
human  events.  He  was  not,  properly  speak- 
ing, a  philosophic  historian,  but  a  philosopher 
writing  history — and  these  are  very  different 
things.  The  experienced  statesman  will  often 
make  a  better  delineator  of  the  progress  of 
human  affairs  than  the  philosophic  recluse; 
for  he  is  more  practically  acquainted  M'ith 
their  secret  springs:  it  was  not  in  the  schools, 
but  the  forum  or  the  palace,  that  Sallust,  Ta- 
citus, and  Burke  acquired  their  deep  insight 
into  the  human  heart.  Hume  Avas  gifted  with 
admirable  sagacity  in  political  economy;  and 
it  is  the  good  sense  and  depth  of  his  views  on 
that  important  subject,  then  for  the  first  time 
brought  to  bear  on  the  annals  of  man,  that  has 
chiefly  gained  for  him,  and  v/ith  justice,  the 
character  of  a  philosophic  historian.  To  this 
may  be  added  the  inimitable  clearness  and 
rhetorical  powers  with  which  he  has  stated 
the  principal  arguments  for  and  against  the 
great  changes  in  the  English  institutions 
which  it  fell  to  his  lot  to  recount — arguments 
far  abler  than  were  either  used  by,  or  occurred 
to,  the  actors  by  whom  they  were  brought 
about ;  for  it  is  seldom  that  a  Hume  is  found 
in  the  councils  of  men.  With  equal  ability 
too,  he  has  given  periodical  sketches  of  man 
ners,  customs,  and  habits,  mingled  with  vala 


GUIZOT. 


369 


able  details  on  finance,  commerce,  and  prices 
^all  elements,  and  most  important  ones,  in 
the  formation  of  philosophical  history.  We 
owe  a  deep  debt  of  gratitude  to  the  man  Avho 
has  rescued  these  valuable  facts  from  the 
ponderous  folios  Avhere  they  were  slumbering 
in  forgotten  obscurity,  and  brought  them  into 
the  broad  light  of  philosophic  observation  and 
popular  narrative.  But,  notwithstanding  all 
this,  Hume  is  far  from  being  gifted  with  the 
philosophy  of  histor}'.  He  has  collected  or 
prepared  man}-  of  the  facts  necessary  for  the 
science,  but  he  has  made  little  progress  in  it 
himself  He  was  essentiall}'-  a  skeptic.  He 
aimed  rather  at  spreading  doubts  than  shed- 
ding light.  Like  Voltaire  and  Gibbon,  he  was 
scandalously  prejudiced  and  unjust  on  the 
subject  of  religion ;  and  to  write  modern  his- 
tory without  correct  views  on  that  subject,  is 
like  playing  Hamlet  without  the  character  of 
the  Prince  of  Denmark.  He  was  too  indolent 
to  acquire  the  vast  store  of  facts  indispensable 
for  correct  generalization  on  the  varied  theatre 
of  human  aflairs,  and  often  drew  hasty  and 
incorrect  conclusions  from  the  events  which 
particularly  came  under  his  observation.  Thus 
the  repeated  indecisive  battles  between  the 
fleets  of  Charles  II.  and  the  Dutch,  drew  from 
him  the  observation,  apparently  justified  by 
their  results,  that  sea-fights  are  seldom  so  im- 
portant or  decisive  as  those  at  land.  The  fact 
is  just  the  reverse.  Witness  the  battle  of  Sa- 
Jamis,  which  repelled  from  Europe  the  tide  of 
Persian  invasion;  that  of  Aclium,  which  gave 
a  master  to  the  Roman  world ;  that  of  Sluys, 
which  exposed  France  to  the  dreadful  English 
invasions,  t^egun  under  Edward  III.;  that  of 
Lepanto,  which  rolled  back  from  Christendom 
the  wave  of  Mohammedan  conquest ;  the  defeat 
of  the  Armada,  which  permanently  established 
the  Reformation  in  Northern  Europe;  that  of 
La  Hogue,  which  broke  the  maritime  strength 
of  Louis  XIV.;  that  of  Trafalgar,  which  for 
ever  took  "ships,  colonies,  and  commerce" 
from  Napoleon,  and  spread  them  with  the 
British  colonial  empire  over  half  the  globe. 

Montesquieu  owes  his  colossal  reputation 
chiefly  to  his  Esprit  dcs  Loix ;  but  the  Urandcvr 
cl  Decadence  dcs  Romains  is  by  much  the  greater 
work.  It  has  never  attained  neaily  the  repu- 
tation in  this  country  which  it  deserves,  either 
in  consequence  of  the  English  mind  being  less 
partial  than  the  French  to  the  philosophy  of 
human  affairs,  or,  as  is  more  probable,  from 
the  system  of  education  at  our  universities 
being  so  exclusively  devoted  to  the  study  of 
words,  that  our  scholars  seldom  arrive  at  the 
knowledge  of  things.  It  is  impossible  to  ima- 
gine a  work  in  which  the  philosophy  of  his- 
tory is  more  ably  condensed,  or  where  there 
is  exhibited,  in  a  short  space,  a  more  profound 
view  of  the  general  causes  to  which  the  long- 
continued  greatness  and  ultimate  decline  of  that 
celebrated  people  were  owing.  It  is  to  be  re- 
gretted only  that  he  did  not  come  to  modern 
times  and  other  ages  with  the  same  masterly 
survey;  the  information  collected  in  the  Esprit 
des  Loix  would  have  furnished  liim  with  ample 
materials  for  such  a  work.  In  that  noble  trea- 
tise, the  same  philosophic  and  generalizing 
spirit  is  conspicuous  ;  but  there  is  too  great  a 
24 


love  of  system,  an  obvious  partiality  for  fan^ 
ciful  analogies,  and,  not  unfrequently,  conclu- 
sions hastily  deduced  from  insufficient  data. 
These  errors,  the  natural  result  of  a  philoso- 
phic and  profound  mind  wandering  without  a 
guide  in  the  mighty  maze  of  human  transac- 
tions, are  entirely  avoided  in  the  Grandeur  el 
Decadence  des  Romains,  where  he  was  retained 
by  authentic  history  to  a  known  train  of 
events,  and  where  his  imaginative  spirit  and 
marked  turn  for  generalization  found  suffi- 
cient scope,  and  no  more,  to  produce  the 
most  perfect  commentary  on  the  annals  of  a 
single  people  of  which  the  human  mind  can 
boast. 

Bossuct,  in  his  Universal  History,  aimed  at  a 
higher  object;  he  professed  to  give  nothing 
less  than  a  development  of  the  plan  of  Provi- 
dence, in  the  government  of  human  affairs, 
during  the  whole  of  antiquity,  and  down  to 
the  reign  of  Charlemagne.  The  idea  was 
magnificent,  and  the  mental  powers,  as  well 
as  eloquence,  of  the  Bishop  of  Meaux  pro- 
mised the  greatest  results  from  such  an  under- 
taking. But  the  execution  has  by  no  means 
corresponded  to  the  conception.  Voltaire  has 
said,  that  he  professed  to  give  a  view  of  uni- 
versal history,  and  he  has  only  given  the  his- 
tory of  the  Jews ;  and  there  is  too  much  truth 
in  the  observation.  He  never  got  out  of  the 
fetters  of  his  ecclesiastical  education  ;  the 
Jews  were  the  centre  round  which  he  sup- 
posed all  other  nations  revolved.  His  mind 
was  polemical,  not  philosophic  ;  a  great  theo- 
logian, he  was  but  an  indifferent  historian. 
In  one  particular,  indeed,  his  observations  are 
admiral)le,  and,  at  times,  in  the  highest  degree 
impressive.  He  never  loses  sight  of  the  di- 
vine superintendence  of  human  affairs  ;  he 
sees  in  all  the  revolutions  of  empires  the 
progress  of  a  mighty  plan  for  the  ultimate 
redemption  of  mankind ;  and  he  traces  the 
workings  of  this  superintending  power  in  all 
the  transactions  of  man.  But  it  may  be  doubt- 
ed whether  he  took  the  correct  view  of  this 
sublime  but  mysterious  subject.  He  supposes 
the  divine  agency  to  influence  directlij  the  af- 
fairs of  men — not  throui;h  the  medium  of  ge- 
neral laws,  or  the  adajilation  of  our  active 
pnipcnsiiios  to  the  varying  circumstances  of 
our  condition.  Hence  his  views  strike  at  the 
freedom  of  human  actions;  he  makes  men 
and  nations  little  more  than  the  puppets  by 
which  the  Deity  works  out  the  great  drama 
of  human  affairs.  Without  disputing  the  re- 
ality of  such  immediate  agency  in  some  par- 
ticular cases,  it  may  safely  be  affirmed,  that 
by  far  the  greater  part  of  the  affairs  of  men 
are  left  entirely  to  their  own  guidance,  and 
that  tlii'ir  actions  are  overruled,  not  directed 
by  Almighty  power  to  woik  out  the  purposes 
of  Divine  beneficence. 

That  which  Bossuet  left  undnnc,  Robertson 
did.  The  first  volume  of  his  Ciiarles  V.  may 
justly  be  regarded  as  the  greatest  step  which 
the  human  mind  hat!  yet  made  in  the  philoso- 
phy of  history.  Extending  his  views  beyond 
the  admirable  survey  which  Montesquieu  had 
given  of  the  rise  and  decline  of  tlie  Roman 
empire,  he  aimed  at  giving  a  view  of  the  pro- 
gress (if  sociclij  in  modern  limes.     This  matter 


870 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


of  the  progress  of  society,  was  a  favourite 
subject  at  that  period  with  political  philoso- 
phers; and  by  combining  the  speculations  of 
these  ingenious  men  with  the  solid  basis  of 
facts  M-hich  his  erudition  and  industry  had 
worked  out,  Robertson  succeeded  in  produc- 
ing the  most  luminous,  and  at  the  same  time 
just,  view  of  the  progress  of  nations  that  had 
yet  been  exhibited  among  mankind.  The  phi- 
losophy of  history  here  appeared  in  its  full 
lustre.  Men  and  nations  were  exhibited  in 
their  just  proportions.  Society  was  viewed, 
not  only  in  its  details,  but  its  masses ;  the 
general  causes  which  influence  its  progress, 
running  into  or  mutually  aftecting  each  other, 
and  yet  all  conspiring  with  more  or  less  etR- 
cacy  to  bring  about  a  general  result,  were  ex- 
hibited in  the  most  lucid  and  masterly  manner. 
The  great  causes  which  have  contributed  to 
form  the  elements  of  modern  society — the  de- 
caying civilization  of  Rome — the  irruption  of 
the  northern  nations — the  prostration  and  de- 
gradation of  the  conquered  people — the  revival 
of  the  military  spirit  with  the  private  Avars  of 
the  nobles — the  feudal  system  and  institution 
of  chivalry — the  crusades,  and  revival  of  let- 
ters following  the  capture  of  Constantinople 
by  the  Turks — the  invention  of  printing,  and 
consequent  extension  of  knowledge  to  the 
great  body  of  the  people — the  discovery  of  the 
compass,  and,  with  it,  of  America,  by  Colum- 
bus, and  doubling  of  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope 
by  Vasco  de  Gama — the  invention  of  gunpow- 
der, and  prodigious  change  thereby  effected  in 
the  implements  of  human  destruction — are  all 
there  treated  in  the  most  luminous  manner, 
and,  in  general,  with  the  justest  discrimina- 
tion. The  vast  agency  of  general  causes  upon 
the  progress  of  mankind  now  became  appa- 
rent :  unseen  powers,  like  the  deities  of  Homer 
in  the  war  of  Troy,  were  seen  to  mingle  at 
every  step  with  the  tide  of  sublunary  affairs  ; 
and  so  powerful  and  irresistible  does  their 
agenc)',  when  once  revealed,  appear,  that  we 
are  perhaps  now  likely  to  fall  into  the  oppo- 
site extreme,  and  to  ascribe  too  little  to  indi- 
vidual effort  or  character.  Men  and  nations 
seem  to  be  alike  borne  forward  on  the  surface 
of  a  mighty  stream,  which  they  are  equally  in- 
capable of  arresting  or  directing;  and,  after 
surveying  the  vain  and  impotent  attempts  of 
individuals  to  extricate  themselves  from  the 
current,  we  are  apt  to  exclaim  with  the  philo- 
sopher,* "He  has  dashed  with  his  oar  to 
hasten  the  cataract ;  he  has  Avaved  with  his 
fan  to  give  speed  to  the  winds." 

A  nearer  examination,  however,  will  con- 
vince every  candid  inquirer,  that  individual 
character  exercises,  if  not  a  paramount,  yet  a 
very  powerful  influence  on  human  affairs. 
Whoever  investigates  minutely  any  period  of 
history  will  find,  on  the  one  hand,  that  general 
causes  affecting  the  whole  of  society  are  in 
constant  operation;  and  on  the  other,  that 
these  general  causes  themselves  are  often  set 
in  motion,  or  directed  in  their  effects,  by  par- 
ticular men.  Thus,  of  what  etficacy  were  the 
constancy  of  Pitt,  the  foresight  of  Burke,  the 
ami  of  Nelson,  the  wisdom  of  Wellington,  the 


'  Ferguson. 


genius  of  Wellesley,  in  bringing  to  maturity 
the  British  empire,  and  spreading  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  race,  in  pursuance  of  its  appointed 
mission,  over  half  the  globe  !  What  marvel- 
lous effect  had  the  heroism  and  skill  of  Robert 
Bruce  upon  the  subsequent  history  of  Scot- 
land, and,  through  it,  on  the  fortunes  of  the 
British  race  !  Thus  biography,  or  the  deeds 
or  thoughts  of  illustrious  men,  still  forms  a 
most  important,  and  certainly  the  most  inte- 
resting, part  even  of  general  history ;  and  the 
perfection  of  that  noble  art  consists,  not  in  the 
exclusive  delineation  of  individual  achieve- 
ment, or  the  concentration  of  attention  on  ge- 
neral causes,  but  in  the  union  of  the  two  in 
due  proportions,  as  they  really  exist  in  nature, 
and  determine,  by  their  combined  operation 
the  direction  of  human  affairs.  The  talent 
now  required  in  the  historian  partakes,  ac- 
cordingly, of  this  two-fold  character.  He  is 
expected  to  write  at  once  philosophy  and  bio- 
graphy: to  unite  skill  in  drawing  individual 
character,  the  power  of  describing  individual 
achievements,  with  a  clear  perception  of  gene- 
ral causes,  and  the  generalizing  faculty  of  en- 
larged philosophy.  He  must  combine  in  his 
mmd  the  powers  of  the  microscope  and  the 
telescope ;  be  ready,  like  the  steam-engine,  at 
one  time  to  twist  a  fibre,  at  another  to  prbpel 
an  hundred-gun  ship.  Hence  the  rarity  of 
eminence  in  this  branch  of  knowledge ;  and 
if  we  could  conceive  a  Avriter  who,  to  the  ar- 
dent genius  and  descriptive  powers  of  Gibbon, 
should  unite  the  lucid  glance  and  just  discri- 
mination of  Robertson,  and  the  calm  sense 
and  reasoning  powers  of  Hume,  he  would 
form  a  more  perfect  historian  than  ever  has, 
or  probably  ever  will  appear  upon  earth. 

With  all  his  generalizing  powers,  however, 
Robertson  fell  into  one  defect — or  rather,  he 
was  unable,  in  one  respect,  to  extricate  him- 
self from  the  prejudices  of  his  age  and  profes- 
sion. He  was  not  a  freethinker — on  the  con- 
trary, he  was  a  sincere  and  pious  divine  ;  but 
he  lived  in  an  age  of  freethinkers — they  had 
the  chief  influence  in  the  formation  of  a  wri- 
ter's fame  ;  and  he  was  too  desirous  of  literary 
reputation  to  incur  the  hazard  of  ridicule  or 
contempt,  by  assigning  too  prominent  a  place 
to  the  obnoxious  topic.  Thence  he  has  as 
cribed  far  too  little  influence  to  Christianity,  in 
restraining  the  ferocity  of  savage  manners, 
preserving  alive  the  remains  of  ancient  know- 
ledge, and  laying  in  general  freedom  the  broad 
and  deep  foundations  of  European  society. 
He  has  not  overlooked  these  topics,  but  he  has 
not  given  them  their  due  place,  nor  assigned 
them  their  proper  Aveight.  He  lived  and  died 
in  comparative  retirement;  and  he  was  never 
able  to  shake  himself  free  from  the  prejudice.*; 
of  his  country  and  education,  on  the  subject 
of  Romish  religion.  Not  that  he  exaggerated 
the  abuses  and  enormities  of  the  Roman  Ca- 
tholic superstition  which  broiight  about  the 
Reformation,  nor  the  vast  benefits  which  Lu- 
ther conferred  upon  mankind  by  bringing  them 
to  light;  both  were  so  great,  that  they  hardly 
admitted  of  exaggeration.  His  error — and,  in 
the  delineation  of  the  progress  of  society  in 
modern  Europe,  it  was  a  very  great  one — con 
sisted  in  overlooking  the  beneficial  effect  of 


I 


GUIZOT. 


371 


''lat  very  superstition,  then  so  pernicious,  in  a 
lor  age  of  the  world,  when  violence  was  iini- 
■Tsal,  crime  prevalent  alike  in  high  and  low 
laces,  and  government  impotent  to  check 
ihcr  the  t)'ranny  of  the  great  or  the  madness 
I  the  people.  Then  it  was  that  superstition 
as  the  greatest  blessing  which  Providence, 
in  mercy,  could  bestow  on  mankind;  for  it  ef- 
fected what  the  wisdom  of  the  learned  or  the 
efforts  of  the  active  were  alike  unable  to  effect; 
it  restrained  the  violence  by  imaginary,  which 
was  inaccessible  to  the  force  of  real,  terrors  ; 
and  spread  that  protection  under  the  shadow 
of  the  Cross,  which  could  never  have  been  ob- 
tained by  the  power  of  the  sword.  Robertson 
was  wholly  insensible  to  these  early  and  in- 
estimable blessings  of  the  Christian  faith ;  he 
has  admirably  delineated  the  beneficial  influ- 
ence of  the  Crusades  upon  subsequent  societ)-, 
but  on  this  all-important  topic  he  is  silent. 
Yet,  whoever  has  studied  the  condition  of 
European  society  in  the  ninth,  tenth,  and  ele- 
venth centuries,  as  it  has  since  been  developed 
in  the  admirable  works  of  Sismondi,  Thierry, 
Michelet,  and  Guizot,  must  be  aware  that  the 
services,  not  merely  of  Christianity,  but  of  the 
superstitions  which  had  usurped  its  place, 
were,  during  that  long  period,  incalculable ; 
and  that,  but  for  them,  European  society  would 
infallibly  have  sunk,  as  Asiatic  in  every  age 
has  done,  beneath  the  desolating  sword  of  bar- 
barian power. 

Sismondi — if  the  magnitude,  and  in  many 
respects  the  merit,  of  his  works  be  considered 
•^must  be  regarded  as  one  of  the  greatest 
historians  of  modern  times.  His  "History  of 
the  Italian  Republics"  in  sixteen,  of  the  "Mo- 
narchy of  France"  in  thirty  volumes,  attest  the 
variety  and  extent  of  his  antiquarian  rcsea  rchcs, 
as  well  as  the  indefatigable  industry  of  his 
pen:  his  "Literature  of  the  South  of  Europe" 
in  four,  and  "Miscellaneous  Essays,"  in  three 
volumes,  show  how  happily  he  has  blended 
these  weighty  investigations  with  the  lighter 
topics  of  literature  and  poetry,  and  the  politi- 
cal philosophy  which,  in  recent  times,  has 
come  to  occupy  so  large  a  place  in  the  study 
of  all  who  have  turned  their  mind  to  the  pro- 
gress of  human  affairs.  Nor  is  the  least  part 
of  his  merit  to  be  found  in  the  admirable  skill 
with  which  he  has  condensed,  each  in  two 
volumes,  his  great  histories,  for  the  benefit  of 
that  numerous  class  of  readers,  who  unable  or 
unwilling  to  face  the  formidabh;  undertaking 
of  going  through  his  ma^^sy  works,  arc  de- 
sirous of  obtaining  such  a  brief  summary  of 
their  leading  events  as  may  sufiice  for  persons 
of  ordinary  perseverance  or  education.  His 
mind  was  essentially  philosophical ;  and  it  is 
the  philosophy  of  modern  history,  accordingly, 
which  he  has  exerted  himself  so  strenuously 
to  unfold.  He  views  society  at  a  distanc**,  and 
exhibits  its  great  changes  in  their  just  propor- 
tions, and,  in  general,  with  their  true  effects. 
Hi^  success  in  this  arduous  undertaking  has 
been  great  indeed.  He  has  comjileied  the  pic- 
lure  of  which  Robertson  had  only  formed  the 
•ketch — and  completed  it  with  such  a  prodigi- 
ous collection  of  materials,  and  so  lucid  an  ar- 
rangement of  them  in  their  appropriate  places, 
as  to  have  left  future  ages  little  to  do  but  draw 


the  just  conclusions  from  the  results  of  his 
labours. 

With  all  these  merits,  and  they  are  great, 
and  with  this  rare  combination  of  antiquarian 
industry  with  philosophic  generalization,  Sis- 
mondi is  far  from  being  a  perfect  historian. 
He  did  well  to  abridge  his  great  works  ;  for  he 
will  find  few  readers  who  will  have  persever- 


ance enough  to  go  through  them. 


An  abridg- 


ment was  tried  of  Gibbon;  but  it  had  little 
success,  and  has  never  since  been  attempted. 
You  might  as  well  publish  an  abridgment  of 
Waverley  or  Ivanhoe.  Every  reader  of  the 
Decline  and  Fall  must  feel  that  condensation  is 
impossible,  without  an  omission  of  interest  or 
a  curtailment  of  beauty.  Sismondi,  with  all 
his  admirable  qualiti€s  as  a  general  and  philo- 
sophic historian,  wants  the  one  thing  needful 
in  exciting  interest — descriptive  and  dramatic 
power.  He  was  a  man  of  great  vigour  of 
thought  and  clearness  of  observation,  but  little 
genius — at  least  of  that  kind  of  genius  which 
is  necessary  to  move  the  feelings  or  warm  the 
imagination.  That  was  his  principal  defect ; 
and  it  will  prevent  his  great  works  from  ever 
commanding  the  attention  of  a  numerous  body 
of  general  readers,  however  much  they  may 
be  esteemed  by  the  learned  and  studious. 
Conscious  of  this  deficiency,  he  makes  scarce 
any  attempt  to  make  his  narrative  interesting; 
but,  reserving  his  whole  strength  for  general 
views  on  the  progress  of  society,  or  philo- 
sophic observations  on  its  most  important 
changes,  he  fills  up  the  intermediate  space 
with  long  quotations  from  chronicles,  me- 
moirs, and  state  papers — a  sure  way,  if  the 
selection  is  not  made  with  great  judgment,  of 
rendering  the  whole  insupportably  tedious. 
Every  narrative,  to  be  interesting,  should  be 
given  in  the  writer's  own  wi.rds,  unless  on  those 
occasions,  by  no  means  frequent,  when  some 
striking  or  remarkable  expressions  of  a  speak- 
er, or  contemporary  writer,  are  to  be  preserved. 
Unity  of  style  and  expression  is  as  indispen- 
sable in  a  history  which  is  (o  move  tlie  heart, 
or  fascinate  the  imagination,  as  in  a  tragedy, 
a  painting,  or  an  epic  poem. 

But,  in  addition  to  this,  Sismondi's  general 
views,  though  ordinarily  just,  and  always  ex- 
pressed with  clearness  and  precision,  are  not 
always  to  be  taken  without  examination.  Like 
Robertson,  he  was  never  able  to  extricate  him- 
self entirely  from  the  early  prejudices  Oi"  his 
country  and  education;  hardly  any  of  the  Ge- 
neva school  of  philosophers  have  been  able  to 
do  so.  Brought  up  in  that  learned  and  able, 
l)ut  narrow,  and  in  some  respects  bigoted  com- 
munity, he  was  early  engaged  in  the  vast 
underiaking  of  the  History  of  the  Italian  Re- 
publics. -Thus,  before  he  was  well  aware  of 
it,  and  at  a  time  of  life,  when  the  opinions  are 
flexible,  and  easily  moulded  by  external  im- 
pressions, he  became  irrevocably  enamoured 
of  such  little  communities  as  he  had  lived  in, 
or  was  describing,  and  imbibed  all  the  preju 
dices  against  the  Church  of  Rome,  which  have 
naturally,  from  close  proximity,  and  the  en- 
durance of  unutterable  evils  at  its  hands,  been 
ever  prevalent  among  the  Calvinists  of  (ie- 
neva.  These  causes  have  tinged  his  otherwise 
impartial  views  with  two   signal  prejudices^ 


878 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


which  appear  in  all  his  -writings  where  these 
subjects  are  even  remotely  alluded  to.  His 
partiality  for  municipal  institutions,  and  the 
social  system  depending  on  them,  is  as  extra- 
vagant, as  his  aversion  to  the  Church  of  Rome 
is  conspicuous  and  intemperate.  His  idea  of 
a  perfect  society  would  be  a  confederacy  of 
little  republics,  governed  by  popularly  elected 
magistrates,  holding  the  scarlet  old  lady  of 
Rome  in  utter  abomination,  and  governed 
in  matters  of  religion  by  the  Presbyterian 
forms,  and  the  tenets  of  Calvin.  It  is  not  to 
be  wondered  at,  that  the  annalist  of  the  coun- 
tries of  Tasso  and  Dante,  of  Titian  and  Ma- 
.chiavel,  of  Petrarch  and  Leonardo  da  Vinci, 
of  Galileo  and  Michael  Angelo,  should  con- 
ceive, that  in  no  other  state  of  society  is  such 
scope  afforded  for  mental  cultivation  and  the 
development  of  the  highest  efforts  of  genius. 
Still  less  is  it  surprising,  that  the  historian  of 
the  crusades  against  the  Albigenses,  of  the  un- 
heard of  atrocities  of  Simon  de_  Montfort,  of 
the  wholesale  massacres,  burnings,  and  tortur- 
ings,  which  have  brought  such  indelible  dis- 
grace on  the  Roman  priesthood,  should  feel 
deeply  interested  in  a  faith  which  has  extri- 
cated his  own  country  from  the  abominable 
persecution.  But  still,  this  indulgence  of  these 
natural,  and  in  some  respects  praiseworthy, 
feelings,  has  blinded  Sismondi  to  the  insur- 
mountable evils  of  a  confederacy  of  small 
republics  at  this  time,  amidst  surrounding, 
powerful,  and  monarchical  states;  and  to  the 
inappreciable  blessings  of  the  Christian  faith, 
and  even  of  the  Romish  superstition,  before 
the  period  when  these  infamous  cruelties  be- 
gan, when  their  warfai-e  v/as  only  with  the  op- 
pressor, their  struggles  with  the  destroyers  of 
the  human  race. 

But  truth  is  great,  and  will  prevail.  Those 
just  views  of  modern  society,  which  neither 
the  luminous  eye  of  Robertson,  nor  the  learned 
research  and  philosophic  mind  of  Sismondi 
could  reach,  have  been  brought  forward  by  a 
writer  of  surpassing  ability,  whose  fame  as 
an  historian  and  a  philosopher  is  for  the  time 
overshadowed  by  the  more  fleeting  celebrity 
of  the  statesman  and  the  politician.  We  will 
not  speak  of  M.  Guizot  in  the  latter  character, 
much  as  we  are  tempted  to  do  so,  by  the  high 
and  honourable  part  which  he  has  long  borne 
iia  European  diplomacy,  and  the  signal  ability 
with  which,  in  the  midst  of  a  short-sighted  and 
rebellious  generation,  clamouring,  as  the  Ro- 
mans of  old,  for  the  vndlis  utile  bdlum,  he  has 
sustained  his  sovereign's  wise  and  magnani- 
mous resolution  to  maintain  peace.  We  are 
too  near  the  time  to  appreciate  the  magnitude 
of  these  blessings;  men  would  not  now  be- 
lieve through  what  a  crisis  the  British  empire, 
unconscious  of  its  danger,  passed,  when  M. 
Thiers  was  dismissed,  three  years  and  a  half 
ago,  by  Louis  Philippe,  and  M.  Guizot  called 
to  the  helm.  But  when  the  time  arrives,  as 
arrive  it  will,  that  the  diplomatic  secrets  of  that 
period  are  brought  to  light;  when  the  instruc- 
tions of  the  revolutionary  minister  to  the  ad- 
miral of  the  Toulon  fleet  are  made  known,  and 
the  marvellous  chance  which  prevented  their 
being  acted  upon  by  him,  has  become  matter 
of  history ;  it  will  be  admitted,  that  tine  civilized 


world  have  good  cause  to  thank  M.  Guizot  fof 
saving  it  from  a  contest  as  vehement,  as  perilousj 
and  probably  as  disastrous  to  all  concerned,  as 
that  which  followed  the  French  Revolution. 

Our  present  business  is  with  M.  Guizot  as  an 
historian  and  a  philosopher;  a  character  iu 
which  he  will  be  remembered,  long  after  his 
services  to  humanity  as  a  statesman  and  a 
minister  have  ceased  to  attract  the  attention 
of  men.  In  those  respects,  we  place  him  in 
the  very  highest  rank  among  the  writers  of 
modern  Europe.  It  must  be  understood,  how- 
ever, in  what  his  greatness  consists,  lest  the 
readers,  expecting  what  they  will  not  find,  ex- 
perience disappointment,  when  they  begin  the 
study  of  his  works.  He  is  neither  imaginative 
nor  pictorial;  he  seldom  aims  at  the  pathetic, 
and  has  little  eloquence.  He  is  not  a  Livy  nor 
a  Gibbon.  Nature  has  not  given  him  either 
dramatic  or  descriptive  powers.  He  is  a  man 
of  the  highest  genius;  but  it  consists  not  in 
narrating  particular  events,  or  describing  in- 
dividual achievement.  It  is  in  the  discovery 
of  general  causes;  in  tracing  the  operation 
of  changes  in  society,  which  escape  ordinary 
observation  ;  in  seeing  whence  man  has  come, 
and  whither  he  is  going,  that  his  greatness 
consists ;  and  in  that  loftiest  of  the  regions 
of  history,  he  is  unrivalled.  We  know  of 
no  author  who  has  traced  the  changes  of 
society,  and  the  general  causes  which  de- 
termine the  fate  of  nations,  with  such  just 
views  and  so  much  sagacious  discrimination. 
He  is  not,  properly  speaking,  an  historian  ;  his 
vocation  and  object  were  different.  He  is  a 
great  discourser  on  history.  If  ever  the  philo- 
sophy of  history  was  imbodied  in  a  human 
being,  it  is  in  M.  Guizot. 

The  style  of  this  great  author  is,  in  every 
respect,  suited  to  his  subject.  He  does  not 
aim  at  the  highest  flights  of  fancy;  makes  no 
attempt  to  warm  the  soul  or  melt  the  feelings; 
is  seldom  imaginative,  and  never  descriptive. 
But  he  is  uniformly  lucid,  sagacious,  and  dis- 
criminating ;  deduces  his  conclusions  with 
admirable  clearness  from  his  premises,  and 
occasionally  warms  from  the  innate  grandeur 
of  his  subject  into  a  glow  of  fervent  eloquence. 
He  seems  to  treat  of  human  affairs,  as  if  he 
viewed  them  from  a  loftier  sphere  than  other 
men;  as  if  he  were  elevated  above  the  usual 
struggles  and  contests  of  humanity;  and  a  su- 
perior power  had  withdrawn  the  veil  which 
shrouds  their  secret  causes  and  course  from 
the  gaze  of  sublunary  beings.'  He  cares  not 
to  dive  into  the  secrets  of  cabinets ;  attaches 
little,  perhaps  too  little,  importance  to  indivi- 
dual character;  but  fixes  his  steady  gaze  on 
the  great  and  lasting  causes  which,  in  a  dur- 
able manner,  influence  human  affairs.  He 
views  them  not  from  year  to  year  but  from 
century  to  century;  and,  when  considered  in 
that  view,  it  is  astonishing  how  much  the 
importance  of  individual  agency  disappears. 
Important  in  their  generation — sometimes  al- 
most omnipotent  for  good  or  for  evil  while 
they  live — particular  men,  how  great  soever, 
rarelj'  leave  an}'  very  important  consequences 
behind  them;  or  at  least  rarely  do  what  other 
men  might  not  have  done  as  effectually  as 
them,  and  whi.ch  was  not  already  determined 


GUIZOT. 


373 


by  the  tendency  of  the  human  mind,  and  the 
tide,  either  of  flow  or  ebb,  by  whicli  human 
affiiirs  were  at  the  time  wafted  to  and  fro.  The 
desperate  struggles  of  war  or  of  ambition  in 
which  they  were  engaged,  and  in  which  so 
much  genius  and  capacity  were  exerted,  are 
swept  over  by  the  flood  of  time,  and  seldom 
leave  any  lasting  trace  behind.  It  is  the  men 
who  determine  the  direction  of  this  tide,  who 
imprint  their  character  on  general  thought, 
who  are  the  real  directors  of  human  affairs;  it 
is  the  giants  of  thought  who,  in  the  end,  go- 
vern the  world.  Kings  and  ministers,  princes 
and  generals,  warriors  and  legislators,  are  but 
the  ministers  of  their  blessings  or  their  curses 
to  mankind.  But  their  dominion  seldom  begins 
till  themselves  are  mouldering  in  their  graves. 

Guizot's  largest  work,  in  point  of  size,  is 
his  translation  of  Gibbons  Borne;  and  the  just 
and  philosophic  spirit  in  which  he  viewed  the 
course  of  human  affairs,  was  admirably  cal- 
culated to  provide  an  antidote  to  the  skeptical 
sneers  which,  in  a  writer  of  such  genius  and 
strength  of  understanding,  are  at  once  the 
marvel  and  the  disgrace  of  that  immortal 
work.  He  has  begun  also  a  history  of  the 
English  Revolution,  to  which  he  was  led  by 
having  been  the  editor  of  a  valuable  collec- 
tion of  Memoirs  relating  to  the  great  Rebellion, 
translated  into  French,  in  twenty-five  volumes. 
But  this  work  only  got  the  length  of  two  vo- 
lumes, and  came  no  further  down  than  the 
death  of  Charles  I.,  an  epoch  no  further  on  in 
the  English  than  the  execution  of  Louis  in  the 
French  Revolution.  This  history  is  clear, 
lUcid,  and  valuable ;  but  it  is  written  with 
little  eloquence,  and  has  met  with  no  great 
success :  the  author's  powers  were  not  of  the 
dramatic  or  pictorial  kind  necessary  to  paint 
that  dreadful  storj'.  These  were  editorial  or 
industrial  labours  unworthy  of  Guizot's  mind; 
it  was  when  he  delivered  lectures  from  the 
chair  of  history  in  Paris,  that  his  genius  shone 
forth  in  its  proper  sphere  and  its  true  lustre. 

His  Civilisation  en  France,  in  five  volumes, 
Civilisation  Europecnne,  and  Essais  sitr  VHisloirc 
de  France,  each  in  one  volume,  are  the  fruits 
of  these  professional  labours.  The  same  pro- 
found thought,  sagacious  discrimination,  and 
lucid  view,  are  conspicuous  in  them  all ;  but 
they  possess  different  degrees  of  interest  to  the 
English  reader.  The  Civilisation  en  France  is 
the  groundwork  of  the  whole,  and  it  enters  at 
large  into  the  whole  details,  historical,  legal, 
and  antiquarian,  essential  for  its  illustration, 
and  the  proof  of  the  various  propositions 
which  it  contains.  In  the  Civilisation  Euro- 
])eennc  and  Essays  on  the  History  of  France,  how- 
ever, the  general  results  are  given  with  equal 
clearness  and  greater  brevity.  We  do  not 
hesitate  to  say,  that  ihev  appear  to  us  to  throw 
more  light  on  the  histoi/  of  society  in  modern 
Europe,  and  the  general  progress  of  mankind, 
from  the  exertions  of  its  inhahitants,  than  any 
other  works  in  existence;  and  it  is  of  them, 
especially  the  first,  that  we  propose  to  give  our 
readers  some  account. 

The  most  important  event  which  ever  oc- 
curred in  the  history  of  mankind,  is  the  one 
concerning  which  contemporary  writers  have 
given  us  the  least  satisfactory  accounts.    Be- 


yond all  doubt  the  overthrow  of  Rome  by  tha 
Goths  was  the  most  momentous  catastrophe 
which  has  occurred  on  the  earth  since  the  de. 
luge  ;  yet,  if  we  examine  either  the  historians 
of  antiquity  or  the  earliest  of  modern  times, 
we  find  it  wholly  impossible  to  understand  to 
what  cause  so  great  a  catastrophe  had  been 
owing.  What  gave,  in  the  third  and  fourth 
centuries,  so  prodigious  an  impulse  to  the 
northern  nations,  and  enabled  them,  after  be- 
ing so  long  repelled  by  the  arms  of  Rome, 
finally  to  prevail  over  iti  What,  still  more, 
so  completely  paralyzed  the  strength  of  the 
empire  during  that  period,  and  produced  that 
astonishing  weakness  in  the  ancient  conque- 
rors of  the  world,  which  rendered  them  the 
easy  prey  of  those  whom  they  had  so  often 
subdued  1  The  ancient  writers  content  them- 
selves with  saying,  that  the  people  became 
corrupted ;  that  they  lost  their  military  cou- 
rage ;  that  the  recruiting  of  the  legions,  in  the 
free  inhabitants  of  the  empire,  became  im- 
possible; and  that  the  semi-barbarous  tribes 
on  the  frontier  could  not  be  relied  on  to  up- 
hold its  fortiTues.  But  a  very  little  reflection 
must  be  sufficient  to  show  that  there  must 
have  been  much  more  in  it  than  this,  before  a 
race  of  conquerors  was  converted  into  one  of 
slaves ;  before  the  legions  fled  before  the  bar- 
barians, and  the  strength  of  the  civilized  was 
overthrown  by  the  energy  of  the  savage  world. 
For  what  prevented  a  revenue  from  being 
raised  in  the  third  or  fourth,  as  well  as  the 
first  or  second  centuries  1  Corruption  in  its 
worst  form  had  doubtless  pervaded  the  higher 
ranks  in  Rome  from  the  emperor  downward; 
but  these  vices  are  the  faults  of  the  exalted 
and  the  affluent  only;  they  never  have,  and 
never  will,  extend  generally  to  the  great  body 
of  the  community;  for  this  plain  reason,  that 
they  are  not  rich  enough  to  purchase  them. 
But  the  remarkable  thing  is,  that  in  the  decline 
of  the  em])irc,  it  was  in  the  lower  ranks  that 
the  greatest  and  most  fatal  weakness  first  ap- 
peared. Long  before  the  race  of  the  Patri- 
cians had  become  extinct,  the  free  cultivators 
had  disappeared  from  the  fields.  Leaders  and 
generals  of  the  most  consummate  abilities,  of 
the  greatest  daring,  frequently  arose;  hut  their 
eflorts  proved  in  the  end  inellcctual,  from  the 
impossibility  of  finding  a  sturdy  race  of  fol- 
lowers to  fill  their  ranks.  The  legionary  Italian 
soldier  was  awanting — his  place  was  imper- 
fectly supplied  by  the  rude  Dacian,  the  hardy 
German,  the  faithless  Goth.  So  completely 
were  the  inhaliitants  of  the  provinces  M'ithin 
the  Rhine  and  the  Danube  paralyzed,  that  they 
ceased  to  make  any  resistance  to  the  hordes 
of  invaders;  and  the  fortunes  of  the  empire 
were,  for  several  generations,  sustained  solely 
by  the  heroic  efforts  of  individual  leaders — 
Belisarius,  Narses,  Julian,  Aurelian,  Constan- 
tino, and  many  others — whose  renown,  though 
it  could  not  rouse  the  pacific  inhabitants  to 
Avarlike  efforts,  yet  attracted  militar}'  adven 
turers  from  all  parts  of  the  world  to  theii 
standard.  Now,  what  weakened  and  destroyed 
the  rural  population  1  It  could  not  be  luxury 
on  the  contrary,  they  were  sufi^ering  under 
excess  of  poverty,  and  bent  down  beneath  a 
load  of  taxes,  which,  in  Gaul,  in  the  time  of 


874 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


Constantine,  amounted,  as  Gibbon  tells  us,  to 
nine  pounds  sterling  on  every  freeman  1  What 
was  it,  then,  which  occasioned  the  depopula- 
tion and  weakness  1  This  is  what  behoves  us 
to  know — this  it  is  which  ancient  history  has 
left  unknown. 

It  is  here  that  Vhe  vast  step  in  the  philosophy 
of  history  made  from  ancient  to  modern  times 
is  apparent.  From  a  few  detached  hints  and 
insulated  facts,  left  by  the  ancient  annalists, 
apparently  ignorant  of  their  value,  and  care- 
less of  their  preservation,  modern  industry, 
guided  by  the  light  of  philosophy,  has  reared 
up  the  true  solution  of  the  difficulty,  and  re- 
vealed the  real  causes,  hidden  from  the  ordi- 
nary gaze,  which,  even  in  the  midst  of  its 
greatest  prosperity,  gradually,  but  certainly, 
undermined  the  strength  of  the  empire.  Miche- 
let,  in  his  Gaule  sous  Ics  Bomains,  a  most  able 
and  interesting  work — Thierry,  in  his  Domina- 
tion Romaine  en  Gaulc,  and  his  Histoirc  des  liois 
Merovingians — Sismondi,  in  the  three  first  vo- 
lumes of  his  Histoire  des  Fran^ais — and  Guizot, 
in  his  Civilisation  Europecnnc,  and  the  first  vo- 
lumes of  his  Essais  sur  VHistoire  de  France — 
have  applied  their  great  powers  to  this  most  in- 
teresting subject.  It  may  safely  be  affirmed  that 
they  have  got  to  the  bottom  of  the  subject,  and 
lifted  up  the  veil  from  one  of  the  darkest,  and 
yet  most  momentous,  changes  in  the  histor}''  of 
mankind.  Guizot  gives  the  following  account 
of  the  principal  causes  which  silently  under- 
mined the  strength  of  the  empire,  flowing  from 
the  peculiar  organization  of  ancient  society: — 

"When  Rome  extended,  what  did  it  do? 
Follow  its  history,  and  you  will  find  that  it 
was  everlastingly  engaged  in  conquering  or 
founding  cities.  It  was  with  cities  that  it 
fought — with  cities  that  it  contracted — into 
cities  that  it  sent  colonies.  The  history  of  the 
conquest  of  the  world  by  Rome,  is  nothing  but 
the  history  of  the  conquest  and  foundation  of 
a  great  number  of  cities.  In  the  east,  the 
expansion  of  the  Roman  power  assumed,  from 
the  very  outset,  a  somewhat  dissimilar  cha- 
racter; the  population  was  differently  distri- 
buted from  the  west,  and  much  less  concen- 
trated in  cities;  but  in  the  European  world, 
the  foundation  or  conquest  of  towns  was  the 
uniform  result  of  Roman  conquest.  In  Gaul 
and  Spain,  in  Italy,  it  was  constantly  towns 
which  opposed  the  barrier  to  Roman  domi- 
nation, and  towns  which  were  founded  or 
garrisoned  by  the  legions,  or  strengthened  by 
colonies,  to  retain  them  when  vanquished  in 
a  state  of  subjection.  Great  roads  stretched 
from  one  town  to  another ;  the  multitude  of 
cross  roads  which  now  hitersect  each  other  in 
every  direction,  was  unknown.  They  had  no- 
thing in  common  with  that  multitude  of  little 
monuments,  villages,  churches,  castles,  villas, 
and  cottages,  which  now  cover  our  provinces'. 
Rome  has  bequeathed  to  us  nothing,  either  in 
Its  capital  or  its  provinces,  but  the  municipal 
character,  which  produced  immense  monuments 
on  certain  points,  destined  for  the  use  of  the 
vast  population  which  was  there  assembled 
vogether. 

"  From  this  peculiar  conformation  of  society 
in  Europe,  under  the  Roman  dominion,  con- 
sisting of  a  vast  conglomeration  of  cities,  with 


each  a  dependent  territoiy,  all  independent  of 
each  other,  arose  the  absolute  necessity  for  a 
central  and  absolute  government.  One  muni 
c.ipality  in  Rome  might  conquer  the  world 
but  to  retain  it  in  subjection,  and  provide  fol 
the  government  of  all  its  multifarious  parts, 
was  a  very  different  matter.  This  was  one  of 
the  chief  causes  of  the  general  adoption  of  a 
strong  concentrated  government  under  the  em 
pire.  Such  a  centralized  despotism  not  only 
succeeded  in  restraining  and  regulating  all  the 
incoherent  members  of  the  vast  dominion,  but 
the  idea  of  a  central  irresistible  authority  in- 
sinuated itself  into  men's  minds  everywhere, 
at  the  same  time,  with  wonderful  facility.  At 
first  sight,  one  is  astonished  to  see,  in  that 
prodigious  and  ill-united  aggregate  of  little 
republics,  in  that  accumulation  of  separate 
municipalities,  spring  up  so  suddenly  an  un- 
bounded respect  for  the  sacred  authority  of 
the  empire.  But  the  truth  is,  it  had  become  a 
matter  of  absolute  necessity,  that  the  bond 
which  held  together  the  difi'erent  parts  of  this 
heterogeneous  dominion  should  be  very  power- 
ful; and  this  it  was  which  gave  it  so  ready  a 
reception  in  the  minds  of  men. 

"  I3ut  when  the  vigour  of  the  central  power 
declined  during  a  course  of  ages,  from  the  pres- 
sure of  external  warfare,  and  the  weakness  of 
internal  corruption,  this  necessity  was  no 
longer  felt.  The  capital  ceased  to  be  able  to 
provide  for  the  provinces  ;  it  rather  sought  pro- 
tection from  them.  During  four  centuries,  the 
central  power  of  the  emperors  incessantly 
struggled  against  this  increasing  debility;  but 
the  moment  at  length  arrived,  when  all  the 
practised  skill  of  despotism,  over  the  long  t«- 
souciance  of  servitude,  could  no  longer  keep 
together  the  huge  and  unwieldy  body.  In  the 
fourth  century,  we  see  it  at  once  break  up  and 
disunite;  the  barbarians  entered  on  all  sides 
from  Avithout,  the  provinces  ceased  to  oppose 
any  resistance  from  within  ;  the  cities  to  evince 
anj'^  regard  for  the  general  welfare ;  and,  as  in 
the  disaster  of  a  shipwreck,  every  one  looked 
out  for  his  individual  safety.  Thus,  on  Xhe 
dissolution  of  the  empire,  the  same  general 
state  of  society  presented  itself  as  in  its  cradle. 
The  imperial  authority  sunk  into  the  dust,  and 
municipal  institutions  alone  sun'ived  the  dis- 
aster. This,  then,  was  the  chief  legacy  which 
the  ancient  bequeathed  to  the  modern  world — 
for  it  alone  survived  the  storm  by  w^hich  the 
former  had  been  destroyed — cities  and  a  mu- 
nicipal organization  everywhere  established- 
But  it  was  not  the  only  legacy.  Beside  it,  there 
was  the  recollection  at  least  of  the  awful  ma 
jesty  of  the  emperor — of  a  distant,  unseen,  but 
sacred  and  irresistible  power.  These  are  the 
two  ideas  which  antiquity  bequeathed  to  mo- 
dern times.  On  the  one  hand,  the  municipal 
regime,  its  rules,  customs,  and  principles  of 
liberty:  on  the  other,  a  common,  general, civil 
legislation ;  and  the  idea  of  absolute  power,  of 
a  sacred  majesty,  the  principle  of  order  and 
servitude." — Civilisatio7i  Evropecjinc,  20,  23. 

The  causes  M'hich  produced  the  extraordi- 
nary, and  at  first  sight  unaccountable,  depopu- 
lation of  the  country  districts,  not  only  in  Italy, 
but  in  Gaul,  Spain,  and  all  the  European  pro- 
vinces of  the  Roman  empire,  are  explained  by 


GUIZOT. 


376 


Guizot  in  his  Fsitaijs  on  the  History  of  France, 
and  have  been  fully  demonstrated  by  Sismondi, 
Thierry,  and  Michelet.     They  were  a  natural 
consequence  of   the   municipal  system,  then 
universally  established  as  the  very  basis  of 
civilization  in  the  whole  Roman  empire,  and 
may  be  seen  urging,  from  a  similar  cause,  the 
Turkish  empire   to   dissolution    at   this   day. 
This  was  the  imposition  of  a   certain   fixed 
duty,  as  a  burden  on  each  municipality,  to  be 
raised,  indeed,  by  its  own  members,  but  admit- 
ting of  no  diminution,  save   under   the  most 
special  circumstances,  and  on  an  express  ex- 
emption by  the  emperor.    Had  the  great  bulk 
cf  the  people  been  free,  and  the  empire  pros- 
perous, this  fixity  of  impost  would  have  been 
the  greatest  of  ail  blessings.     It  is  the  precise 
boon  so  frequently  and  earnestly  implored  by 
our  r)'ots  in  India,  and  indeed  by  the  cultiva- 
tors all  over  the  east.     Bui  when  the  empire 
was  beset  on  all  sides  with  enemies — only  the 
more  rapacious  and  pressing,  that  the  might 
of  the  legions  had  so  long  confined  them  within 
(he  comparatively  narrow  limits  of  their  own 
sterile  territories — and  disasters,  frequent  and 
serious,  were  laying  waste   the   frontier  pro- 
vinces, it  became   the  most   dreadful   of  all 
scourges;  because,  as  the  assessment  on  each 
district  was  fixed,  and  scarcely  ever  suffered 
any   abatement,    every  disaster    experienced 
increased  the  burden  on  the   survivors   who 
had  escaped  it;  until  they  became  bent  down 
under  such  a  weight  of  taxation,  as,  coupled 
with  the  small  number  of  freemen  on  whom  it 
exclusively  fell,  crushed  every  attempt  at  pro- 
ductive industry.    It  was  the  same  thing  as  if 
all  the  farmers  on  each  estate  M-ere  to  be  bound 
to  make  up,  annually,  the  same  amount  of  rent 
to  their  landlord,  no  matter  how  many  of  them 
had  become  insolvent.     We  know  how  long 
the  agriculture  of  Britain,  in  a  period  of  de- 
clining prices  and  frequent    disaster,   would 
exist  under  such  a  system. 

Add  to  this  the  necessary  effect  which  the 
free  circulation  of  grain  throughout  the  whole 
Roman  world  had  in  depressing  the  agricul- 
ture of  Ital)',  Gaul,  and  Greece.  They  were 
unable  to  withstand  the  competition  of  Egypt, 
Lybia,  and  Sicily — the  store-houses  of  tlic 
world;  where  the  benignity  of  the  climate,  and 
the  riches  of  the  soil,  rewarded  seventy  or  an 
hundred-fold  the  labours  of  the  husbandman. 
Gaul,  where  the  increase  was  only  seven-l'old 
• — Italy,  where  it  seldom  exceeded  twelve — 
Spain,  where  it  was  never  so  high,  were 
crushed  in  the  struggle.  The  mistress  of  the 
world,  as  Tacitus  bewails,  had  come  to  depend 
for  her  subsistence  on  the  floods  of  the  Nile. 
Unable  to  compete  with  the  cheap  grain  raised 
in  the  more  favoured  regions  of  the  south,  the 
cultivators  of  Italy  and  Gaul  gradually  retired 
from  the  contest.  They  devoted  their  exten- 
sive estates  to  pasturage,  because  live  cattle  or 
dairy  produce  could  not  bear  the  expense  of 
being  shipped  from  Africa;  and  the  race  of 
agriculturists,  the  strength  of  the  legions,  dis- 
appeared in  the  fields,  and  was  lost  in  the 
needy  and  indolent  crowd  of  urban  citizens,  in 
part  maintained  hy  tributes  in  corn  brought 
from  E'_'ypt  and  Lybia.  This  augmented  the 
burdens  upon  those  who  remained  in  the  rural 


districts ;  for,  as  the  taxes  of  each  municipalitj 
remained  the  same,  every  one  that  withdrew 
into  the  towns  left  an  additional  burden  on  the 
shoulders  of  his  brethren  who  remained  behind- 
So  powerful  was  the  operation  of  these  two 
causes — the  fixity  in  the  state  burdens  payable 
by  each  municipality,  and  the  constantly  de- 
clining prices,  owing  to  the  vast  import  from 
agricultural  regions  more  favoured  by  nature 
— that  it  fully  equalled  the  effect  of  the  ravages 
of  the  barbarians   in    the    frontier  provinces 
exposed  to  their  incursions^  and  the  depopula- 
tion of  the  rural  districts  was  as  complete  in 
Italy  and  Gaul,  before  a  barbarian  had  passed 
the  Alps  or  set  his  foot  across  the  Ehine,  as  in 
the  plains  between  the  Alps  or  the  Adriatic  and 
the  Danube,  which  had  for  long  been  ravaged 
by  their  arms. 

Domestic  slavery  conspired  with  these  evils 
to  prevent  the  healing  power  of  nature  from 
closing  these  yawning  wounds.     Gibbon  esti- 
mates the  number  of  slaves  throughout  the 
empire,  in  its  latter  days,  at  a  number  equal  to 
that  of  the  freemen  ;  in  other  words,  one  half 
of  the  whole  inhabitants  were  in   a  state  of 
servitude;*  and  as  there  were  120,000,000  souls 
under  the  Roman  sway,  sixty  millions  were  in 
that  degraded  condition.     There  is  reason  to 
believe  that  the  number  of  slaves  was  still 
greater  than  this  estimate,  and  at  least  double 
that  of  the   freemen;  for  it  is  known  by  an 
authentic  enumeration,  that,  in  the  time  of  the 
Emperor  Claudius,  the  number  of  citizens  in 
the  empire  was  only  6,945,000  men,  who,  with 
their  families,  might  amount  to  twenty  millions 
of  souls  ;  and  the  total  number  of  freemen  was 
about  double  that  of  the    citizens.f     In  one 
family  alone,  in  the  time  of  Pliny,  there  were 
4116  slaves.:!:     But  take  the  number  of  slaves 
according  to  Gibbon's  computation,  at  only 
half  the  entire  population,  what  a  prodigious 
abstraction  must  this  multitude  of  slaves  have 
made  from  the  physical  and  moral  strength  of 
the  empire!     Half  the  people  requiring  food, 
needing  restraint,  incapable  of  trust,  and  j'et 
adding  nothing  to  the  muster-rol!  of  the  legions, 
or  the  persons  by  whom  the  fixed  and  immov- 
able annual  taxes  were  to  be  made  good!     In 
what  state  would  the  British  empire  now  be, 
if  we  were  subjected  to  the  action  of  similar 
causes  of  ruin]     A  vast  and  unwieldy  domi- 
nion, exposed  on  every  side  to  the  incursions 
of  barbarous  and  hostile  nations,  daily  increas- 
ing in  numbers,  and  augmenting  in  military 
skill ;  a  fixed  taxation,  for  which  the  whole 
free  inhabitants  of  every  municipality  were 
jointly  and  severally  responsible,  to  meet  the 
increasing  military  establishment  ref|.iin'd  by 
these  perils;  a  declining,  and  at  length  extinct, 
agriculture  in  the  central  provinces  of  the  em- 
pire, owing  to  the  deluge  of  cheap  grain  from 
its  fertiTc  extremities  Avafted  over   the  waters 
of  the  Mediterranean;  multitudes  of  turbulent 
freemen  in  cities,  kept  quiet  by  daily  distribu- 
tion of  provisions  at  the  public  expeiv  e,  from 
the  imperial    granaries;  and  a   half,  or  two- 
thirds  of  the  whole  population  in  a  state  of 
slavcrv — neither  bearing  any  share  of  the  pub- 
lic burdens,  nor  adding  to  the  strength  of  th< 


*  Gibbon.       +  Ibid.        %  Plin.  Hist.  Nat.  x.xxlii.  47 


ano 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


military  array  of  the  empire.  Such  are  the 
discoveries  of  modern  philosophy,  as  to  the 
causes  of  the  decline  and  ultimate  fall  of  the 
Roman  empire,  gleaned  from  a  few  facts,  acci- 
dentally preserved  by  the  ancient  writers,  ap- 
parently unconscious  of  their  value  !  It  is  a 
noble  science  which,  in  so  short  a  time,  has 
presented  such  a  gift  to  mankind. 

Guizot  has  announced,  and  ably  illustrated, 
a  great  truth,  which,  when  traced  to  its  legiti- 
mate consequences,  will  be  found  to  go  far 
towards  dispelling  many  of  the  pernicious  in- 
novating dogmas  which  have  so  long  been 
afloat  in  the  world.  It  is  this,  that  whenever 
an  institution,  though  apparently  pernicious  in 
our  eyes,  has  long  existed,  and  under  a  great 
variety  of  circumstances,  we  may  rest  assured 
that  it  in  reality  has  been  attended  with  some 
advantages  which  counterbalance  its  evils,  and 
that  upon  the  M-hole  it  is  beneficial  in  its 
tendency.  This  important  principle  is  thus 
stated : — 

"  Independent  of  the  efforts  of  man,  there  is 
established  1  v  a  law  of  providence,  which  it  is 
impossible  to  mistake,  and  which  is  analogous 
to  what  we  witness  in  the  natural  world,  a 
certain  measure  of  order,  reason,  and  justice, 
without  which  society  cannot  exist.  From  the 
single  fact  of  its  endurance  we  may  conclude, 
with  certainty,  that  a  society  is  not  completely 
absurd,  insensate,  or  iniquitous;  that  it  is  not 
destitute  of  the  elements  of  reason,  truth,  and 
justice — which  alone  can  give  life  to  society. 
If  the  more  that  society  developes  itself,  the 
stronger  does  this  principle  become — if  it  is 
daily  accepted  by  a  greater  number  of  men,  it 
is  a  certain  proof  that  in  the  lapse  of  time 
there  has  been  progressively  introduced  into 
it  more  reason,  more  justice,  more  right.  It  is 
thus  that  the  idea  of  political  legitimacy  lias 
arisen. 

"This  principle  has   for  its  foundation,  in 
the  first  instance,  at  least  in  a  certain  degree, 
the  great  principles   of  moral    legitimacy — 
justice,  reason,  truth.  Then  came  the  sanction 
of  time,  which  always  begets  the  presumption 
of  reason  having  directed  arrangements  which 
have  long  endured.    In  the  early  periods  of 
society,  we  too  often  find  force  and  falsehood 
ruling  the  cradles  of  royalty,  aristocracy,  de- 
mocracy,  and   even   the   church;    but   every 
where  you  will  see  this  force  and  falsehood 
yielding  to  the  reforming  hand  of  time,  and 
right  and  truth  taking  their  place  in  the  rulers 
of  civilization.    It  is  this  progressive  infusion 
of  right  and_  truth  which  has  by  degrees  de- 
veloped the  idea  of  political  legitimacy  ;  it  is 
thus  that  it  has  become  established  in  modern 
civilization.     At  diflbrent   times,   indeed,   at- 
tempts have  been  made  to  substitute  for  this 
idea  the  banner  of  despotic   power;   but,  in 
doing  so,  they  have  turned  it  aside  from  its 
true  origin.     It  is  so  little  the  banner  of  des- 
potic power,  that  it  is  in  the  name   of  right 
and  justice  that  it  has  overspread  the  world. 
As  little  is  it  exclusive:  it  belongs  neither  to 
persons,  classes,  nor  sects;  it  arises  M^ierever 
the  idea  of  right  has  developed  itself.     We 
shall  meet  with  this  principle  in  systems  the 
mosc  opposite :  in   the  feudal  system,  in  the 
municipalities  of  Flanders  and  Germany,  in 


the  republics  of  Italy,  as  well  as  in  simple 
monarchies.  It  is  a  character  diffused  through 
the  various  elements  of  modern  civilization, 
and  the  perception  of  which  is  indispensable 
to  the  right  understanding  of  its  history."^ 
Lecture  in.  9,  11;  Civilisalion  Etiropecnne. 

No  principle  ever  was  announced  of  more 
practical   importance  in  legislating  for  man- 
kind, than  is  contained  in  this  passage.     The 
doctrine  is  somewhat   obscurely  stated,   and 
not  with  the  precision  which  in  general  dis- 
tinguishes the  French  writers;  but  the  import 
of  it  seems  to  be  this — That  no  system  of  go- 
vernment can  long  exist  among  men,  unless  it 
is  substantially,  and  in  the  majority  of  cases, 
founded  in  reason  and  justice,  and  sanctioned 
by  experienced  utility  for  the  people  among 
whom  it  exists ;  and  therefore,  that  we  may 
predicate  with  perfect  certainty  of  any  institu- 
tion which  has  been  generally  extended  and 
long  established,  that  it  has  been  upon  the 
whole  beneficial,  and  should  be  modified  or 
altered  with  a  very  cautious  hand.    That  this 
proposition  is  true,  will  probably  be  disputed 
by   none  M^ho  have  thought  much   and  •dis- 
passionately on  human  affairs  ;  for  all  human 
institutions  are  formed  and  supported  by  men, 
and  unless  men  had  some  reason  for  support- 
ing them,   they  would   speedily   sink   to  the 
ground.    It  is  in  vain  to  say  a  privileged  class 
have  got  possession  of  the  power,  and  they 
make  use  of  it  to  perpetuate   these   abuses'. 
Doubtless,  they  are  always  sufficiently  inclined 
to  do  s.o ;  but  a  privileged  class,  or  a  despot,  is 
always  a  mere  handful  against  the  great  body 
of  the  people;  and  unless  their  power  is  sujj- 
ported  by  the  force  of  general  opinion,  founded 
on  experienced  utility  upon  the  whole,  it  could 
not  maintain  its  ground  a  single  vfeek.    And 
this  explains  a  fact  observed  by  an  able  and 
ingenious  writer  of  the  present  day,*  that  if 
almost  all  the  great  convulsions  recorded  in 
history  are  attentively  considered,  it  will  be 
found,  that  after  a  brief  period  of  strenuous, 
and  often  almost  super-human   effort,  on  the 
part  of  the  people,  they  have  terminated  in  the 
establishment  of  a  government  and  institutions 
differing  scarcely,  except  in  name,  from  that 
which  had  preceded  the  struggle.     It  is  hardly 
necessary  to  remark  how  striking  a  confirma- 
tion the  English  revolution  of  1688,  and  the' 
French  of  1830,  afibrd  of  this  truth. 

And  this  explains  what  is  the  trae  meaning 
of,  and  solid  foundation  for,  that  reverence  for 
antiquity  which  is  so  strongly  implanted  in  hu- 
man nature,  and  is  never  forgotten  for  any  con- 
siderable time  without  inducing  the  most  dread- 
ful disasters  upon  society.  It  means  that  those 
institutions  which  have  descended  to  us  in  actual 
practice  from  our  ancestors,  come  sanctioncj 
by  the  experience  of  ages  ;  and  that  they  could 
not  have  stood  so  long  a  test  unless  'hey  had 
been  recommended,  in  some  degree  at  least, 
by  their  utility.  It  is  not  that  our  ancestors 
were  wiser  than  we  are ;  they  were  certainly 
less  informed,  and  probably  were,  ca  that  ac- 
count, in  the  general  case,  less  judicious.  But 
time  has  swept  away  their  follies,  which  were 
doubtless  great  enough,  as   it  has    done   the 

*  Mr.  James's  Preface  to  Mary  o/  Burgundy. 


GUIZOT. 


377 


worthless  ephemeral  literature  with  which  they, 
as  M-e,  were  overwhelmed;  and  nothing  has 
stood  tha  test  of  ages,  and  come  down  to  us 
through  a  series  of  generations,  of  their  ideas 
or  institutions,  but  what  had  some  utility  in 
human  feelings  and  necessities,  and  was  on 
the  whole  expedient  at  the  time  when  it  arose. 
Its  utility  may  have  ceased  by  the  change  of 
manners  or  of  the  circumstances  of  society — 
that  may  be  a  good  reason  for  cautiously 
modifying  or  altering  it — but  rely  upon  it,  it 
was  once  useful,  if  it  has  existed  long;  and 
the  presumption  of  present  and  continuing 
utility  requires  to  be  strongly  outweighed  by 
forcible  considerations  before  it  is  abandoned. 
Lord  Bacon  has  told  us,  in  words  which  can 
never  become  trite,  so  profound  is  their  wis- 
dom, that  our  changes,  to  be  beneficial,  should 
resemble  those  of  time,  which,  though  the 
greatest  of  all  innovators,  works  out  its  altera- 
tions so  gradually  that  they  are  never  per- 
ceived. Guizot  makes,  in  the  same  spirit,  the 
following  fine  observation  on  the  slow  march 
of  Supreme  wisdom  in  the  government  of  the 
world: — 

"  If  we  turn  our  eyes  to  history,  we  shall 
find  that  all  the  great  developments  of  the  hn- 
man  mind  have  turned  to  the  advantage  of 
society  -all  the  great  struggles  of  humanity 
to  the  good  of  mankind.  It  is  not,  indeed,  im- 
mediately that  these  eflTorts  take  place ;  ages 
often  elapse,  a  thousand  obstacles  intervene, 
before  they  are  fully  developed;  but  when  we 
survey  a  long  course  of  ages,  we  see  that  all 
has  been  accomplished.  The  march  of  Provi- 
dence is  not  subjected  to  narrow  limits ;  it 
cares  not  to  develope  to-day  the  consequences 
of  a  principle  which  it  has  established  yester- 
day; it  will  bring  them  forth  in  ages,  when  the 
appointed  hour  has  arrived  ;  and  its  course  is 
not  the  less  sure  that  it  is  slow.  The  throne  of 
the  Almighty  rests  on  time — it  marches  through 
its  boundless  expanse  as  the  gods  of  Homer 
through  space — it  makes  a  step,  and  ages  have 
passed  away.  How  many  centuries  elapsed, 
now  many  changes  ensued,  before  the  regenera- 
tion of  the  innerman,by  means  of  Christianity, 
exercised  on  the  social  state  its  great  and 
salutary  influence !  Nevertheless,  it  has  at 
length  succeeded.  No  one  can  mistake  its 
effects  at  this  time." — Lcrlnrc  i.  24, 

In  surveying  tlie  progress  of  civilization  in 
modern,  as  compared  with  ancient  limes,  uvo 
features  stand  prominent  as  distinguishing  the 
one  from  the  other.  These  are  the  c/iwrr/j  and 
the/cniliil  nynlcm.  They  were  precisely  the  cir- 
cumstances which  gave  umbrage  to  the  phi- 
losophers of  the  cightfcnth  century,  and  which 
awakened  ihc  greatest  transports  of  indigna- 
tion among  the  ardent  multitudes  who,  at  its 
close,  brought  about  the  French  Revolution. 
Very  different  is  the  light  iff  which  the  eye  of 
true  philosophy,  enlightfned  by  the  experi- 
ence of  their  aholitifm,  views  these  great  dis- 
tinctive features  of  modern  society. 

"  Immenst',"  says  Guizot,  "was  the  influence 
which  the  Christian  church  exercised  over  the 
civilization  of  modern  Europe.  In  the  outset, 
it  was  an  incalculable  advantage  to  have  a 
moral  power,  a  power  destitute  of  physical 
force,  which  reposed  only  on  menial  convic- 


tions and  moral  feelings,  established  amids' 
that  deluge  of  physical  force  and  selfish  vio* 
lence  which  overwhelmed  society  at  that  pe 
riod.  Had  the  Christian  church  not  existedj 
the  world  would  have  been  delivered  over  to 
the  influence  of  physical  strength,  in  its 
coarsest  and  mo*.t  revolting  form.  It  alone 
exercised  a  moral  power.  It  did  more;  it 
spread  abroad  the  idea  of  a  rule  of  obedience, 
a  heavenly  power,  to  which  all  human  beings, 
how  great  soever,  were  subjected,  and  which 
was  above  all  human  laws.  That  of  itself  was 
a  safeguard  against  the  greatest  evils  of  society; 
for  it  affected  the  minds  of  those  by  whom 
they  were  brought  about;  it  professed  that  be- 
lief— the  foundation  of  the  salvation  of  hu- 
manity— that  there  is  above  all  existing  insti- 
tutions, superior  to  all  human  laws,  a  penna- 
nent  and  divine  law,  sometimes  called  Reason, 
sometimes  Divine  Command,  but  Avhich,  under 
whatever  name  it  goes,  is  for  ever  the  same. 

"  Then  the  church  commenced  a  great  work 
— the  separation  of  the  spiritual  and  temporal 
power.  That  separation  is  the  origin  of  li- 
berty of  conscience  ;  it  rests  on  no  other  prin- 
ciple than  that  which  lies  at  the  bottom  of  the 
widest  and  most  extended  toleration.  The  se- 
paration of  the  spiritual  and  temporal  power 
rests  on  the  principle,  that  physical  force  is 
neither  entitled  to  act,  nor  can  ever  have  any 
lasting  influence,  on  thoughts,  conviction,  truth ; 
it  flows  from  the  eternal  distinction  between 
the  world  of  thought  and  the  world  of  action, 
the  world  of  interior  conviction  and  that  of 
external  facts.  In  truth  that  principle  of  the 
liberty  of  conscience,  for  which  Europe  has 
combated  and  suffered  so  much,  which  has  so 
slowly  triumphed,  and  often  against  the  ut- 
most efforts  of  the  clergy  themselves,  was  first 
founded  by  the  doctrine  of  the  separation  of 
the  temporal  and  spiritual  power,  in  the  cradle 
of  European  civilization.  It  is  the  Christian 
church  which,  by  the  necessities  of  its  situa- 
tion to  defend  itself  against  the  assaults  of  bar- 
barism, introduced  and  maintained  it.  The 
presence  of  a  moral  influence,  the  mainte- 
nance of  a  Divine  law,  the  separation  of  the 
temporal  and  spiritual  power,  are  the  three 
great  blessings  which  the  Christian  church  has 
diffused  in  the  dark  ages  over  European  so- 
ciety. 

"  The  influence  of  the  Christian  church  was 
great  and  beneficent  for  another  reason.  The 
bishop  and  clergy  ere  long  became  the  princi- 
pal municipal  magistrates:  they  were  ihe 
chancellors  and  ministersof  kings — the  rulers, 
except  in  the  camp  and  the  field,  of  mankind. 
When  the  Roman  empire  crumbled  into  dust, 
when  the  central  power  of  the  emperors  and 
the  legions  disappeared,  there  remained,  we 
have  seen,  no  other  authority  in  the  state  but 
the  municipal  functionaries.  Hut  ihey  them 
selves  had  fallen  into  a  state  of  apathy  and 
despair;  the  heavy  burdens  of  despotism,  the 
oppressive  taxes  of  the  municipalities,  the  m- 
cursions  of  the  fierce  barbarians,  had  reduced 
them  to  despair.  No  proiection  to  society,  no 
revival  of  industry,  no  shiebling  of  innocence, 
could  be  expected  from  their  exertions.  The 
clergy,  again,  formed  a  society  within  itself*, 
fresh,  young,  vigorous,  sheltered  by  the  pre 


878 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


railing  faith,  which  speedily  drew  to  itself  all 
the  learning  and  intellectual  strength  that  re- 
mained in  the  state.  The  bishops  and  priests, 
full  of  life  and  of  zeal,  naturallywere  recurred 
to  in  order  to  fill  all  civil  situations  requiring 
thought  or  information.  It  is  wrong  to  re- 
proach their  exercise  of  these  powers  as  an 
usurpation ;  they  alone  were  capable  of  exer- 
cising them.  Thug  has  the  natural  course  of 
things  prescribed  for  all  ages  and  countries. 
The  clergy  alone  were  mentally  strong  and 
morally  zealous :  they  became  all-powerful. 
It  is  the  law  of  the  universe." — Lecture  iii.  27 
31  ;  Civilisation  Europecnne, 

Nothing  can  be  more  just  or  important  than 
these  observations  ;  and  they  throw  a  new  and 
consoling  light  on  the  progress  and  ultimate 
destiny  of  European  society.  They  are  as 
original  as  they  are  momentous.  Robertson, 
with  his  honest  horror  of  the  innumerable  cor- 
ruptions which,  in  the  time  of  Leo  X.  and  Lu- 
thei",  brought  about  the  Reformation — Sismon- 
di,  with  his  natural  detestation  of  a  faith  which 
had  urged  on  the  dreadful  cruelties  of  the  cru- 
gade  of  the  Albigenses,  and  which  produced 
the  revocation  of  the  edict  of  Nantes — have 
alike  overlooked  those  important  truths,  so  es- 
sential to  a  right  understanding  of  the  history 
of  modern  society.  They  saw  that  the  arro- 
gance and  cruelty  of  the  Roman  clergy  had 
produced  innumerable  evils  in  later  times  ; 
chat  their  venality  in  regard  to  indulgences 
and  abuse  of  absolution  had  brought  religion 
itself  into  discredit;  that  the  absurd  and  in- 
credible tenets  which  they  still  attempted  to 
force  on  mankind,  had  gone  far  to  alienate  the 
intellectual  strength  of  modern  Europe,  during 
the  last  century,  from  their  support.  Seeing 
this,  they  condemned  it  absolutely,  for  all  times 
and  in  all  places.  They  fell  into  the  usual 
error  of  men  in  reasoning  on  former  from  their 
own  times.  They  could  not  make  "  the  past 
and  the  future  predominate  over  the  present." 
They  felt  the  absurdity  of  many  of  the  legends 
which  the  devout  Catholics  received  as  un- 
doubted truths,  and  they  saw  no  use  in  per- 
petuating the  belief  in  them;  and  thence  they 
conceived  that  they  must  always  have  been 
equally  unserviceable,  forgetting  that  the  eigh- 
teenth was  not  the  eighth  century;  and  that, 
during  the  dark  ages,  violence  would  have 
rioted  without  control,  if,  when  reason  was  in 
abeyance,  knowledge  scanty,  and  military 
strength  alone  in  estimation,  superstition  had 
not  thrown  its  unseen  fetters  over  the  bar- 
barian's arms.  They  saw  that  the  Romish 
clergy,  during  five  centuries,  had  laboured 
strenuously,  and  often  with  the  most  frightful 
cruelty,  to  crush  independence  of  thought  in 
matters  of  faith,  and  chain  the  human  mind  to 
the  tenets,  often  absurd  and  erroneous,  of  her 
Papal  creed;  and  they  forgot  that,  during  five 
preceding  centuries,  the  Christian  church  had 
laboured  as  assiduously  to  establish  the  inde- 
pendence of  thought  from  physical  coercion, 
and  had  alone  kept  alive,  during  the  interreg- 
num of  reason,  the  sparks  of  knowledge  and 
the  principles  of  freedom. 

^  In  the  same  liberal  and  enlightened  spirit 
Guizot  views  the  feudal  system,  the  next  grand 
characteristic  of  modem  times. 


"A  decisive  proof  that,  in  the  tenth  centurjr, 
the  feudal  system  had  become  necessa-ry,  and 
was,  in  truth,  the  only  social  slate  possible,  is 
10  be  found  in  the  universality  of  its  adoption 
Universally,  upon  the  cessation  of  barbarism, 
the  feudal  forms  were  adopted.  At  the  first 
moment  of  barbarian  conquest,  men  saw  only 
the  triumph  of  chaos.  All  unit)',  all  general 
civilization  disappeared;  on  all  sides  Avas  seen 
society  falling  into  dissolution ;  and,  in  its 
stead,  arising  a  multitude  of  little,  obscure, 
isolated  communities.  This  appeared  to  all 
the  contemporaries  nothing  short  of  universal 
anarchy.  The  poets,  the  chroniclers  of  the 
time,  viewed  it  as  the  approach  of  the  end  of 
the  world.  It  was,  in  truth,  the  end  of  the 
ancient  world;  but  the  commencement  of  a 
new  one,  placed  on  a  broad  basis,  and  with 
large  means  of  social  improvement  and  indi- 
vidual happiness. 

"  Then  it  was  that  the  feudal  system  became 
necessary,  inevitable.  It  was  the  only  possi- 
ble means  of  emerging  from  the  general  chaos. 
The  whole  of  Europe,  accordingly,  at  the  same 
time  adopted  it.  Even  those  portions  of  so- 
ciety which  were  most  strangers,  apparently, 
to  that  system,  entered  warmly  into  its  spirit, 
and  were  fain  to  share  in  its  protection.  The 
crown,  the  church,  the  communities,  were  con- 
strained to  accommodate  themselves  to  it. 
The  churches  became  suzerain  or  vassal ;  the 
burghs  had  their  lords  and  their  feuars;  the 
monasteries  and  abbeys  had  their  feudal  re- 
tainers, as  well  as  the  temporal  barons.  Roy- 
alty itself  was  disguised  under  the  name  of  a 
feudal  superior.  Every  thing  was  given  in 
fief;  not  only  lands,  but  certain  rights  flowing 
from  them,  as  that  of  cutting  wood,  fisheries, 
or  the  like.  The  church  made  subinfeuda- 
tions of  their  casual  revenues,  as  the  dues  on 
marriages,  funerals,  and  baptisms." 

The  establishment  of  the  feudal  system 
thus  universally  in  Europe,  produced  one 
efiect,  the  importance  of  which  can  hardly  be 
exaggerated.  Hitherto  the  mass  of  mankind 
had  been  collected  under  the  municipal  insti- 
tutions which  had  been  universal  in  antiquity, 
in  cities,  or  wandered  in  vagabond  hordes 
through  the  country.  Under  the  feudal  s)'stem 
these  men  lived  isolated,  each  in  his  own  ha- 
bitation, at  a  great  distance  from  each  other. 
A  glance  will  show  that  this  single  circum- 
stance must  have  exercised  on  the  character 
of  society,  and  the  course  of  civilization, 
the  social  preponderance ;  the  government  of 
society  passed  at  once  from  the  towns  to  the 
country — private  took  the  lead  of  public  pio- 
perty — private  prevailed  over  public  life.  Such 
was  the  first  effect,  and  it  was  an  eflect  purely 
material,  of  the  establishment  of  the  feudal 
system.  But  other  effects,  still  more  material, 
followed,  of  a  moral  kind,  which  have  exer- 
cised the  most  important  effects  on  the  Eu- 
ropean manners  and  mind. 

"  The  feudal  proprietor  established  himself 
in  an  isolated  place,  which,  for  his  om'u  pro- 
tection, he  rendered  secure.  He  lived  there, 
with  his  wife,  his  children,  and  a  few  faithful 
friends,  who  shared  his  hospitality,  and  con- 
tributed to  his  defence.  Around  the  castle,  in 
its  vicinity,  were  established  the  farmers  and 


GUIZOT. 


379 


serfs  who  cultivated  his  domain.  In  the  midst 
of  that  inferior,  but  yet  allied  and  protected 
population,  religion  planted  a  church,  and  in- 
troduced a  priest.  He  was  usually  the  chap- 
Iain  of  the  castle,  and  at  the  same  time  the 
curate  of  the  village  ;  in  subsequent  ages  these 
two  characters  were  separated ;  the  village 
pastor  resided  beside  his  church.  This  was 
the  primitive  feudal  society — the  cradle,  as  it 
were,  of  the  European  and  Christian  world. 

"  From  this  state  of  things  necessarily  arose 
a  prodigious  superiorit}^  on  the  part  of  the  pos- 
sessor of  the  fief,  alike  in  his  own  eyes,  and  in 
the  eyes  of  those  who  surrounded  him.  The 
feeling  of  individual  importance,  of  personal 
freedom,  was  the  ruling  principle  of  savage 
life;  but  here  a  new  feeling  was  introduced — 
the  importance  of  a  proprietor,  of  the  chief 
of  a  family,  of  a  oiaster,  predominated  over 
that  of  an  individual.  From  this  situation 
arose  an  immense  feeling  of  superiority — a 
superiority  peculiar  to  the  feudal  ages,  and 
entirely  different  from  any  thing  which  had  yet 
been  experienced  in  the  world.  Like  the  feudal 
lord,  the  Roman  patrician  was  the  head  of  a 
family,  a  master,  a  landlord.  He  was,  at  the 
same  time,  a  religious  magistrate,  a  pontiff  in 
the  inferior  of  his  family.  He  was,  moreover, 
a  member  of  the  municipality  in  which  his 
property  was  situated,  and  perhaps  one  of 
the  august  senate,  which,  in  name  at  least,  still 
ruled  the  empire.  But  all  this  importance  and 
dignity  was  derived  from  without — the  patri- 
cian shared  it  with  the  other  members  of  his 
municipality — with  the  corporation  of  which 
he  formed  a  part.  The  importance  of  the 
feudal  lord,  again,  was  purely  individual — he 
owed  nothing  to  another;  all  the  power  ie 
enjoyed  emanated  from  himself  alone.  What 
a  feeling  of  individual  consequence  must  such 
a  situation  have  inspired — what  pride,  what 
insolence,  must  it  have  engendered  in  his 
mind!  Above  him  was  no  superior,  of  whose 
orders  he  was  to  be  the  mere  interpreter  or 
organ — around  him  were  no  equals.  No  all- 
powerful  municipality  made  his  wishes  bend 
to  its  own — no  superior  authority  exercised  a 
control  over  his  wishes;  he  knew  no  bridle  on 
his  inclinations,  but  the  limits  of  his  power,  or 
the  presence  of  danger. 

"Another  consequence,  hitherto  not  suffi- 
ciently attended  to,  but  of  vast  importance, 
flowed  from  this  society. 

"The  patriarchal  society,  of  which  the  Bihlc 
and  the  Oriental  monuments  offer  the  model, 
was  the  first  combination  of  men.  The  chief 
of  a  tribe  lived  with  his  children,  his  relations, 
the  diflercnt  generations  who  have  assembled 
around  him.  This  was  the  situation  of  Abra- 
ham—- of  the  patriarchs:  it  is  still  that  of  the 
Arab  tribes  which  perpetuate  their  manners. 
The  rhni,  of  which  remains  still  exist  in  the 
moantains  of  Scotland,  and  the  scjH  of  Ireland, 


is  a  nlodification  of  tne  patriarchal  socieiy:  i 
is  the  family  of  the  chief,  expanded  daring  a 
succession  of  generations,  and  forming  a  little 
aggregation  of  dependents,  still  influenced  by 
the  same  attachments,  and  subjected  to  ths 
same  authority.  But  the  feudal  communitj 
was  very  different.  Allied  at  first  to  the  clan, 
it  was  yet  in  many  essential  particulars  dissi- 
milar. There  did  not  exist  between  its  mem* 
bers  the  bond  of  relationship ;  they  were  not 
of  the  same  blood ;  they  often  did  not  speak 


the  same  language. 


The  feudal  lord  belonged 


to  a  foreign  and  conquering,  his  serfs  to  a  do- 
mestic and.vanquished  race.  Their  employ- 
ments were  as  various  as  their  feelings  and 
their  traditions.  The  lord  lived  in  his  castle, 
with  his  wife,  his  children,  and  relations :  the 
serfs  on  the  estate,  of  a  different  race,  of  dif- 
ferent names,  toiled  in  the  cottages  around. 
This  difference  was  prodigious — it  exercised 
a  most  powerful  effect  on  the  domestic  habits 
of  modern  Europe.  It  engendered  the  attach- 
ments of  home :  it  brought  women  into  their 
proper  sphere  in  domestic  life.  The  little  so- 
ciety of  freemen,  who  lived  in  the  midst  of  an 
alien  race  in  the  castle,  were  all  in  all  to  each 
other.  No  forum  or  theatres  were  at  hand, 
with  their  cares  or  their  pleasures ;  no  city 
enjoyments  were  a  counterpoise  to  the  plea- 
sures of  country  life.  War  and  the  chase 
broke  in,  it  is  true,  grievously  at  times,  upon 
this  scene  of  domestic  peace.  But  war  and 
the  chase  could  not  last  for  ever;  and,  in  the 
long  intervals  of  undisturbed  repose,  family 
attachments  formed  the  chief  solace  of  life. 
Thus  it  was  that  women-  acquired  their  par- 
amount influence — thence  the  manners  of  chi- 
valry, and  the  gallantry  of  modern  times;  they 
were  but  an  extension  of  the  courtesy  and 
habits  of  the  castle.  The  word  courtesy  shows 
it — it  was  in  the  court  of  the  castle  that  the 
habits  it  denotes  were  learned." — Lecture  iv. 
13,  17;  Civilisation  Europccnnc. 

We  have  exhausted,  perhaps,  exceeded,  our 
limits;  and  we  have  only  extracted  a  few  of 
the  most  striking  ideas  from  the  first  hundred 
pages  of  one  of  Guizot's  works — ex  imo  disce 
omiics.  The  translation  of  them  has  been  an 
agreeable  occupation  for  a  few  evenings;  but 
they  awake  one  mournful  impression  —  the 
voice  which  uttered  so  many  noble  and  en- 
lightened sentiments  is  now  silent;  the  genius 
which  once  cast  abroad  light  on  the  histor}' of 
man,  is  lost  in  the  vortex  of  present  politics. 
The  philoso]iher,  liie  historian,  are  merged  in 
the  statesman — the  instructor  of  all  in  the  go- 
vernor of  one  generation.  Great  as  have  been 
his  services,  brilliant  his  course  in  the  new 
career  into  which  he  has  b?en  launched,  it  is 
as  nothing  compared  to  that  which  he  has  left, 
for  the  one  confers  presei.t  distinction,  ibe 
other  immortal  fame. 


880 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


HOMER,  DANTE,  KND  MICHAEL  ANGELO.* 


There  is  something  inexpressibly  striking, 
it  may  almost  be  said  awful,  in  the  fame  of 
HoMEK.  Three  thousand  years  have  elapsed 
since  the  bard  of  Chios  began  to  pour  forth  his 
strains ;  and  their  reputation,  so  far  from  de- 
clining, is  on  the  increase.  Successive  na- 
tions are  employed  in  celebrating 'his  works; 
generation  after  generation  of  men  are  fasci- 
nated by  his  imagination.  Discrepancies  of 
race,  of  character,  of  institutions,  of  religion, 
of  age,  of  the  world,  are  forgotten  in  the  com- 
mon worship  of  his  genius.  In  this  universal 
t-ibute  of  gratitude,  modern  Europe  vies  with 
remote  antiquity,  the  light  Frenchman  with  the 
volatile  Greek,  the  impassioned  Italian  with  the 
enthusiastic  German,  the  sturdy  Englishman 
with  the  unconquerable  Roman,  the  aspiring 
Russian  with  the  proud  American.  Seven 
cities,  in  ancient  times,  competed  for  the  hon- 
our of  having  given  him  birth,  but  seventy  na- 
tions have  since  been  moulded  by  his  produc- 
tions. He  gave  a  mythology  to  the  ancients  ; 
he  has  given  the  fine  arts  to  the  modern  world. 
Jupiter,  Saturn,  Mars,  Juno,  are  still  house- 
hold words  in  every  tongue ;  Vulcan  is  yet  the 
god  of  fire,  Neptune  of  the  ocean,  Venus  of 
iove.  When  Michael  Angelo  and  Canova 
strove  to  imbody  their  conceptions  of  heroism 
or  beauty,  they  portrayed  the  heroes  of  the 
Iliad.  Flaxman's  genius  was  elevated  to  the 
highest  point  in  imbodying  its  events.  Epic 
poets,  in  subsequent  times,  have  done  little 
more  than  imitate  his  machinery,  copy  his 
characters,  adopt  his  similes,  and,  in  a  few  in- 
stances, improve  upon  his  descriptions.  Paint- 
ing and  statuary,  for  two  thousand  years,  have 
been  employed  in  striving  to  portray,  by  the 
pencil  or  the  chisel,  his  yet  breathing  concep- 
tions. Language  and  thought  itself  have  been 
moulded  by  the  influence  of  his  poetry.  Images 
of  wrath  are  still  taken  from  Achilles,  of  pride 
from  Agamemnon,  of  astuteness  from  Ulysses, 
of  patriotism  from  Hector,  of  tenderness  from 
Andromache,  of  age  from  Nestor.  The  gal- 
leys of  Rome  were,  the  line-of-battle  ships  of 
France  and  England  still  are,  called  after  his 
heroes.  The  Agamemnon  long  bore  the  flag 
of  Nelson ;  the  Ajax  perished  by  the  flames 
within  sight  of  the  tomb  of  the  Telamonian 
hero,  on  the  shores  of  the  Hellespont;  the 
Achilles  was  blown  up  at  the  battle  of  Trafal- 
gar. Alexander  the  Great  ran  round  the  tomb 
of  Achilles  before  undertaking  the  conquest  of 
Asia.  It  was  the  boast  of  Napoleon  that  his 
mother  reclined  on  tapestry  representing  the 
heroes  of  the  Iliad,  when  he  was  brought  into 
the  world.  The  greatest  poets  of  ancient  and 
modern  limes  have  spenttheir  lives  in  the  study 
Jtf  his  genius  or  the  imitation  of  his  works. 
Withdraw  from  subsequent  poetry  the  images, 
mythology   and  characters  of  the  Iliad,  and 

•  Blackwood's  Magazine,  January,  1845. 


what  would  remain  1  Petrarch  spent  his  besi 
years  in  restoring  his  verses.  Tasso  portrayed 
the  siege  of  Jerusalem,  and  the  shock  of  Eu- 
rope and  Asia,  almost  exactly  as  Homer  had 
done  the  contest  of  the  same  forces,  on  the 
same  shores,  two  thousand  five  hundred  years 
before.  Milton's  old  age,  when  blind  and  poor, 
was  solaced  by  hearing  the  verses  recited  of 
the  poet,  to  whose  conceptions  his  own  mighty 
spirit  had  been  so  much  indebted;  and  Pope 
deemed  himself  fortunate  in  devoting  his  life 
to  the  translation  of  the  Ilihd. 

No  writer  in  modern  times  has  equalled  the 
wide-spread  fame  of  the  Grecian  bard;  but  it 
may  be  doubted  whether,  in  the  realms  of 
thought,  and  in  sway  over  the  reflecting  world, 
the  influence  of  Dante  has  not  been  almost 
as  considerable.  Little  more  than  five  hundred 
years,  indeed,  have  elapsed — not  a  sixth  of  the 
thirty  centuries  which  have  tested  the  strength 
of  the  Grecian  patriarch — since  the  immortal 
Florentine  poured  forth  his  divine  conceptions; 
but  yet  there  is  scarcely  a  writer  of  eminence 
since  that  time,  in  works  even  bordering  on 
imagination,  in  which  traces  of  his  genius  are 
not  to  be  found.  The  Inferno  has  penetrated 
the  world.  If  images  of  horror  are  sought 
after,  it  is  to  his  works  that  all  the  subsequent 
ages  have  turned ;  if  those  of  love  and  divine 
felicity  are  desired,  all  turn  to  the  Paradise  and 
the  Spirit  of  Beatrice.  When  the  historians  of 
the  French  Revolution  wished  to  convey  an 
idea  of  the  utmost  agonies  they  ""ere  called  on 
to  portray,  they  contented  themselves  with  say- 
ing it  equalled  all  that  the  ima,gination  of  Dante 
had  conceived  of  the  terrible.  Sir  Joshua  Rey- 
nolds has  exerted  his  highest  genius  in  depict- 
ing the  frightful  scene  described  by  him,  when 
Ugolino  perished  of  hunger  in  the  tower  of 
Pisa.  Alfieri,  Metastasio,  Corneille,  Lope  de 
Vega,  and  all  the  great  masters  of  the  tragic 
muse,  have  sought  in  his  works  the  germs  of 
their  finest  conceptions.  The  first  of  these 
tragedians  marked  two-thirds  of  the  Infcriw  and 
Paradiso  as  worthy  of  being  committed  to  me-i 
mory.  Modern  novelists  have  found  in  his 
prolific  mind  the  storehouse  from  which  they 
have  drawn  their  noblest  imagery,  the  chord  by 
which  to  strike  the  profoundest  feelings  of  the 
human  heart.  Eighty  editions  of  his  poems 
have  been  published  in  Europe  within  the  last 
half  century;  and  the  public  admiration,  so 
far  from  being  satiated,  is  augmenting.  Every 
scholar  knows  how  largely  Milton  was  indebted 
to  his  poems  for  many  of  his  most  powerful 
images.  Byron  inherited,  though  often  at 
second  hand,  his  mantle,  in  many  of  his  most 
moving  conceptions.  Schiller  has  imbodied 
them  in  a  noble  historic  mirror ;  and  the  dreams 
of  Goethe  reveal  the  secret  influence  of  the 
terrible  imagination  which  portrayed  the  deep 
remorse  and  hopeless  agonies  of  Malebolge. 

Michael  Ajtgelo  has  exercised  an  influend 


HOMER,  DANTE,  AND  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


381 


on  modern  art,  little,  if  at  all,  inferior  to  that 
produced  on  the  realms  of  thought  by  Homer 
and  Dante.  The  father  of  Italian  painting,  the 
author  of  the  frescoes  on  the  Sistine  Chapel, 
he  Tivas,  at  the  same  time,  the  restorer  of  an- 
cient sculpture,  and  the  intrepid  arcliitect  who 
placed  the  Pantheon  in  the  air.  Raphael  con- 
fessed, that  he  owed  to  the  contemplation  of 
his  works  his  most  elevated  conceptions  of 
their  divine  art.  Sculpture,  under  his  original 
hand,  started  from  the  slumber  of  a  thousand 
years,  in  all  the  freshness  of  youthful  vigour; 
architecture,  in  subsequent  times,  has  sought 
in  vain  to  equal,  and  can  never  hope  to  sur- 
pass, his  immortal  monument  in  the  matchless 
dome  of  St.  P.eter's.  He  found  painting  in  its 
infancy — he  left  it  arrived  at  absolute  perfec- 
tion. He  first  demonstrated  of  what  that  no- 
ble art  is  capable.  In  the  Last  Judgment  he 
revealed  its  wonderful  powers,  exhibiting,  as  it 
were,  at  one  view,  the  whole  circles  of  Dante's 
Inferno — portraying  with  terrible  fidelity  the 
agonies  of  the  wicked,  when  the  last  trumpet 
shall  tear  the  veil  from  their  faces,  and  exhibit 
in  undisguised  truth  that  most  fearful  of  spec- 
tacles— a  naked  human  heart.  Casting  aside, 
perhaps  with  undue  contempt,  the  adventitious 
aid  derived  from  finishing,  colouring,  and  exe- 
cution, he  threw  the  whole  force  of  his  genius 
into  the  design,  the  expression  of  the  features, 
the  drawing  of  the  figures.  There  never  was 
such  a  delineator  of  bone  and  muscle  as 
Michael  Angelo.  His  frescoes  stand  out  in 
bold  relief  from  the  walls  of  the  Vatican,  like 
the  sculptures  of  Phidias  from  the  pediment 
of  the  Parthenon.  He  was  the  founder  of  the 
school  of  painting  both  at  Rome  and  Florence 
— that  great  school  which,  disdaining  the  re- 
presentation of  still  life,  and  all  the  subordinate 
appliances  of  the  art,  devoted  itself  to  the  re- 
presentation of  the  grand  and  the  beautiful ;  to 
the  expression  of  passion  in  all  its  vehemence 
—of  emotion  in  all  its  intensity.  His  incom- 
parable delineation  of  bones  and  muscles  was 
but  a  means  to  an  end  ;  it  was  the  human 
heart,  the  throes  of  human  passion,  that  his 
master-hand  laid  bare.  Raphael  congratulated 
himself,  and  thanked  God  that  he  had  given 
him  life  in  the  same  age  with  that  painter  ;  and 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  in  his  last  address  to  the 
Academy,  "  reflected,  not  Avithout  vanity,  that 
his  Discourses  bore  testimony  to  his  admira- 
tion of  that  truly  divine  man,  and  desired  that 
the  last  words  he  pronounced  in  that  academy, 
and  from  that  chair,  might  be  the  name  of 
Michael  Angelo."* 

The  fame  of  these  illustrious  men  has  long 
been  placed  beyond  the  reach  of  cavil.  Criti- 
cism cannot  reach,  envy  cannot  detract  from, 
emulation  cannot  equal  them.  Great  present 
celebrity,  indeed,  is  no  guarantee  for  future 
and  enduring  fame;  in  many  cases,  it  is  the 
reverse  ;  but  there  is  a  wide  difl'erence  between 
the  judgment  of  the  present  and  that  of  future 
ages.  The  favour  of  the  great,  the  passions 
of  the  multitude,  the  efiI"orts  of  reviewers,  the 
interest  of  booksellers,  a  clique  of  authors,  a 
coterie  of  ladies,  accidental  events,  degrading 
propensities,  often  enter  largely  into  the  com- 


•  Reynolds's  Discourses,  No.  16,  adjinem. 


position  of  present  reputation.  But  opinion  is 
freed  from  all  these  disturbing  influences  by 
the  lapse  of  time.  The  grave  is  the  greatest 
of  all  purifiers.  Literary  jealousy,  interested 
partiality,  vulgar  applause,  exclusive  favour, 
alike  disappear  before  the  hand  of  death.  We 
never  can  be  sufliciently  distrustful  of  present 
opinion,  so  largely  is  it  directed  by  passion  oi 
interest.  But  we  may  rely  with  confidence  on 
the  judgment  of  successive  generations  on  de- 
parted eminence ;  for  it  is  detached  from  the 
chief  cause  of  present  aberration.  So  various 
are  the  prejudices,  so  contradictory  the  par- 
tialities and  predilections  of  men,  in  different 
countries  and  ages  of  the  world,  that  they 
never  can  concur  through  a  course  of  cen- 
turies in  one  opinion,  if  it  is  not  founded  in 
truth  and  justice.  The  vox  pnpuli  is  often  little 
more  than  the  vox  diaboU;  but  the  voice  of 
ages  is  the  voice  of  God. 

It  is  of  more  moment  to  consider  in  what 
the  greatness  of  these  illustrious  men  really 
consists — to  what  it  has  probably  been  owing 
— and  in  what  particulars  they  bear  an  an- 
alogy to  each  other. 

They  are  all  three  distinguished  by  one  pe- 
culiarity, which  doubtless  entered  largely  into 
their  transcendent  merit — they  wrote  in  the 
infancy  of  civilization.  Homer,  as  all  the 
world  knows,  is  the  oldest  profane  author  in 
existence.  Dante  flourished  al)out  the  year 
1300:  he  lived  at  a  time  when  the  English 
barons  lived  in  rooms  strewed  with  rushes,  and 
few  of  them  could  sign  their  names.  The 
long  life  of  Michafil  Angelo,  extending  from 
1474  to  1564,  over  ninety  years,  if  not  passed 
in  the  infancy  of  civilization,  was  at  least 
passed  in  the  childhood  of  the  arts  :  before  his 
time,  painting  was  in  its  cradle.  Cimabue  had 
merely  unfolded  the  first  dawn  of  beauty  at 
Florence;  and  the  stiff  figures  of  Pietro  Peru- 
gino,  which  inay  be  traced  in  the  first  works 
of  his  pupil  Raphael,  still  attest  the  backward 
state  of  the  arts  at  Rome.  This  peculiarity, 
applicable  alike  to  all  these  three  great  men, 
is  vcrj'  remarkable,  and  beyond  all  question 
had  a  powerful  influence,  both  in  forming  their 
peculiar  character,  and  elevating  them  to  the 
astonishing  greatness  which  they  speedily  at- 
tained. 

It  gave  them — what  Johnson  has  justly 
termed  the  first  requisite  to  human  greatness 
— self-confidence.  They  were  the  first — at  least 
the  first  known  to  themselves  and  their  con- 
temporaries— who  adventured  on  their  several 
arts  ;  and  thus  they  proceeded /«;»/(. Wy  in  their 
great  career.  They  had  neither  critics  to  fear, 
nor  lords  to  flatter,  nor  former  excellence  to 
imilale.  They  portrayed  with  the  pencil,  or 
in  verse,  what  they  severally  fell,  undisturbed 
by  fear,  unswayed  by  example,  unsulicilous 
about  fame,  unconscious  of  excellence.  They 
did  so  for  the  first  time.  Thence  the  freshness 
and  originality,  the  vigour  ami  truth,  the  (Sim- 
plicity and  raciness  by  which  they  arc  dis- 
tinguished. Shakspeare  owed  much  of  his 
greatness  to  the  same  cause;  and  thence  his 
similarity,  in  many  respects,  to  these  gieat 
masters  of  his  own  or  the  sister  arts.  When 
Pope  asked  Bentley  what  he  thought  of  his 
translation  of  the  Iliad,  the   scholar  replied, 


882 


ALISON'S   MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


"You  have  written  a  pretty  book,  Mr.  Pope; 
but  you  must  not  call  it  Homer."  Bentley  was 
right.  With  all  its  pomp  of  language  and 
melody  of  versification,  its  richness  of  imagery 
and  magnificence  of  diction.  Pope's  Homer  is 
widely  different  from  the  original.  He  could 
not  avoid  it.  Your  "awful  simplicity  of  the 
Grecian  bard,  his  artless  grandeur  and  unaf- 
fected majesty,"  will  be  sought  for  in  vain  in 
the  translation ;  but  if  they  had  appeared  there, 
it  would  have  been  unreadable  in  that  age. 
Michael  Angelo,  in  his  bold  conceptions,  ener- 
getic will,  and  rapid  execution,  bears  a  close 
resemblance  to  the  father  of  poetry.  In  both, 
the  same  faults,  as  we  esteem  them,  are  con- 
spicuous, arising  from  a  too  close  imitation 
of  nature,  and  a  carelessness  in  rejecting  im- 
ages or  objects  which  are  of  an  ordinary  or 
homely  description.  Dante  was  incomparably- 
more  learned  than  either :  he  followed  Virgil 
in  his  descent  to  the  infernal  regions ;  and  ex- 
hibits an  intimate  acquaintance  with  ancient 
history,  as  well  as  that  of  the  modern  Italian 
states,  in  the  account  of  the  characters  he 
meets  in  that  scene  of  torment.  But  in  his 
own  line  he  was  entirely  original.  Homer  and 
Virgil  had,  in  episodes  of  their  poems,  intro- 
duced a  picture  of  the  infernal  regions;  but 
nothing  on  the  plan  of  Dante's  Inferno  had  be- 
fore been  thought  of  in  the  world.  With  much 
of  the  machinery  of  the  ancients,  it  bears  the 
stamp  of  the  spiritual  faith  of  modern  times. 
It  lays  bare  the  heart  in  a  way  unknown  even 
to  Homer  and  Euripides.  It  reveals  the  in- 
most man  in  a  way  which  bespeaks  the  centu- 
ries of  self-reflection  in  the  cloister  which  had 
preceded  it.  It  is  the  basis  of  all  the  spiritual 
poetry  of  modern,  as  the  Iliad  is  of  all  the  ex- 
ternal imagery  of  ancient,  times. 

In  this  respect  there  is  a  most  grievous  im- 
pediment to  genius  in  later,  or,  as  we  term 
them,  more  civilized  times,  from  which,  in 
earlier  ages,  it  is  wholly  exempt.  Criticism, 
public  opinion,  the  dread  of  ridicule — then  too 
often  crush  the  strongest  minds.  The  Aveight 
of  former  examples,  the  influence  of  early 
habits,  the  halo  of  long-established  reputation, 
force  original  genius  from  the  untrodden  path 
of  invention  into  the  beaten  one  of  imitation. 
Early  talent  feels  itself  overawed  by  the  colos- 
sus which  all  the  world  adores ;  it  falls  down 
andworships,  instead  of  conceiving.  The  dread 
of  ridicule  extinguishes  originality  in  its  birth. 
Immense  is  the  incubus  thus  laid  upon  the 
efforts  of  genius.  It  is  the  chief  cause  of  the 
degradation  of  taste,  the  artificial  style,  the 
want  of  original  conception,  by  which  the 
literature  of  old  nations  is  invariably  dis- 
tinguished. The  early  poet  or  painter  who 
portrays  what  he  feels  or  has  seen,  with  no 
anxiety  but  to  do  so  powerfully  and  truly,  is 
relieved  of  a  load  which  crushes  his  subse- 
quent compeers  to  the  earth.  Mediocrity  is 
ever  envious  of  genius — ordinary  capacity  of 
original  thought.  Such  envy  in  early  times  is 
innocuous  or  does  not  exist,  at  least  to  the  ex- 
tent which  is  felt  as  so  baneful  in  subsequent 
periods.  But  in  a  refined  and  enlightened 
age,  its  influence  becomes  incalculable.  Who- 
ever strikes  out  a  new  region  of  thought  or 
composition,  whoever  opens  a  fresh  vein  of  im- 


agery or  excellence,  is  persecuted  by  the  cri. 
tics.  He  disturbs  settled  ideas,  endangers  es. 
tablished  reputation,  brings  forward  rivals  tc 
dominant  fame.  That  is  sufficient  to  render 
him  the  enemy  of  all  the  existing  rulers  in  the 
world  of  taste.  Even  Jeffrey  seriously  la- 
mented, in  one  of  his  first  reviews  of  Scott's 
poems,  that  he  should  have  identified  himself 
with  the  unpicturesque  and  expiring  images  of 
feudality,  which  no  effort  Qould  render  poeti- 
cal. Racine's  tragedies  were  received  with 
such  a  storm  of  criticism  as  wellnigh  cost  the 
sensitive  author  his  life;  and  Rousseau  was 
so  rudely  handled  by  contemporary  writers  on 
his  first  appearance,  that  it  confirmed  him  in 
his  morbid  hatred  of  civilization.  The  vigour 
of  these  great  men,  indeed,  overcame  the  ob- 
stacles created  by  contemporary  envy;  but 
how  seldom,  especially  in  a  refined  age,  can 
genius  effect  such  a  prodigy  1  how  often  is  it 
crushed  in  the  outset  of  its  career,  or  turned 
aside  into  the  humble  and  unobtrusive  path  of 
imitation,  to  shun  the  danger  with  which  that 
of  originality  is  beset! 

Milton's  Paradise  Lost  contains  many  more 
lines  of  poetic  beauty  than  Homer's  Iliad;  and 
there  is  nothing  in  the  latter  poem  of  equal 
length,  which  will  bear  any  comparison  with 
the  exquisite  picture  of  the  primeval  innocence 
of  our  First  Parents  in  his  fourth  book.  Never- 
theless, the  Iliad  is  a  more  interesting  poem 
than  the  Paradise  Lost ;  and  has  produced  and 
will  produce  a  much  more  extensive  impres- 
sion on  mankind.  The  reason  is,  that  it  is 
much  fuller  of  event,  is  more  varied,  is  more 
filled  with  images  familiar  to  all  mankind,  and 
is  less  lost  in  metaphysical  or  philosophical 
abstractions.  Homer,  though  the  father  of 
poets,  was  essentially  dramatic ;  he  was  an 
incomparable  painter  ;  and  it  is  his  dramatic 
scenes,  the  moving  panorama  of  his  pictures, 
which  fascinates  the  world.  He  often  speaks 
to  the  heart,  and  is  admirable  in  the  delinea- 
tion of  character  ;  but  he  is  so,  not  by  convey- 
ing the  inward  feeling,  but  by  painting  with 
matchless  fidelity  its  external  symptoms,  or 
putting  into  the  mouths  of  his  characters  the 
precise  words  they  would  have  used  in  similar 
circumstances  in  real  life.  Even  his  immortal 
parting  of  Hector  and  Andromache  is  no  ex- 
ception to  this  remark ;  he  paints  the  scene  at 
the  Scsean  gate  exactly  as  it  would  have  oc- 
curred in  nature,  and  moves  us  as  if  we  had 
seen  the  Trojan  hero  taking  off  his  helmet  to 
assuage  the  terrors  of  his  infant  son,  and  heard 
the  lamentations  of  his  mother  at  parting  with 
her  husband.  But  he  does  not  lay  bare  the 
heart,  with  the  terrible  force  of  Dante,  by  a  line 
or  a  word.  There  is  nothing  in  Homer  which 
conveys  so  piercing  an  idea  of  misery  as  the 
line  in  the  Inferno,  where  the  Florentine  bard 
assigns  the  reason  of  the  lamentations  of  the 
spirits  in  Malebolge — 

"  Questi  non  hanno  speranza  di  raorte." 
"  These  have  not  the  hope  of  death."  There 
speaks  the  spiritual  poet ;  he  does  not  paint 
to  the  eye,  he  does  not  even  convey  character 
by  the  words  he  makes  them  utter ;  he  pierces, 
by  a  single  expression,  at  once  to  the  heart. 

Milton  strove  to  raise  earth  to  heaven ;  Ho- 
mer brought  down  heaven  to  earth     The  latter 


HOMER,  DANTE,  AND  MICHAEL  AKGELO. 


388 


attempt  was  a  much  easier  one  than  the  for- 
mer; it  was  more  consonant  to  hinnan  frailty; 
and,  therefore,  it  has  met  with  more  success. 
The  gods  and  goddesses  in  the  Iliad  are  men 
and  women,  endowed  with  human  passions, 
affections,  and  desires,  and  distinguished  only 
from  sublunary  beings  by  superior  power  and 
the  gift. of  immortality.  We  are  interested  in 
them  as  we  are  in  the  genii  or  magicians  of 
an  eastern  romance.  There  is  a  sort  of  aerial 
epic  poem  going  on  between  earth  and  heaven. 
They  take  sides  in  the  terrestrial  combat,  and 
engage  in  the  actual  strife  with  the  iieroes  en- 
gaged in  it.  Mars  and  Venus  were  wounded 
by  Diomede  when  combatting  in  the  Trojan 
ranks  :  their  blood,  or  rather  the 

"Ichor  wliicli  blest  immortals  shed," 
flowed  profusely;  they  fled  howling  to  the  pa- 
laces of  heaven.  Enlightened  by  a  spiritual 
faith,  fraught  with  sublime  ideas  of  the  divine 
nature  and  government,  Milton  was  incompa- 
rably more  just  in  his  descriptions  of  the  Su- 
preme Being,  and  more  elevated  in  his  picture 
of  the  angels  and  archangels  who  carried  on 
the  strife  in  heaven;  but  he  frequently  falls 
into  metaphysical  abstractions  or  theological 
controversies,  which  detract  from  the  interest 
of  his  poem. 

Despite  Milton's  own  opinion,  the  concurring 
voice  of  all  subsequent  ages  and  countries 
has  assigned  to  the  Paradise  Regained  a  muc^h 
lower  place  than  to  the  Paradise  Lost.  The 
reason  is,  that  it  is  less  dramatic — it  has  less 
incident  and  action.  Great  part  of  the  poem 
is  but  an  abstract  theological  debate  between 
our  Saviour  and  Satan.  The  speeches  he 
makes  them  utter  are  admirable,  the  reasoning 
is  close,  the  arguments  cogent,  the  sentiments 
elevated  in  the  speakers,  but  dialectic  too.  In 
many  of  the  speeches  of  the  angel  Raphael, 
and  in  the  council  of  heaven,  in  the  Paradise 
Lost,  there  is  too  much  of  that  species  of  dis- 
cussion for  a  poem  which  is  to  interest  the 
generality  of  men.  Dryden  says,  that  Satan  is 
Milton's  real  hero;  and  every  reader  of  the 
Paradi.<e  Ij)st  must  have  felt,  that  in  the  Prince 
of  Darkness  and  Adam  and  Eve,  the  interest 
of  the  poem  consists.  The  reason  is,  that  the 
vices  of  the  first,  and  the  weakness  of  the  two 
last,  bring  them  nearer  than  any  other  charao 
lers  in  the  poem  to  the  standard  of  mortality  ; 
and  we  are  so  constituted,  that  we  cannot  take 
any  great  interest  but  in  persons  who  share  in 
our  failings. 

Perhaps  the  greatest  cause  of  the  sustained 
interest  of  the  Jlind  is  the  continued  and  vehe- 
ment aclioii  which  is  maintained.  The  atten- 
tion is  seldom  allowed  to  Hag.  Either  in  the 
council  of  the  gods,  the  assembly  of  the  Gre- 
cian or  Tmjan  chiefs,  or  the  content  of  the 
leaders  on  tin-  field  of  battle,  an  ince-ssant  in- 
terest ir,  maintained.  Great  events  are  always 
on  the  wing;  the  issue  of  the  contest  is  per- 
petually hanging,  often  almost  even,  in  the 
balance.  It  is  the  art  with  which  this  is  done, 
and  a  state  of  anxious  suspense,  like  the  crisis 
of  a  great  battle,  kept  up,  that  the  great  art  of 
the  poet  consists.  It  is  done  by  making  the 
whole  dramatic — bringing  the  characters  for- 
ward constantly  to  speak  for  themselves,  mak- 
Big  the  e"ents  succeed  each  other  with  almost 


breathless  rapidity,  and  balancing  success  al- 
ternately from  one  side  to  the  other,  without  let- 
ting it  ever  incline  decisively  to  either.  Tasso 
has  adopted  the  same  plan  in  his  Jerusalem 
Delivered,  and  the  contests  of  the  Christian 
knights  and  Saracen  leaders  with  the  lance 
and  the  sword,  closely  resemble  those  of  the 
Grecian  and  Trojan  chiefs  on  the  plain  of 
Troy.  Ariosto  has  carried  it  still  further. 
The  exploits  of  his  Paladins — their  adventures 
on  earth,  in  air,  and  water;  their  loves,  their 
sufferings,  their  victories,  their  dangers — keep 
the  reader  in  a  continual  state  of  suspense.  It  is 
this  sustained  and  varied  interest  which  makes 
so  many  readers  prefer  the  Orlando  Furioso  to 
the  Jerusalem  Delivered.  But  Ariosto  has  pushed 
it  too  far.  In  the  search  of  varietj',  he  has 
lost  sight  of  unity.  His  heroes  are  not  con- 
gregated round  the  banners  of  two  rival  po- 
tentates :  there  is  no  one  object  or  interest  in 
his  poem.  No  narrow  plain,  like  that  watered 
by  the  Scamander,  is  the  theatre  of  their  ex- 
ploits. Jupiter,  from  the  summit  of  Garga- 
rus,  could  not  have  beheld  the  contending 
armies.  The  most  ardent  imagination,  indeed, 
is  satiated  with  his  adventures,  but  the  closest 
attention  can  hardly  follow  their  thread.  Story 
after  story  is  told,  the  exploits  of  knight  after 
knight  are  recounted,  till  the  mind  is  fatigued, 
the  memory  perplexed,  and  all  general  interest 
in  the  poem  lost. 

Milton  has  admirably  preserved  the  unity  of 
his  poem ;  the  grand  and  all-important  object 
of  the  fall  of  man  could  hardly  admit  of  subor- 
dinate or  rival  interests.  But  the  great  defect 
in  the  Paradise  Lost,  arising  from  that  very 
unity,  is  want  of  variety.  It  is  strong  through- 
out on  too  lofty  a  key ;  it  does  not  come  down 
sufficiently  to  the  wants  and  cravings  of  mor- 
tality. The  mind  is  awe-struck  by  the  de- 
scription of  Satan  careering  through  the  im- 
mensity of  space,  of  the  battle  of  the  angels, 
of  the  fall  of  Lucifer,  of  the  suffering,  and  yet 
unsubdued  spirit  of  his  fellow  rebels,  of  the 
adamantine  gates,  aiul  pitchy  darkness,  and 
burning  lake  of  hell.  But  after  the  first  feel- 
ing of  surprise  and  admiration  is  over,  it  is 
felt  by  all,  that  these  lofty  contemplations  are 
not  interesting  to  mortals  like  ourselves.  They 
are  ton  much  above  real  life — too  much  out  of 
the  sphere  of  ordinary  event  and  interest. 

The  fourth  book  is  the  real  scene  of  interest 
in  the  Paradise  Lost;  it  is  its  ravishing  scenes 
of  primeval  innocence  and  bliss  which  have 
given  it  immortality.  W(>  are  never  tired  of 
recurring  to  the  bower  of  Eve,  to  her  devotion 
to  Adam,  to  the  exquisite  scenes  of  Paradise, 
its  woods,  its  waters,  its  flowers,  its  enchant- 
ments. We  are  so,  because  we  feel  that  it 
paints  the  Elysium  to  Mhich  all  aspire,  which 
all  have  for  a  brief  period  felt,  but  which  none 
in  this  world  can  durably  enjoy. 

No  one  can  doubt  that  Homer  was  endowed 
with  the  true  poetic  spirit,  and  yet  there  is 
very  little  of  what  we  now  call  poetry  in  his 
writings.  Therc'is  nciiher  scntinu-nt  nor  de- 
clriination — painting  nor  rcllection.  He  is 
neither  descriptive  nor  didactic.  With  great 
powers  for  portmying  nature,  as  the  exquisite 
choice  of  his  epithets,  and  the  occasional  force 
of  his  similes  prove,  he  never  makes  any  In 


384 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


boured  attempt  to  delineate  her  features.  He 
had  the  eye  of  a  great  painter ;  but  his  pictorial 
talents  are  employed,  almost  unconsciously, 
in  the  fervour  of  narrating  events,  or  the  ani- 
mation of  giving  utterance  to  thoughts.  He 
painted  by  an  epithet  or  a  line.  Even  the 
celebrated  description  of  the  fires  in  the  plain 
of  Troy,  like^ned  to  the  moon  in  a  serene  night, 
is  contained  in  seven  lines.  His  rosy-fingered 
morn  —  cloud-compelling  Jupiter — Neptune, 
stiller  of  the  waves — Aurora  rising  from  her 
crocus-bed — Night  drawing  her  veil  over  the 
heavens — the  black  keel  careering  through  the 
lashing  waves — the  shout  of  the  far-sounding 
sea — and  the  like,  from  which  subsequent  poets 
and  dramatists  have  borrowed  so  largely,  are 
all  brief  allusions,  or  epithets,  which  evidently 
did  not  form  the  main  object  of  his  strains. 
He  was  a  close  observer  of  nature — its  lights, 
its  shades,  its  storms  and  calms,  its  animals, 
their  migrations,  their  cries  and  habits;  but  he 
never  suspends  his  narrative  to  describe  them. 
We  shall  look  in  vain  in  the  Iliad,  and  even 
the  Odyssey,  for  the  lengthened  pictures  of 
scenery  which  are  so  frequent  in  Virgil  and 
Tasso,  and  appear  in  such  rich  profusion  in 
Milton.  He  describes  storms  only  as  objects 
of  terror,  not  to  paint  them  to  the  eye.  Such 
things  are  to  be  found  in  the  book  of  Job  and 
m  the  Psalms,  but  with  the  same  brevity  and 
magical  force  of  emphatic  expression.  There 
never  was  a  greater  painter  of  nature  than  Ho- 
mer ;  there  never  was  a  man  who  aimed  less 
at  being  so. 

The  portraying  of  character  and  event  was 
the  great  and  evident  object  of  the  Grecian 
bard;  and  there  his  powers  may  almost  be 
pronounced  unrivalled.  He  never  tells  you, 
unless  it  is  sometimes  to  be  inferred  from  an 
epithet,  what  the  man's  character  that  he  in- 
troduces is.  He  trusts  to  the  character  to 
delineate  itself.  He  lets  us  get  acquainted 
with  his  heroes,  as  we  do  with  persons  around 
us,  by  hearing  them  speak,  and  seeing  them 
act.  In  preserving  character,  in  this  dramatic 
way  of  representing  it,  he  is  unrivalled.  He 
does  not  tell  you  that  Nestor  had  the  garrulity 
of  age,  and  loved  to  recur  to  the  events  of  his 
youth;  but  he  never  makes  him  open  his 
mouth  without  descanting  on  the  adventures  of 
his  early  years,  and  the  degenerate  race  of 
mcrtals  who  have  succeeded  the  paladins  of 
former  days.  He  does  not  tell  us  that  Achilles 
was  wrathful  and  impetuous  ;  but  every  time 
he  speaks,  the  anger  of  the  son  of  Peleus 
comes  boiling  over  his  lips.  He  does  not 
describe  Agamemnon  as  overbearing  and 
haughty;  but  the  pride  of  the  king  of  men  is 
continually  appearing  in  his  words  and  actions, 
and  it  is  the  evident  moral  of  the  Iliad  to  rep- 
resent its  pernicious  effects  on  the  affairs  of 
the  Helenic  confederacy.  Ulysses  never  utters 
a  word  in  which  the  cautious  and  prudent 
counsellor,  sagacious  in  design  but  prompt  in 
execution,  wary  in  the  council  but  decided  in 
the  field,  far-seeing  but  yet  persevering,  is  not 
apparent.  Diomede  never  falters ;  alike  in  the 
field  and  the  council  he  is  indomitable.  When 
Hector  was  careering  in  his  chariot  round 
their  fortifications,  and  the  king  of  men  coun- 
selled retreat,  he  declared  he  would  remain,  were 


it  only  with  Sthenelus  and  his  friends.  So 
completely  marked,  so  well  defined  are  his 
characters,  though  they  were  all  rapacious 
chiefs  at  first  sight,  little  differing  from  each 
other,  that  it  has  been  observed  with  truth,  that 
one  well  acquainted  with  the  Hiad  could  tell, 
upon  hearing  one  of  the  speeches  read  out 
without  a  name,  who  was  the  chief  who 
uttered  it. 

The  two  authors,  since  his  time,  who  have 
most  nearly  approached  him  in  this  respect, 
are  Shakspeare  and  Scott.  Both  seem  to  have 
received  the  pencil  which  paints  the  human 
heart  from  nature  herself  Both  had  a  keen 
and  searching  eye  for  character  in  all  grades 
and  walks  of  life ;  and  what  is  a  general  ac- 
companiment of  such  a  disposition,  a  strong 
sense  of  the  ridiculous.  Both  seized  the  salient 
points  in  mental  disposition,  and  perceived  at 
a  glance,  as  it  were,  the  ruling  propensity 
Both  impressed  this  character  so  strongly  on 
their  minds,  that  they  threw  themselves,  as  it 
were,  into  the  very  souls  of  the  persons  whom 
they  delineated,  and  made  them  speak  and  act 
like  nature  herself  It  is  this  extraordinary 
faculty  of  identifying  themselves  with  their 
characters,  and  bringing  out  of  their  mouth  the 
very  words  which,  in  real  life,  would  have 
come,  which  constitutes  the  chief  and  perma- 
nent attraction  of  these  wonderful  masters  of 
the  human  heart.  Cervantes  had  it  in  an 
equal  degree ;  and  thence  it  is  that  Homer, 
Shakspeare,  Cervantes,  and  Scott,  have  made 
so  great,  and  to  all  appearance,  durable  im- 
pression on  mankind.  The  human  heart  is, 
at  bottom,  everywhere  the  same.  There  ia 
infinite  diversity  in  the  dress  he  wears,  but  the 
naked  human  figure  of  one  country  scarcely 
differs  from  another.  The  writers  who  have 
succeeded  in  reach'ng  this  deep  substratum, 
this  far-hidden  but  common  source  of  human 
action,  are  understood  and  admired  overall  the 
world.  It  is  the  same  on  the  banks  of  tha 
Simois  as  on  those  of  the  Avon — on  the  Sierra 
Morena  as  the  Scottish  hills.  They  are  under- 
stood alike  in  Europe  as  Asia — in  antiquity  a? 
modern  times  ;  one  unanimous  burst  of  admi- 
ration salutes  them  from  the  North  Cape  to 
Cape  Horn — from  the  age  of  Pisistratus  to  tha? 
of  Napoleon. 

Strange  as  it  may  appear  to  superficial  ob 
servers,  Cervantes  bears  a  close  analogy,  ia 
many  particulars,  to  Homer.  Circumstances, 
and  ail  inherent  turn  for  humour,  made  hin 
throw  his  genius  into  an  exquisite  ridicule  of 
the  manners  of  chivalry;  but  the  author  of 
Don  Quixote  had  in  him  the  spirit  of  a  grea/ 
epic  poet.  His  lesser  pieces  prove  it;  une- 
quivocal traces  of  it  are  to  be  found  in  th* 
adventures  of  the  Knight  of  La  Mancha  him 
self.  The  elevation  of  mind  which,  amidst  a^ 
his  aberrations,  appears  in  that  erratic  cha- 
racter; the  incomparable  traits  of  nature  witl" 
which  the  work  abounds ;  the  faculty  of  de- 
scribing events  in  the  most  striking  way ;  of 
painting  scenes  in  a  few  words;  of  delineating 
characters  with  graphic  fidelity,  and  keeping 
them  up  with  perfect  consistency,  Avhich  arf 
so  conspicuous  in  Dmi  Quixote,  are  so  manj 
of  the  most  essential  qualities  of  an  epic  poet 
Nor    was    the    ardour   of   imagination,    tha 


KOAIER.  DANTE,  AND  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


bS.O 


romantic  disposition,  the  brilliancy  of  fancy, 
the  lofty  aspirations,  the  tender  heart,  which 
form  the  more  elevated  and  not  less  essential 
part  of  such  a  character,  wanting  in  the  Span- 
ish novelist. 

Sir  Walter  Scott  more  nearlj'  resembles 
Homer  than  any  poet  who  has  sung  since  the 
siege  of  Troy.  Not  that  he  has  produced  any 
poem  which  will  for  a  moment  bear  a  com- 
parison with  the  TItad — fine  as  the  Lady  of  the 
Lahc  and  Mnnnion  are,  it  would  be  the  height 
of  national  partiality  to  make  any  such  com- 
parison. But,  nevertheless.  Sir  Walter's  mind 
is  of  the  same  dimensions  as  that  of  Homer. 
We  see  in  him  the  same  combination  of 
natural  sagacity  with  acquired  information; 
of  pictorial  eye  with  dramatic  effect ;  of  observa- 
tion of  character  with  reflection  and  feeling; 
of  graphic  power  with  poetic  fervour;  of 
ardour  of  imagination  with  rectitude  of  prin- 
ciple ;  of  warlike  enthusiasm  with  pacific  ten- 
derness, which  have  rendered  the  Grecian  bard 
immortal.  It  is  in  his  novels,  however,  more 
than  his  poetrj%  that  this  resemblance  appears  ; 
the  author  of  I Tara/cy  more  nearly  approaches 
the  blind  bard  than  the  author  of  the  Lcaj.  His 
Romances  in  verse  contain  some  passages 
which  are  sublime,  many  which  are  beautiful, 
some  pathetic.  They  are  all  interesting,  and 
written  in  the  same  easy,  careless  style,  inter- 
spersed with  the  most  homely  and  grotesque 
expressions,  which  is  so  well  known  to  all  the 
readers  of  the  Iliad.  The  battle  in  Marmion  is 
be3-ond  all  question,  as  Jeffrey  long  ago 
remarked,  the  most  Homeric  strife  which  has 
been  sung  since  the  days  of  Homer.  But  these 
passages  are  few  and  far  between;  his  poems 
are  filled  with  numerous  and  long  interludes, 
written  with  little  art,  and  apparently  no  other 
object  but  to  fill  up  the  pages  or  eke  out  the 
story.  It  is  in  prose  that  the  robust  strength, 
the  powerful  arm,  the  profound  knowledge  of 
the  heart,  appear;  and  it  is  there,  accordingly, 
that  he  approaches  at  times  so  closely  to 
Homer.  If  we  could  conceive  a  poem  in 
which  the  storming  of  Front-de-Bocuf's  castle 
in  Ivanhoc — the  death  of  Fergus  in  Wavcrky — 
the  storm  on  the  coast,  and  death-scene  in  the 
fisher's  hut,  in  the  Jlnliijuary — the  devoted  love 
in  the  Bride  of  Lammcnnnor — the  fervour  of  the 
('ovenanlers  in  Old  Mortality,  and  the  combats 
of  Richnrd  and  Saladin  in  the  Talisman,  were 
united  together  and  intermingled  with  the  in- 
comparable characters,  descriptions,  nnd  inci- 
dents with  which  these  novels  abound,  they 
would  form  an  epic  poem. 

Doubts  have  sometimes  been  expressed,  as 
to  whether  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey  are  all  the 
production  of  one  man.  Never,  perhaps,  was 
doubt  not  merely  so  ill-founded,  but  so  decisive- 
ly disproved  by  internal  evidence.  If  ever  in 
human  composition  the  traces  of  one  mind  are 
conspicuous,  they  are  in  Homer.  His  beauties 
equally  with  his  defects,  his  variety  and  uni- 
formity attest  this.  Never  was  an  author  who 
had  so  fertile  an  imagination  for  varying  of  in- 
cidents; never  was  one  who  expressed  them 
in  language  in  which  the  same  words  so  con- 
stantly recur.  This  is  tlie  invariable  charac- 
teristic of  a  great  and  powerful,  but  at  the 
same  time  self-confident  but  careless  mind. 
2a 


It  is  to  be  seen  in  the  most  remarkable  mannei 
in  Bacon  and  IMachiavel,  and  not  a  little  of  it 
may  be  traced  both  in  the  prose  and  poetical 
works  of  Scott.  The  reason  is,  that  the  strength 
of  the  mind  is  thrown  into  the  thought  as  the 
main  object;  the  language,  as  a  subordinate 
matter,  is  little  considered.  Expressions  ca- 
pable of  energetically  expressing  the  prevail- 
ing ideas  of  imagination  are  early  formed; 
but,  when  this  is  done,  the  powerful,  careless 
mind,  readily  adopts  them  on  all  future  occa- 
sions where  they  are  at  all  applicable.  There 
is  scarcely  a  great  and  original  thinker  in 
whose  writings  the  same  expressions  do  not 
very  frequently  recur,  often  in  exactly  the  same 
words.  How  much  this  is  the  case  with  Homer 
— with  how  much  discrimination  and  genius 
his  epithets  and  expressions  were  first  chosen, 
and  how  frequently  he  repeats  them,  almost  ip 
every  page,  need  be  told  to  none  who  are  ac- 
quainted M'ith  his  writings.  That  is  the  inosi 
decisive  mark  at  once  of  genius  and  identity. 
Original  thinkers  fall  into  repetition  of  expres- 
sion, because  they  are  always  speaking  from 
one  model — their  own  thoughts.  Subordinate 
writers  avoid  this  fault,  because  they  are 
speaking  from  the  thoughts  of  others,  and 
share  their  variety.  It  requires  as  great  an 
effort  for  the  first  to  introduce  difference  of  ex- 
pression as  for  the  last  to  reach  diversity  of 
thought. 

The  reader  of  Dante  must  not  look  for  the 
heart-stirring  and  animated  narrative — the  con- 
stant interest — the  breathless  suspense,  which 
hurries  us  along  the  rapid  current  of  the  Iliad. 
There  are  no  councils  of  the  gods  ;  no  messen- 
gers winging  their  way  through  the  clouds  ;  no 
combats  of  chiefs  ,  no  cities  to  storm  ;  no  fields 
to  win.  It  is  the  infernal  regions  which  the 
poet,  under  the  guidance  of  his  great  leader, 
Virgil,  visits;  it  is  the  scene  of  righteous  re 
tribution  through  which  he  is  led  :  it  is  the  ap- 
portionment of  punishment  and  reward  to 
crime  or  virtue,  in  this  upper  world,  that  he  is 
doomed  to  witness.  We  enter  the  city  of  la 
mentation — we  look  down  the  depths  of  the 
bottomless  pit — we  stand  at  the  edge  of  the 
burning  lake.  His  survey  is  not  the  mere  Iran 
sient  visit  like  that  of  Ulysses  in  Homer,  or  of 
i^Eneas  in  Virgil.  He  is  taken  slowly  and  de- 
liberately through  every  successive  circle  of 
Malebolge;  descending  down  which,  like  the 
visitor  of  the  tiers  of  vaults,  one  beneath 
another,  in  a  feudal  castle,  he  finds  every  spe- 
cies of  malefactors,  from  the  chiefs  and  kings 
whose  heroic  lives  were  stained  only  bj'  a  few 
deeds  of  cruelty,  to  the  depraved  malefactors 
whose  base  course  was  unrelieved  by  one  ray 
of  virtue.  In  the  very  conception  of  such  a 
poem,  is  to  be  found  decisive  evidence  of 
the  mighty  change  which  the  human  mind  had 
undergone  since  the  expiring  lays  of  poetry 
were  last  heard  in  the  ancient  world;  of  the 
vast  revolution  of  thought  and  inward  convic- 
tion which,  during  a  tiunisand  years,  in  the 
solitude  of  the  monastery,  and  under  the  sway 
of  a  spiritual  faith,  had  taken  place  in  the 
human  heart.  A  gay  and  poetic  mythology 
no  longer  amazed  the  world  by  its  fictions, 
or  charmed  it  by  its  imagery.  Religion  no 
longer  basked  in  the  sunshine  of  imaginathin. 


380 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


The  awful  words  of  judgment  to  come  had 
been  spoken  ;  and,  like  Felix,  mankind  had 
trembled.  Ridiculous  legends  had  ceased  to 
be  associated  with  the  shades  below — their 
place  had  been  taken  by  images  of  horror. 
Conscience  had  resumed  its  place  in  the  direc- 
tion of  thought.  Superstition  had  lent  its  awful 
power  to  the  sanctions  of  religion.  Terror  of 
future  punishment  had  subdued  the  fiercest 
passions — internal  agony  tamed  the  proudest 
spirits.  It  was  the  picture  of  a  future  world — 
of  a  world  of  retribution — conceived  under  such 
impressions,  that  Dante  proposed  to  give  ;  it  is 
that  which  he  has  given  with  such  terrible  fidelity. 
Melancholy  was  the  prevailing  characteris- 
tic of  the  great  Italian's  mind.  It  was  so  pro- 
found that  it  penetrated  all  his  thoughts  ;  so 
intense  that  it  pervaded  all  his  conceptions. 
Occasionally  bright  and  beautiful  ideas  flitted 
across  his  imagination  ;  visions  of  bliss,  ex- 
perienced for  a  moment,  and  then  lost  for  ever, 
as  if  to  render  more  profound  the  darkness  by 
which  they  are  surrounded.  They  are  given 
with  exquisite  beauty;  but  they  shine  amidst 
the  gloom  like  sunbeams  struggling  through 
the  clouds.  He  inherited  from  the  dark  ages 
the  austerity  of  the  cloister ;  but  he  inherited 
with  it  the  deep  feelings  and  sublime  concep- 
tions which  its  seclusion  had  generated.  His 
mind  was  a  world  within  itself.  He  drew  all 
his  conceptions  from  that  inexhaustible  source; 
but  he  drew  them  forth  so  clear  and  lucid,  that 
they  emerged,  imbodied  as  it  were,  in  living 
images.  His  characters  are  emblematic  of 
the  various  passions  and  views  for  which  dif- 
ferent degrees  of  punishment  were  reserved 
in  the  world  to  come ;  but  his  conception  of 
them  was  so  distinct,  his  description  so  vivid, 
that  they  stand  forth  to  our  gaze  in  all  the  agony 
of  their  sufferings,  like  real  flesh  and  blood. 
We  see  them — we  feel  them — we  hear  their 
cries — our  very  flesh  creeps  at  the  perception 
of  their  suff'erings.  We  stand  on  the  edge  of 
the  lake  of  boiling  pitch — we  feel  the  weight 
of  the  leaden  mantles — we  see  the  snow-like 
flakes  of  burning  sand — we  hear  the  cries  of 
those  who  had  lost  the  last  earthly  consolations, 
the  hope  of  death  : — 

"  Quivi  sospiri,  pianti  ed  alti  guai 
Risonavati  per  1'  aer  soiiza  stelle, 
Perch'  io  al  cominciar  ne  lacrimal. 

Diverse  lingiie,  orribili  favelle, 
Parole  didolore,  accenti  d'  ira, 
Voci  alte  e  fioche,  e  suon  di  man  con  elle, 

Facevano  un  tumnlto,  il  qual  s'  aggira 
Sempre  'n  quell'  aria  senza  tempo  tinta 
Come  la  rcna  quando  '1  turbo  spira. 
*  *  *  * 

Kd  io :  maestro,  olie  6  taiito  greve 
A  lor  clie  laineritar  li  fa  si  forte"! 
Kisposo  :  diccrolti  niolto  breve. 
Questi  non  hanno  speranza  di  morte." 

Inferno,  c.  iii. 
"Here  sighs,  with  lamentations  and  loud  moans 
Resounded  through  the  air  pierced  by  no  star,         ' 
That  e'en  I  wept  at  entering.     Various  tongues 
JIorriMe   anguages,  outcries  of  wo,  ' 

Accents  of  anger,  voices  deep  and  hoarse, 
Willi  hands  together  smote  that  swcU'd  the  sounds 
Ma.le  up  a  tumult,  that  for  ever  whirls  ' 

Round  through  that  air  with  solid  darkness  stained 
Like  to  the  sand  that  in  the  whirlwind  flies  ' 

*  *  *  *  * 

•     I  "ifii :  Master!  What  doth  aggrieve  them  thus 
That  they  lament  so  loud  I    He  straight  replied  •  ' 
That  will  I  tell  tliee  briefly.    These  of  death 
No  hope  may  entertain." 

Caby's  Dante,  Inferno,  c.  iii.     | 


Here  is  Dante  portrayed  to  the  life  in  the 
very  outset.  What  a  collection  of  awful  images 
in  a  few  lines  !  Loud  lamentations,  hideous 
cries,  mingled  with  the  sound  of  clasped  hands, 
beneath  a  starless  sky;  and  the  terrible  an* 
swer,  as  the  cause  of  this  suffering,  "  These 
have  not  the  hope  of  death." 

The  very  first  lines  of  the  Inferno,  when  the 
gates  of  Hell  were  approached,  and  the  in- 
scription over  them  appeared,  paint  the  dis- 
mal character  of  the  poem,  and  yet  mingled 
with  the  sense  of  divine  love  and  justice  with 
which  the  author  was  penetrated. 

"  Per  me  si  va  nella  citti  dolente  ; 
Per  me  si  va  nell'  eterno  dolore  ; 
Per  me  si  va  tra  la  perduta  gente  : 

Giustizia  niosse  '1  mio  alto  Fattore  ; 
Fecemi  la  divina  Potestate, 
La  somma  Sapienza  e  '1  primo  Amore. 

Dinanzi  a  me  non  fur  cose  create, 
Se  non  eterne  ;  ed  io  eterno  duro  : 
Lasciate  ogni  speranza  voi  che  'ntrate." 

Inferno,  c.  lit 

"  Through  me  you  pass  into  the  city  of  wo ; 
Through  me  you  pass  into  eternal  pain  : 
Through  me  among  the  people  lost  for  aye. 
.Justice  the  founder  of  my  fabric  moved  : 
To  rear  me  was  the  task  of  power  divine, 
Supremest  wisdom,  and  primeval  love. 
Before  me  things  create  were  none,  save  things 
Eternal,  and  eternal  I  endure. 
All  hope  abandon,  ye  who  enter  here." 

Gary's  Dante,  Inferno,  c.  iii. 

Dante  had  much  more  profound  feelings 
than  Homer,  and  therefore  he  has  painted  deep 
mysteries  of  the  human  heart  with  greater 
force  and  fidelity.  The  more  advanced  age  of 
the  world,  the  influence  of  a  spiritual  faith,  the 
awful  anticipation  of  judgment  to  come,  the 
inmost  feelings  which,  during  long  centuries 
of  seclusion,  had  been  drawn  forth  in  the 
cloister,  the  protracted  suiTerings  of  the  dark 
ages,  had  laid  bare  the  human  heart.  Its  suf- 
ferings, its  terrors,  its  hopes,  its  joys,  had  be- 
come as  household  words.  'I  he  Italian  poet 
shared,  as  all  do,  in  the  ideas  and  images  of  his 
age,  and  to  these  he  added  many  which  were 
entirely  his  own.  He  painted  the  inward  man, 
and  painted  him  from  his  own  feelings,  not  the 
observation  of  others.  That  is  the  grand  dis- 
tinction between  him  and  Homer ;  and  that  it 
is  which  has  given  him,  in  the  delineation  of 
mind,  his  great  superiority.  The  Grecian  bard 
was  an  incomparable  observer;  he  had  an  in- 
exhaustible imagination  for  fiction,  as  ■well  as 
a  graphic  eye  for  the  delineation  of  real  life ; 
but  he  had  not  a  deep  or  feeling  heart.  He  did 
not  know  it,  like  Dante  and  Shakspeare,  from 
his  own  suffering.  He  painted  the  external 
symptoms  of  passion  and  emotion  with  the 
hand  of  a  master ;  but  he  did  not  reach  the 
inward  spring  of  feeling.  He  lets  us  into  his 
characters  by  their  speeches,  their  gestures, 
their  actions,  and  keeps  up  their  consistency 
with  admirable  fidelity;  but  he  does  not,  by  a 
word,  an  expression,  or  an  epithet,  admit  us 
into  the  inmost  folds  of  the  heart.  None  can 
do  so  but  such  as  themselves  feel  warmly  and 
profoundly,  and  paint  passion,  emotion,  or 
sufl^ering,  from  their  own  experience,  not  the 
observation  of  others.  Dante  has  acquired 
his  colossal  fame  from  the  matchless  force  with 
which  he  has  portrayed  the  wildest  passions, 
the  deepest  feelings,  the  most  intense  suffer- 
ings of  the  heart.     He  is  the   refuge   of  all 


HOMER,  DAXTE,  AND  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


387 


hose  who  labour  and  are  heavy  laden — of  all 
iv'ho  feel  p rofoiuidly  or  have  suffered  decpl}'. 
His  verses  are  in  the  mouth  of  all  who  are 
torn  by  passion,  gnawed  by  remorse,  or  tor- 
mented by  apprehension;  and  how  many  are 
they  in  this  scene  of  wo  ! 

A  distinguished  modern  critic*  has  said, 
that  he  who  m'ouU  now  become  a  great  poet 
must  first  become  a  little  child.  There  is  no 
doubt  he  is  right.  The  seen  and  unseen  fetters 
of  civilization;  the  multitude  of  old  ideas  afloat 
in  the  world;  the  innumerable  worn  out  chan- 
nels into  which  new  ones  are  ever  apt  to  flow; 
the  general  clamour  with  which  critics,  nursed 
amidst  such  fetters,  receive  an)^  attempts  at 
breaking  them;  the  prevalence,  in  a  wealthy 
and  highly  civilized  age,  of  worldly  or  selfish 
ideas  ;  the  common  approximation  of  charac- 
ters by  perpetual  intercourse,  as  of  coins,  by 
coiUinual  rubbing  in  passing  from  man  to  man, 
have  taken  away  all  freshness  and  originality 
from  ideas.  The  learned,  the  polished,  the 
highly  educated,  can  hardly  escape  the  fetters 
which  former  greatness  throws  over  the  soul. 
Milton  could  not  avoid  them  ;  half  the  images 
in  his  poems  are  taken  from  Homer,  Virgil, 
and  Dante  ;  and  who  dare  hope  for  emancipa- 
tion when  Milton  was  enthralled  1  The  me- 
chanical arts  increase  in  perfection  as  society 
advances.  Science  ever  takes  its  renewed 
flights  from  the  platform  which  former  efforts 
have  erected.  Industr}',  guided  by  experience, 
in  successive  ages,  brings  to  the  highest  point 
all  the  contrivances  and  inventions  which  mi- 
nister to  the  comfort  or  elegancies  of  life.  But 
it  is  otherwise  with  genius.  It  sinks  in  the 
progress  of  society,  as  much  as  science  and 
the  arts  rise.  The  country  of  Homer  and 
JEschylus  sank  for  a  thousand  years  into  the 
torpor  of  the  Byzantine  empire.  Originality 
perishes  amidst  acquisition.  Freshness  of 
conception  is  its  life:  like  the  flame,  it  burns 
fierce  and  clear  in  the  first  gales  of  a  pure 
atmosphere ;  but  languishes  and  dies  in  that 
polluted  by  many  breaths. 

It  was  the  resurrection  of  the  human  mind, 
after  the  seclusion  and  solitary  reflection  of 
the  middle  ages,  which  gave  this  vein  of  ori- 
ginal ideas  to  Dante,  as  their  first  wakening 
had  given  to  Homer.  Thought  was  not  ex- 
tinct; the  human  mind  was  not  dormant  dur- 
ing the  dark  ages;  far  from  it — it  never,  in 
some  respects,  was  more  active.  It  was  the 
first  collision  of  their  deep  and  lonely  medita- 
tions with  the  works  of  the  great  ancient 
poets,  which  occasioned  the  prodigy.  Uni- 
versally it  will  be  fi)und  to  be  the  same.  Afli-r 
the  first  flights  of  genius  have  been  taken,  it  is 
by  the  collision  of  subsequent  thouglit  with  it 
Chat  the  divine  spark  is  again  elicited.  The 
meeting  of  two  great  minds  is  necessary  to 
beget  fresh  ideas,  as  that  of  two  clouds  is  to 
bring  forth  lightning,  or  the  collision  of  flint 
and  steel  to  produce  fire.  Johnson  said  he 
could  not  get  new  ideas  till  he  had  read.  He 
was  right;  though  it  is  not  one  in  a  thousand 
who  strikes  out  original  thoughts  from  study- 
ing the  works  of  others.  The  great  sage  did 
not  read  to  imbibe  the  opinion  cf  others,  but 


*  Macaulay, 


to  engender  new  ones  for  himself;  he  did  not 
study  to  imitate,  but  to  create.  It  was  the 
same  with  Dante ;  it  is  the  same  with  every 
really  great  man.  His  was  the  first  powerful 
and  original  mind  which,  fraught  with  the 
profound  and  gloomy  ideas  nourished  in  seclu- 
sion during  the  middle  ages,  came  into  contact 
with  the  brilliant  imagery,  touching  pathos, 
and  harmonious  language  of  the  ancients. 
Hence  his  astonishing  greatness.  He  almost 
worshipped  Virgil,  he  speaks  of  him  as  a  spe- 
cies of  god;  he  mentions  Homer  as  the  first 
of  poets.  But  he  did  not  copy  either  the  one 
or  the  other;  he  scarcely  imitated  them.  He 
strove  to  rival  their  brevity  and  beauty  of  ex- 
pression; but  he  did  so  in  giving  vent  to  new 
ideas,  in  painting  new  images,  in  awakening 
new  emotions.  The  Inferno  is  as  original  as 
the  Iliad:  incomparably  more  so  than  the 
JSncicL  The  offspring  of  originality  with  ori- 
ginality is  a  new  and  noble  creation ;  of  origi- 
nality with  mediocrity,  a  spurious  and  degraded 
imitation. 

Dante  paints  the  spirit  of  all  the  generations 
of  men,  each  in  their  circle  undergoing  their 
allotted  punishment;  expiating  by  suffering 
the  sins  of  an  upper  world.  Virgil  gave  a 
glimpse,  as  it  were,  into  that  scene  of  retribu- 
tion;  Minos  and  Rhadamanthus  passing  judg 
ment  on  the  successive  spirits  brought  before 
them ;  the  flames  of  Tartarus,  the  rock  of  Si- 
syphus, the  wheel  of  Ixion,  the  vulture  gnaw- 
ing Prometheus.  But  with  Homer  and  Virgil, 
the  descent  into  the  iufernal  regions  was  a 
brief  episode ;  with  Dante  it  was  the  Avhole 
poem.  Immense  was  the  effort  of  imagina- 
tion requisite  to  give  A^ariety  to  such  a  subject, 
to  prevent  the  mind  from  experiencing  weari- 
ness amidst  the  eternal  recurrence  of  crime 
and  punishment.  But  the  genius  of  Dante 
was  equal  to  the  task.  His  fancy  Avas  prodi- 
gious ;  his  invention  boundless ;  his  imagina- 
tion inexhaustible.  Fenced  in,  as  he  was, 
within  narrow  and  gloomy  limils  by  the  nature 
of  his  subject,  his  creative  spirit  ctfuals  that 
of  Homer  himself.  He  has  given  birth  to  as 
many  new  ideas  in  the  Li/cnio  and  the  Parudiso, 
as  the  Grecian  bard  in  the  Iliad  and  Odijsscij, 

Though  he  had  reflected  so  much  and  so 
deeply  on  the  human  heart,  and  was  so  perfect 
a  master  of  all  the  anatomy  of  mental  sufl'er- 
ing,  Dante's  mind  was  essentially  descriptive. 
He  was  a  great  painter  as  well  as  a  profound 
thinker;  he  clothed  deep  feeling  in  the  garb 
of  the  senses;  he  conceived  a  vast  brood  of 
new  ideas,  he  arrayed  them  in  a  surprising 
manner  in  flesh  and  blood.  He  is  ever  clear 
and  definite,  at  least  in  the  Inferno.  He  ex- 
hibits in  every  canto  of  that  wonderful  poem  a 
fresh  image,  but  it  is  a  clear  one,  of  horror  cr 
anguish,  which  loaves  nothing  to  ihe  imagina- 
tion to  add  or  conceive.  His  ideal  characters 
are  real  persons ;  they  are  present  to  our 
senses;  we  feel  their  ilcsh,  see  the  quiverin* 
of  their  limbs,  hear  their  lamentations,  and 
feel  a  thrill  of  joy  at  their  felicitv.  In  the 
Paradico  he  is  more  vague  and  general,  and 
thence  its  acknowledged  inferiority  to  the 
Infa-no.  But  the  images  of  horror  are  much 
more  powerful  than  those  of  happiness,  and  it 
is  they  Avhich  have  entranced  the  world.    "  It 


SS8 


AEISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


'.-;  easier,"  says  Madame  de  Stael,  "  to  convey 
ileas  of  suffering  than  those  of  happiness;  for 
the  former  are  too  well  knov/n  to  every  heart, 
the  latter  only  to  a  few." 

The  melancholy  tone  which  pervades  Dante's 
writings  was  doubtless,  in  a  great  measure, 
owing  to  the  misfortunes  of  his  life ;  and  to 
them  we  are  also  indebted  for  many  of  the 
most  caustic  and  powerful  of  his  verses — per- 
haps for  the  design  of  the  Inferno  itself.     He 
took  vengeance  on  the  generation  v>'hich  had 
persecuted  and  exiled  him,  by  exhibiting  its 
leaders  suffering  in  the  torments  of  hell.    In 
his  long  seclusion,  chiefly  in  the  monastery 
of  Santa  Croce  di  Fonte  Avellana,  a  wild  and 
solitary  retreat  in  the  territory  of  Gubbio,  and 
in  a  tower  belonging  to  the  Conte  Falcucci,  in 
the  same  districts  his  immortal  work  M^as  writ- 
ten.    The  mortifications  he  underwent  during 
this  long  and  dismal  exile  are  thus  described 
by  himself : — "  Wandering  over  almost  every 
part  in  which  our  language  extends,  I  have 
gone  about  like  a  mendicant ;  showing  against 
my  will  the  wound  with  w^hich  fortune  has 
smitten  me,  and  which  is  often  falsely  imputed 
to  the  demerit  of  him  by  whom  it  is  endured. 
I  have  been,  indeed,  'a  vessel  v/ithout  sail   or 
steerage,  carried  about  to   divers   ports,  and 
roads,  and  shores,  by  the  dry  wind  that  springs 
out  of  sad  poverty." 

In  the  third  circle  of  hell,  Dante  sees  those 
who  aie  punished  by  the  plague  of  burning 
sand  falling  perpetually  on  them.  Their  tor- 
ments are  thus  described — 

"  Supin  giaceva  in  terra  alcuna  gente ; 
Alcuna  si  sedea  tutta  raccolta ; 
Ed  altra  amiava  continuainente. 

Quella  clie  glva  intorno  era  piii  molta ; 
E  quella  men  che  giaceva  altormeiito; 
Ma  piu  al  duolo  avea  la  lingua  seiolta. 

Sovra  tutto  '1  sabbion  d'un  cader  lento 
Piovean  di  fuoco  dilatate  falde, 
Come  di  neve  in  alpe  senza  vento. 

Quali  Alessandro  in  quelle  parti  calde 
D'  India  vide  sovra  lo  suo  stuolo 
Fiamme  cadere  iiifino  a  terra  salde." 

Inferno,  c.  xiv. 

"  Of  nake-d  spirits  many  a  flock  I  saw, 
AH  weeping  piteously,  to  diflerent  laws 
Subjected  :  for  on  earth  some  lay  supine, 
Some  crouching  close  were  seated,  others  paced 
Incessantly  around  ;  the  latter  tribe 
More  numerous,  those  fewer  who  beneath 
The  torment  lay,  but  louder  in  their  grief. 

O'er  all  the  sand  fell  slowly  wafting  down 
Dilated  flakes  of  fire,  as  flakes  of  snow 
On  Alpine  summit,  when  the  wind  is  hush'd. 
As,  in  the  torrid  Indian  clime,  the  son 
Of  Amnion  saw,  upon  his  warrior  band 
Descendin!;,  solid  flames,  that  to  the  ground 
Came  down." 

Gary's  Dante,  c.  xiv. 

The  first  appearance  of  Malebolge  is  de- 
Rcribed  in  these  striking  lines — 

"Luogo  6  in  Inferno,  detto  Malebolge, 
Tullo  di  pielra  c  di  color  ferriiino. 
Come  le  ccrchia  che  d'  intorno  il  volire. 

Nel  drilto  mezzo  del  campo  maligno 
VanegL'ia  un  pozzo  assai  lariro  e  profondo, 
Di  cui  suo  Inogo  conteri'i  1'  ordigno. 

Quel  cinghio  die  riniane  aduuque  6  tondo 
Tra  'I  pozzo  e  '1  pi6  iell'  alta  ripa  dura, 
E  lia  'iisiinto  in  dieti  valli  al  fondo." 

Inferno,  c.  xviii. 

"There  is  a  place  within  the  depths  of  hell 
'--'all'd  .Malebolge,  all  of  rock  dark-stained 
With  hue  ferruginous,  e'en  as  the  strep 
That  round  it  circling  winds.    Right  in  the  midst 
Of  that  abominable  region  yawns 
A  spacious  gulf  profound,  whereof  the  frame 


Due  time  shall  tell.     The  circle,  that  remains, 
'I'hrougliout  its  round,  between  the  gulf  and  bage 
Of  the  hish  craggy  banks,  successive  forms 
Ten  bastions,  in  its  hollow  bottom  raised." 

Gary's  Pante,  c.  xvlsl 

This  is  tlie  outward  appearance  of  Malebolge, 
the  worst  place  of  punishment  in  hell.     It  had 
many  frightful  abysses;  what  follows  is  th 
picture  of  the  first : — 

"Ristemmo  per  veder  I'altra  fessma 
Di  Malebolge  e  gli  altri  pianti  vani : 
E  vidila  mirabilmente  oscura. 

Quale  neir  arzana  de'  Veneziani 
Bolle  r  iuverno  la  teuace  pece, 
A  rimpalmar  li  legni  lor  non  sani— 

*  *  *  * 
Tal  non  per  fuoco  ma  per  divina  arte, 
Eollia  laggiuso  una  pegola  spessa, 

Cho  'nviscava  la  ripa  d'ogni  parte. 
I'  vedea  lei,  ma  non  vedeva  in  essa 
Ma  che  le  bolle  che  '1  bollor  levava,  ' 

E  gonfiar  tutta  e  riseder  compressa. 

*  *  *  » 
E  vidi  dietro  a  noi  un  diavol  nero 
Correndo  su  per  lo  scoglio  venire. 

Ahi  quant'  egli  era  nell'  aspetto  fiero! 
E  quanto  mi  parea  nell'  atto  acerbo. 
Con  r  ali  aperte  e  sovre  i  pie  leggiero ! 

L'  omero  suo  ch'  era  acuto  e  superbo 
Carcava  un  peccator  con  ambo  I'anche, 
Ed  ei  tenea  de'  pi6  ghermito  il  nerbo. 

*  *  *  • 
Laggiii  il  butt6  e  per  lo  scoglio  duro 

Si  voise,  e  niai  non  fu  mastino  sciolto 
Co  tanta  fretta  a  seguitar  lo  furo. 

Quel  s'  attuiib  e  torno  su  convolto ; 
Ma  i  demon  che  del  ponte  avean  coverchio 
Gridar :  qui  non  ha  luogo  il  Santo  Volto. 

Qui  si  nuota  aitramenti  che  nel  Serchio 
Verb  se  tu  non  vuoi  de'  nostri  graffi, 
Non  far  sovra  le  pegola  soverciiio. 

Poi  r  addentar  con  piii  di  cento  rafli, 
Di-sser:  coverto  convien  che  qui  balli. 
Si  che  se  puoi  nascosamente  accaffl." 

Inferno,  e.  x  si 

" To  the  summit  reaching,  stood 

To  view  another  gap,  within  the  round 
Of  Malebolge,  other  bootless  pangs. 

RIarvellous  darkness  shadow'd  o'er  the  place. 

In  the  Venetians'  arsenal  as  boils 
Through  wintry  months  tenacious  pitch;  to  smear 
Then-  unsound  vessels  in  the  wintry  clime. 

*  *  *  * 

So,  not  by  force  of  fire  but  art  divine, 
Boil'd  here  a  glutinous  thick  mass,  that  round 
Lined  all  the  shore  beneath.    I  that  beheld, 
But  therein  not  distinguisli'd,  save  the  bubbles 
Raised  by  the  boiling,  and  one  mighty  swell 
Heave,  and  by  turns  subsiding  fall. 

*  *  *  * 
Behind  me  I  beheld  a  devil  black, 
That  running  up,  advanced  along  the  rock. 
Ah !  what  fierce  cruelty  his  look  bespake. 
In  act  how  bitter  did  he  seem,  with  wings 
Buoyant  outstretch'd,  and  feet  of  nimblest  tread. 
His  shoulder,  proudly  eminent  and  sharp. 
Was  with  a  sinner  charged;  by  either  haunch 
He  held  him,  the  foot's  smew  griping  fast. 

*  *  *       "  * 

Him  dashing  down,  o'er  the  rough  rock  he  turn'd; 
Nor  ever  after  thief  a  mastilf  loosed 
Sped  with  like  eager  haste.    That  other  sank, 
And  forthwith  writhing  to  the  surface  rose. 
But  those  dark  demons,  shrouded  by  the  bridge. 
Cried — Here  the  hallow'd  visage  saves  not :  here 
Is  other  swimming  than  in  Serchio's  wave, 
Wherefore,  if  thou  desire  we  rend  thee  not. 
Take  heed  tliou  mount  not  o'er  the  pitch.    This  said. 
They  grappled  him  with  more  than  hundred  hooks, 
And  shouted— Cover'd  thou  must  sport  thee  liere  ; 
So,  if  tliou  canst,  in  secret  mayst  thou  filch." 

Gary's  Dante,  c.  xxi 

Fraught  as  his  imagination  was  with  gloomy 
ideas,  with  images  of  horror,  it  is  the  fidelity 
of  his  descriptions,  the  minute  reality  of  his 
pictures,  which  gives  them  their  terrible  power. 
He  knew  well  what  it  is  that  penetrates  the 
soul.  His  images  of  horror  in  the  infernal 
regions  were  all  founded  on  those  familiar  tc 


HOMER,  DANTE,  AND  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


389 


every  one  in  the  upper  world ;  it  was  from 
the  caldron  of  boiling  pitch  in  the  arsenal  of 
Venice  that  he  took  his  idea  of  one  of  the  pits 
of  Malebolge.  But  ■what  a  picture  does  he 
there  exhibit !  The  writhing  sinner  plunged 
headlong  into  the  boiling  waves,  rising  to  the 
surface,  and  a  hundred  demons,  mocking  his 
sufferings,  and  with  outstretched  hooks  tear- 
ing his  tlesh  till  he  dived  again  beneath  the 
liquid  fire  !  It  is  the  reality  of  the  scene,  the 
images  familiar  yet  magnified  in  horror,  Avhich 
constitutes  its  power:  we  stand  by;  our  flesh 
creeps  as  it  would  at  witnessing  an  auto-da-fe 
of  Castile,  or  on  beholding  a  victim  perishing 
under  the  knout  in  Russia. 

Michael  Angelo  was,  in  one  sense,  the 
painter  of  the  Old  Testament,  as  his  bold  and 
aspiring  genius  aimed  rather  at  delineating 
the  events  of  warfare,  passion,  or  suflering, 
chronicled  in  the  records  of  the  Jews,  than 
the  scenes  of  love,  affection,  and  benevolence, 
depicted  in  the  gospels.  But  his  mind  was 
not  formed  merely  on  the  events  recorded  in 
antiquity:  it  is  no  world  doubtful  of  the  im- 
mortality of  the  soul  which  he  depicts.  He  is 
rather  the  personification  in  painting  of  the 
soul  of  Dante.  His  imagination  was  evident- 
ly fraught  with  the  conceptions  of  the  Inferno. 
The  expression  of  mind  beams  forth  in  all  his 
works.  Vehement  passion,  stern  resolve,  un- 
daunted valour,  sainted  devotion,  infant  inno- 
cence, alternately  occupied  his  pencil.  It  is 
hard  to  say  in  which  he  was  greatest.  In  all 
his  works  we  see  marks  of  the  genius  of  an- 
tiquity meeting  the  might  of  modern  times: 
the  imagery  of  mythology  blended  with  the 
aspirations  of  Christianity.  We  see  it  in  the 
dome  of  St.  Peter's,  we  see  it  in  the  statue  of 
Moses.  Grecian  sculpture  was  the  realization 
in  form  of  the  conceptions  of  Homer;  Italian 
painting  the  representation  on  canvas  of  the 
revelations  of  the  gospel,  which  Dante  clothed 
in  the  garb  of  poetry.  Future  ages  should 
ever  strive  to  equal,  but  can  never  hope  to 
excel  them. 

Never  did  artist  work  with  more  persever- 
ing vigour  than  Michael  Angelo.  He  himself 
said  that  he  laboured  harder  for  fame,  than 
ever  poor  artist  did  for  bread.  Born  of  a  no- 
ble familj',  the  heir  to  considerable  posses- 
sions, he  took  to  the  arts  from  his  earliest 
years  from  enthusiastic  passion  and  conscious 
power.  During  a  long  life  of  ninety  years,  he 
prosecuted  them  with  the  ardent  zeal  of  youth. 
He  was  consumed  by  the  thirst  for  fame,  the 
desire  of  great  achievements,  the  invariable 
mark  of  heroic  minds;  and  which,  as  it  is 
altogether  beyond  the  reach  of  ihe  great  bulk 
of  mankind,  so  is  the  feeling  of  all  others 
which  to  them  is  most  incomprehensible. 
Nor  was  that  noble  enthusiasm  without  its 
reward.  It  was  his  extraordinary  good  for- 
tune to  be  called  to  form,  at  the  same  time, 
the  Last  Judgment  on  the  wall  of  the  Sistine 
Chapel,  the  glorious  dome  of  St.  Peter's,  and 
the  group  of  Notre  Dame  de  Pitii-,  which  now 
adorns  the  chapel  of  the  Crucifix,  undrr  the 
roof  of  that  august  edifice.  The  "  Holy  Fami- 
ly" in  the  Palazzo  Pitti  at  Florence,  and  the 
"Three  Fates"  in  the  same  collection,  give  an 
i-iea  of  his  powers  in  oil-painting:  thus  he 


carried  to  the  highest  perfection,  at  the  same 
time,  the  rival  arts  of  architecture,  sculpture, 
fresco  and  oil  painting.*  He  may  truly  be 
called  the  founder  of  Italian  painting,  as 
Homer  was  of  the  ancient  epic,  and  Dante 
of  the  great  style  in  modern  poetry.  None 
but  a  colossal  mind  could  have  done  such 
things.  Raphael  took  lessons  from  him  in 
painting,  and  professed  through  life  the  most 
unbounded  respect  for  his  great  preceptor. 
None  have  attempted  to  approach  him  in 
architecture ;  the  cupola  of  St.  Pater's  stands 
alone  in  the  world. 

But  notwithstanding  all  this,  Michael  An- 
gelo had  some  defects.  He  created  the  great 
stj'le  in  painting,  a  style  which  has  made  mo- 
dern Italy  as  immortal  as  the  arms  of  the  le- 
gions did  the  ancient.  But  the  very  grandeur 
of  his  conceptions,  the  vigour  of  his  drawing, 
his  incomparable  command  of  bone  and  mus- 
cle, his  lofty  expression  and  impassioned  mind, 
made  him  neglect,  and  perhaps  despise,  the 
lesser  details  of  his  art.  A^rdent  in  the  pursuit 
of  expression,  he  often  overlooked  execution. 
When  he  painted  the  Last  Judgment  or  the 
Fall  of  the  Titans  in  fresco,  on  the  ceiling  and 
Avails  of  the  Sistine  Chapel,  he  was  incom- 
parable; but  that  gigantic  style  was  unsuita- 
ble for  lesser  pictures  or  rooms  of  ordinary 
proportions.  By  the  study  of  his  masterpieces, 
subsequent  painters  have  often  been  led  astray; 
they  have  aimed  at  force  of  expression  to  the 
neglect  of  delicacy  in  execution.  This  defect 
is,  in  an  especial  manner,  conspicuous  .in  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds,  who  worshipped  Michael 
Angelo  with  the  most  devoted  fervour ;  and 
through  him  it  has  descended  to  Lawrence, 
and  nearly  the  whole  modern  school  of  Eng- 
land. When  we  see  Sir  Joshua's  noble  glass 
window  in  Magdalen  College,  Oxford,  we  be- 
hold the  work  of  a  worthy  pupil  of  Michael 
Angelo;  we  see  the  great  style  of  painting  in 
its  proper  place,  and  applied  to  its  appropriate 
object.  But  when  we  compare  his  portraits, 
or  imaginary  pieces,  in  oil,  with  those  of  Ti- 
tian, Velasquez,  or  Vandyke,  the  inferiority  is 
manifest.  It  is  not  in  the  design  but  the 
finishing;  not  in  the  conception  but  the  exe- 
cution. The  colours  are  frequently  raw  and 
harsh  ;  the  details  or  distant  parts  of  the  piece 
ill-finished  or  neglected.  The  bold  neglect  of 
Michael  Angelo  is  very  apparent.  Raphael, 
with  less  original  genius  than  his  immortal 
master,  had  more  taste  and  much  greater  deli- 
cacy of  pencil ;  his  conceptions,  less  extensive 
and  varied,  are  more  poricrt;  his  finishing  is 
always  exquisite.  Unity  of  emotion  was  his 
great  object  in  design;  equal  delicacy  of 
finishing  in  execution.  Thence  he  has  at- 
tained by  universal  consent  the  highest  place 
in  painting. 

"Nothing,"  says  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  "is 
denied  to  well-directed  labour;  nothing  is  to 
be  attained  without  it."    "  Excellence  in  any 

♦  The  finest  design  ever  conrcivptl  hy  Mirtiacl  Anpcio 
was  a  rarlonii  ri'pri.'S(Miliiii.'  warriors  liathiiii;,  and  some 
liiirklincoii  their  armour  at  the  sound  of  Die  Iriiinpet, 
wliirli  smninoned  tlicni  to  Ilieir  standards  in  the  wax 
bi-twcen  I'isa  and  rioronce.  't  perished,  however,  in 
tlic  troiihli-M  of  the  lallor  rily  ;  but  an  encraved  copv 
remains  of  part,  wliich  justifies  the  enlogiuius  bcstoweO 
upon  it. 


890 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


department,"  says  Johnson,  "can  now  be  at- 
tained only  by  the  labour  of  a  lifetime;  it  is 
not  to  be  purchased  at  a  lesser  price."  These 
words  should  ever  be  present  to  the  minds  of 
all  who  aspire  to  rival  the  great  of  former  days  ; 
who  feel  in  their  bosoms  a  spark  of  the  spirit 
which  led  Homer,  Dante,  and  Michael  Angelo 
to  immortality.  In  a  luxurious  age,  comfort  or 
station  is  deemed  the  chief  good  of  life ;  in  a 
commercial  community,  money  becomes  the 
universal  object  of  ambition.  Thence  our  ac- 
knowledged deficiency  in  the  fine  arts  ;  thence 
our  growing  weakness  iu  the  higher  branches 
of  literature.  Talent  looks  for  its  reward  too 
soon.  Genius  seeks  an  immediate  recom- 
pense: long  protracted  exertions  are  never 
attempted :  great  things  are  not  done,  because 
great  efforts  are  not  made. 

None  will  work  now  v/ithout  the  prospect 
of  an  immediate  return.  Very  possibly  it  is 
so ;  but  then  let  us  not  hope  or  wish  for  iminor- 
tality.  "Present  time  and  future,"  says  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds,  "are  rivals;  he  who  solicits 
the  one,  must  expect  to  be  discountenanced  by 
the  other."  It  is  not  that  we  want  genius ; 
what  we  want  is  the  great  and  heroic  spirit 
which  will  devote  itself,  by  strenuous  efforts, 
to  great  things,  without  seeking  any  reward 
but  their  accomplishment. 


Nor  let  it  be  said  that  great  subjects  for  the 
painter's  pencil,  the  poet's  muse,  are  not  to  be 
found — that  they  are  exhausted  by  former  ef- 
forts, and  nothing  remains  to  us  but  imitation. 
Nature  is  inexhaustible ;  the  events  of  men  are 
unceasing,  their  variety  is  endless.  Philoso- 
phers were  mourning  the  monotony  of  time, 
historians  were  deploring  the  sameness  of 
events,  in  the  years  preceding  the  French  Re- 
volution— on  the  eve  of  the  Reign  of  Terror, 
the  flames  of  Moscow,  the  retreat  from  Russia. 
What  was  the  strife  around  Troy  to  the  battle 
of  Leipsic? — the  contests  of  Florence  and  Pisa 
to  the  revolutionary  war  1  What  ancient  naval 
victory  to  that  of  Trafalgar"?  Rely  upon  it, 
subjects  for  genius  are  not  wanting ;  genius 
itself,  steadily  and  perseveringly  directed,  is 
the  thing  required.  But  genius  and  energy 
alone  are  not  sufficient;  courage  and  disin- 
terestedness are  needed  more  than  all.  Cou- 
rage to  withstand  the  assaults  of  envy,  to 
despise  the  ridicule  of  mediocrity — disinterest- 
edness to  trample  under  foot  the  seductions  of 
ease,  and  disregard  the  attractions  of  opulence. 
An  heroic  mind  is  more  wanted  in  the  library 
or  the  studio,  than  in  the  field.  It  is  wealth 
and  cowardice  which  extinguish  the  light  of 
genius,  and  dig  the  grave  of  literature  as  of 
nations 


THE  END. 


890 


ALISON'S  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS, 


department,"  says  Johnson,  "can  now  be  at- 
tained only  by  the  labour  of  a  lifetime ;  it  is 
not  to  be  purchased  at  a  lesser  price."  These 
words  should  ever  be  present  to  the  minds  of 
all  who  aspire  to  rival  the  great  of  former  days  ; 
who  feel  in  their  bosoms  a  spark  of  the  spirit 
which  led  Homer,  Dante,  and  Michael  Angelo 
to  immortality.  In  a  luxurious  age,  comfort  or 
station  is  deemed  the  chief  good  of  life ;  in  a 
commercial  community,  money  becomes  the 
universal  object  of  ambition.  Thence  our  ac- 
knowledged deficiency  in  the  fine  arts ;  thence 
our  growing  weakness  in  the  higher  branches 
of  literature.  Talent  looks  for  its  reward  too 
soon.  Genius  seeks  an  immediate  recom- 
pense: long  protracted  exertions  are  never 
attempted :  great  things  are  not  done,  because 
great  efforts  are  not  made. 

None  will  work  noAv  v/ithout  the  prospect 
of  an  immediate  return.  Very  possibly  it  is 
so ;  but  then  let  us  not  hope  or  wish  for  immor- 
tality. "Present  time  and  future,"  says  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds,  "are  rivals;  he  who  solicits 
the  one,  must  expeci  to  be  discountenanced  by 
the  other."  It  is  not  that  we  want  genius ; 
vdiat  we  want  is  the  great  and  heroic  spirit 
which  will  devote  itself,  by  strenuous  eSbrts, 
to  great  things,  without  seeking  any  reward 
but  their  acc-omplishment. 


Nor  let  it  be  said  that  great  subjects  for  the 
painter's  pencil,  the  poet's  muse,  are  not  to  be 
found — that  they  are  exhausted  by  former  ef- 
forts, and  nothing  remains  to  us  but  imitation. 
Nature  is  inexhaustible ;  the  events  of  men  are 
unceasing,  their  \'ariety  is  endless.  Philoso- 
phers were  mourning  the  monotony  of  time, 
historians  were  deploring  the  sameness  of 
events,  in  the  years  preceding  the  French  Re- 
volution— on  the  eve  of  the  Reign  of  Terror, 
the  flames  of  Moscow,  the  retreat  from  Russia. 
What  was  the  strife  around  Troy  to  the  battle 
of  Leipsic? — the  contests  of  Florence  and  Pisa 
to  the  revolutionary  war  1  What  ancient  naval 
victory  to  that  of  Trafalgar?  Rely  upon  it, 
subjects  for  genius  are  not  wanting ;  genius 
itself,  steadily  and  perseveringly  directed,  is 
the  thing  required.  But  genius  and  energy 
alone  are  not  sufficient;  courage  and  disin- 
terestedness are  needed  more  than  all.  Cou- 
rage to  withstand  the  assaults  of  envy,  to 
despise  the  ridicule  of  mediocrit}^ — disinterest- 
edness to  trample  under  foot  the  seductions  of 
ease,  and  disregard  the  attractions  of  opulence. 
An  heroic  mind  is  more  wanted  in  the  library 
or  the  studio,  than  in  the  field.  It  is  wealth 
and  cowardice  which  extinguish  the  light  of 
genius,  and  dig  the  grave  of  literature  as  of 
nations 


THE  END. 


i 


-^S4i^/.r°^2«  CENTS 


I^D21-l00m-7,'40  (69368) 


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